Power Duels

The two challengers faced each other, standing very still. The man was leaning forward slightly, jaw clenched and eyes intense. The tall, elegant woman stood calmly, face impassive. However, if you looked closely, you could see the bead of sweat trickling down her forehead.

The crowd held its breath, waiting. This was Highness Arellia’s fifth challenger since the start of the new year. She had beaten each, but this man had held out the longest so far.

His left hand began to shake faintly, and the crowd knew it wouldn’t be long now. Arellia seemed to sense weakness, and her blazing violet eyes hardened just briefly.

The man collapsed in a heap, letting out a long, final sigh, before falling still.

***

Joree watched the display with a vague mixture of curiosity and amusement. From the outside, it looked like two adults taking a staring contest way too seriously. But he knew better. This was a contest of Will. Each was pushing their Will against the other, waiting for someone to break. The one with the strongest Will would win. Simple as that.

Her Highness won again. No one had ever really doubted that she would, but they still came to watch. They were neither forbidden nor encouraged. Arellia was too far above them to care either way. As soon as the challenger collapsed, she strode away without a word, leaving her servants to clean up the mess.

Joree followed the crowd as they dispersed, going back to their usual duties. He caught a glimpse of Aniah, staring after the Highness with a sour expression, arms folded. He groaned inwardly. Aniah was the type of person who always acted like she was doing you a favor for speaking to you or acknowledging your existence. He started to move in the other direction, but he was too late.

“Joree,” Aniah snapped. He sighed, but turned.

“What?”

“I require assistance.”

He stared at her blankly. I require assistance? Who talks like that?

“With what?” he prompted.

She sniffed disdainfully as if she was descending very low to answer a foolish child.

“You brought a cart today. I need a ride back to my residence.”

Joree snorted. “Sorry, but the cart is full of the fertilizer my mother sent me to get. Unless you want to ride on top of that…” He felt a distinct stab of pleasure at her horrified look. He was lying. Actually, the cart held only animal feed. But Aniah didn’t need to know that.

“You are an uncivilized brute,” she said, lifting her chin so that she could stare down her chin at him.

He gave a flowery bow. “Yes, well, I am also busy. So good day, lady Aniah.” He turned on his heel and strode away before she could bother him again.

***

“Hey, Joree! How’s Master Hobar’s class going? Won any duels lately?”

Joree ignored the jibes and taunts from Davian and his lackeys as he made his way to class. They sneered and laughed, but in the end, they couldn’t do anything to him.

Master Hobar’s class was full of children ranging from age thirteen to nineteen. Joree, at seventeen, was almost the oldest. He was also, unfortunately, the least competent. Not that he didn’t try. He tried harder than anyone else in the class. Still, he couldn’t push even a shred of Will outside of himself. When he tried, it felt like slamming himself against a brick wall. Master Hobar insisted that it would just take time, but even he was starting to seem doubtful. After four years, it truly seemed that Joree might be unable to use Will.

Aniah sat in the front of the room as usual, hands resting primly on her lap, back perfectly straight. Her long black hair streamed down like a dark waterfall, reaching to mid-thigh when she stood. Somehow, she kept the hair perfectly maintained, never a single strand out of place.

Joree took a seat in the back of the room, waiting for Master Hobar to start. It only took a few more seconds.

“Alright, students!” The class slowly grew quiet, only a few lingering whispers hanging on. Hobar talked over them. “Today, we begin the official duels for class ranking.”

A few kids cheered, a few more looked uncomfortable. Joree just leaned back in his chair, flicking a piece of lint off his shirt.

“This is your final assignment in my class, so take it seriously. If you don’t pass, I can’t advance you.” Hobar looked at each student in turn, face grave. Joree met his gaze and smiled, which made Hobar frown.

“You will be matched up according to your current Will level, as determined by the last test scores,” Hobar continued. “We begin immediately.”

Joree stepped into the circle in front of the small boy, sighing inwardly. He didn’t even try to force his Will out. He watched the boy’s face contort into frustration, then pain, and then exhaustion. He was growing red, and seemed to be holding his breath.

“Breathe, Marco,” Hobar said idly as he walked past. “If you pass out, it counts as a loss.”

“Why is nothing happening?” Marco exclaimed, releasing his breath. “My Will isn’t doing anything.” He glared at Joree. “And this idiot isn’t even trying.”

Joree smirked. As usual, he couldn’t exert Will, but nor could he be touched by it from the outside. He never even felt a tremor, though others described the intrusion of Will as excruciating pressure or even a sharp knife against their mind.

Hobar sighed, more resigned than anything. “You’ve done well, Marco. I will count this as a victory for you.”

Of course he would. Joree’s inability to use Will made him virtually useless. Why advance someone who would never do any good for the kingdom?

***

The Power Duels were scheduled to begin at the third bell. Each school with a high enough ranking was asked, or rather commanded, to send their students to perform in monitored contests of Will. The school that came out with the most points was given great rewards from the Highness, and the final victor of the whole competition was guaranteed a place in the royal house. This year, over two-hundred students were competing.

Jistan was competing for the school of Bavadin, to the north of the main city of Ranteel. Bavadin had a reputation for being just good enough to get into the Power Duels, but never good enough to win. Jistan had no doubt that this year would be the same. One thing would be different, however. The school would still not win overall, but the champion would be from Bavadin. It would be Jistan.

The tournament rules were simplistic, if not entirely fair. If a school qualified for the event, then every student was required to compete. The pairings were formed using random chance, not taking age or skill into account. Every student had to be defeated twice to be eliminated. Students were paired up at random until only two remained, and those two fought for the title of champion. Jistan didn’t think it was the most effective way of demonstrating who was truly the best; it was too based on chance and luck. That, of course, didn’t matter if you actually were the best.

Jistan fought through the first three rounds of the tournament with ease. Each opponent had yielded within five heartbeats of the starting bell. It wasn’t until the fourth bout that Jistan had to actually fight, and even in this case, the other girl buckled after half a minute.

By the fifth round, approximately fifty students remained. A few were the lucky stragglers who had survived because they had received easy matches, but most were formidable challengers. Jistan prepared himself mentally.

He stepped into the circle with a tall but youthful looking boy from Ranteel. He looked familiar, and Jistan soon realized why. He had taken third place in the duels last year at only thirteen years old. Jistan hadn’t been allowed to participate in that tournament due to ‘behavioral defects’ (how was he supposed to know that challenging your Master to a friendly duel was taboo?).

Jistan stood with knees slightly bent, eyes trained on the other boy’s face. The other boy looked still and serene, his eyes almost distant.

A chime signaled for them to begin. The other boy immediately threw his Will into Jistan’s mind, tearing into his thoughts like a knife ripping into flesh. But Jistan hesitated for a split second, feeling the Will rushing into him.

Everyone said that Will was all about brute strength. The stronger Will would win, simple as that. To an extent, this was true. But there was something more, something that no one but Jistan seemed to sense.

Will always had an emotion attached to it. A drive, a cause, a purpose. The weakest Wills were those that didn’t have a firm purpose backing them.

This boy was calm and confident. Jistan could feel it in the way the Will slid into his mind, like a sharp blade instead of a hacking axe or ragged saw.

Jistan reacted as he had trained himself, letting a panicked rage flood through his Will as he shoved back against his opponent. You could not simply fight fire with fire. You had to fight fire with ice.

Jistan watched the boy’s face carefully, using his expressions as much as the Will to sense his opponent’s emotions. The boy’s teeth clenched, his calm slipping into concerted effort. Jistan slid his emotions slightly in the opposite direction, firming his confidence and dimming his panic. The boy grunted, and Jistan could feel his Will quiver. For the first time, fear flitted across the boy’s face. His Will became a flood of panicked, frantic attacks.

Jistan pounced. He snapped his Will into pure focus, channeling the entire force of his confidence and desire to win. His Will surged from him, inspired by his outpouring of intent and emotion. The boy let out a ragged scream before collapsing.

Jistan immediately ripped his Will free and stepped back, allowing a Moderator to rush for the boy. Jistan felt a little bad. The boy would have a splitting head ache for a few hours. But he would be fine.

***

Joree stood awkwardly in the circle, watching his opponent’s face turn blue with effort and confusion. Several Moderators consulted with each other nearby, both looking utterly baffled.

Master Hobar had made a mistake. Every year previous, he had sent in the listing of all the students in his class, except for Joree. This year, he had been too busy and had asked an assistant to do it. Except that he hadn’t thought to tell her to remove Joree’s name. So, Joree had been under obligation by royal law to participate.

And nobody knew what to do with him. He couldn’t hurt others, and they couldn’t hurt him. This first match had been going on for nearly five minutes, and it was growing painfully uncomfortable.

Finally, with a gasp of breath, Joree’s opponent fell to one knee, holding a hand to his head.

“I…I…yield?” It was a question, not a statement. He looked at Joree with an expression that could have been disgust or confusion.

The Moderators shared looks. Finally, one stepped forward, speaking hesitantly. “I announce Joree of Ranteel as…victor of this round.”

***

Jistan stood before a tall boy who looked to be a couple years his senior. He had made his way to the final round. Defeated duelists sat or stood around the arena, craning to get a glimpse of the final fight.

Jistan felt his palms sweating, but he was exhilarated. This was it. He was certain he would have won the tournament last year if he had been allowed to participate. Now, it was his chance.

The chime rang. Jistan waited, bracing himself for the piercing strike of Will.

Nothing happened. He stood tensely, eying his opponent. The kid looked almost…apologetic? Was that the right word?

Jistan stayed ready. Maybe this was some sort of surprise attack. But that was ridiculous. If you waited this long to activate your Will, you would be crippled before you had a chance to strike.

Unless…

Jistan felt a chill. Could it be possible? Could this person know the secret? If so, then it would truly be a battle of power. No games, no skill, just straight up brute strength.

That sent a rush of excitement through Jistan. He suddenly had the urge to test himself against this opponent, to see if his strength was truly good enough to win it all.

Gathering his strength, his shot fort a surge of Will.

The boy didn’t even flinch. Nor did he respond with his own strike.

Is he not taking this seriously? The thought angered Jistan, and he took an involuntary step forward, clenching his jaw. Did this foe think he could beat Jistan just by toying with him? Well, he would see.

He gathered all of his emotions, all of his reasons to strike this boy down: anger, pride, determination, eagerness. Then he struck.

***

Joree’s first three bouts had been immensely uncomfortable and awkward. Each child had pushed against him until they gave up, exhausted from exerting their Will with no effect. The next three had been different. For one, they had been quicker. His attackers seemed to grow tired almost immediately. The fifth challenger had actually stumbled back after only two seconds as if hit by a physical force.

Joree didn’t understand any of what was happening. Real duels were not practiced in Master Hobar’s class, as there were no Moderators to prevent serious injury or accidents. So Joree had little experience and didn’t know what was normal or not.

Somehow, Joree found himself in the final round, facing down a sandy-haired boy with dark grey eyes and an intense face. Joree listened as the chime rang, and then stood patiently to wait. Confusion crossed his opponent’s face, and for the briefest of moments, Joree wished that he could be affected by the Will. At least then this wouldn’t be so awkward.

But he quickly banished the thought. Joree preferred his brain not to be reduced to a puddle of useless sludge.

His challenger’s face slowly changed, morphing from confusion, to anger, to pure concentration. Joree just stood still, knowing that there was absolutely nothing else he could do.

A sound like a thunderclap crashed across the arena, seeming to originate just in front of Joree’s face. He cried out in surprise and covered his ears. When he removed them, his hands had traces of blood on them, and he couldn’t hear anything except for a distant ringing. His eardrums had been shattered.

But his opponent was worse. When Joree shook off his shock enough to look over, he realized that the other boy had collapsed to the ground and was lying limply. Joree rushed forward, but a Moderator grabbed his arm. The woman’s lips were moving, by Joree couldn’t hear a word. He watched helplessly as the other boy was carried away.

Jistan’s mind exploded in pain. It wasn’t the cutting pain of Will. Rather, it was as though his own Will had suddenly exploded inside of his own head, tearing his innards to shreds.

He knew nothing but pain. He floated in it, swam in it, drank it in. No, he became the pain. Memory, emotion, thought, it all vanished. Just soundless, colorless pain.

***

Joree refused to accept his award as victor of the Power Duel. Curse that boy. He had finally managed to do something useful, and he was throwing it away. He probably though he was doing the honorable thing, but that was naïve. This rejection was a slap in the face of Highness Arellia herself. Besides, the other boy would be fine. Whatever Joree had done, it wasn’t permanent, or he would have been immediately disqualified.

But what had he done? Master Hobar frowned again at the thought, thoroughly disturbed. The boy had never been able to project so much as a sliver of Will, and suddenly he was knocking opponents to the ground? Will couldn’t effect people physically, although they sometimes would stumble or fall due to pain or exhaustion. And what was that strange sound? It had sounded like an explosion, but no sign of destruction had been found. And Will strikes did not create sound, that was certain.

Master Hobar pondered as he moved away from the arena. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he almost didn’t notice the figure in front of him until he nearly stepped on her elegant purple shoes.

He froze, looking up. Highness Arellia stood before him, flanked by three guards on either side. He quickly bowed, feeling heat rush to his face. Before he could apologize, she was speaking to him.

“Tell me, Brigan Hobar.” Her voice was the icy whisper of a winter wind. “Where have you been hiding that boy all this time?”

He began to answer, but she held up a hand.

“And what have you been teaching him?”