Chapter 38
I know there are five Guardian homes. Thanks to the census, I’ve also learned the village currently has forty-three Guardians—over ten percent of our population—though I wasn’t allowed to enter their cottages.
Twenty-eight of them are in front of me now, marching in lockstep in an open field, swords strapped to their sides, eyes braced forward as Misia commands them from a viewing platform ten feet above the ground.
Seeing so many Guardians clad in full battle gear is overwhelming, particularly when I think about the control Jarek exerts over them.
Gryphon leads me up a ladder to a second viewing platform, a mirror of Misia’s. The field between us is enormous, an oval shape surrounded by thick trees.
Misia acknowledges our presence but doesn’t stop the practice.
“What are they doing?” I whisper to Gryphon. My quiet is unnecessary. They can’t possibly hear me above the pounding of their feet.
“Marching. It’s Jarek’s latest order.” His distaste is unmistakable.
“You think it’s a waste of time?”
Gryphon raises a shoulder. “He wants obedience. Uniformity. I prefer we know how to fight well.”
“So you skip out when they practice marching?”
Before Gryphon can respond, a piercing whistle shrieks through the air, followed by a flash of light.
I slap my hands over my ears as an explosion rocks the ground with such force that it bucks me off my feet.
I land, hard, on the wooden platform. The sound is powerful this close, but I can see from the way it shivers only the nearest branches that it’s contained to the training ground.
Gryphon offers me a hand. I take it, shaking my head to clear the echoes. My heart is galloping. “What was that?”
He indicates the training field. The Guardians have lost any pretense of orderly marching.
They’re grappling with one another, fighting with speed and force.
Misia watches, her face shining. When she blows her whistle, they stop as if frozen.
When she blows again, they begin where they left off, fists and feet flying, teeth flashing.
“They’re going to kill each other,” I say.
“They’re not.” Gryphon jerks his head toward two men who hold blades at each other’s throats.
I expect to see blood, but just at the killing edge, they both sheath their weapons and begin fighting barehanded instead.
“It’s part of our training. Knowing when to pull back, when to go for the jugular.
” He glowers. “The training has grown brutal. Far more so than we’re used to. ”
My ears are still ringing. “What was the noise and light?” I doubt Jarek would waste irreplaceable explosives in training, but it didn’t feel like Valley tech, either.
“A flash bang. The Record Keeper read about them once, mentioned it to my father. Jarek loved the idea so much that he had them made. He says we don’t know a person’s true strength until they’re under pressure. He uses the sound and commotion to simulate fighting under unexpected conditions.”
Apothecaries must learn to perform under stress, too, but we certainly don’t make a habit of inviting it. “How can you stand it?”
Gryphon’s whole body grows rigid. “I can’t.
I told my father as much when he first introduced this style of training.
I’ve not been allowed to return since, not until today.
” He makes a pale imitation of a smile. “It would seem my father doesn’t trust me to do anything but perimeter patrol on the distant side of the Valley. It’s a snipe hunt.”
“A what?”
“Snipe hunt.” He sounds bitter. “It’s a term from Before. Means an exercise in pointlessness. Snipes aren’t real. Neither is a threat inside the Wall, at least outside of the area where the bodies have been found. I should know. I’ve walked every inch of this place a hundred times over.”
“No threats in here,” I correct, “except for the creature that killed my dad.” It’s a silly thing to get defensive about, but I don’t appreciate him implying that the beast that mauled my father wasn’t a real danger.
Gryphon looks away. “Except for that.”
I study the soldiers—for that’s what they remind me of, a military force like I’ve only read about in history books.
Their faces I know, but I’ve never seen them act like this.
Precise. Unthinking. Violent. And if the way they’re following Misia’s every command is any indication, Jarek has gotten the mindless subordination he’s asked for.
“I want to go,” I say.
Gryphon tips his head. “Seen enough?”
“Enough spectacle,” I say. “I’m ready to practice honest fighting.”
The fierce gratitude in his gaze must knock the sense out of me, because despite everything, I find my hand reaching for his as we start down.