The training ground could be heard from half a mile away. It was abustle with frantic activity as the new trainees greeted each other and the instructors set up for the day. In the distance, a group of ATVs speed across the canyon to the base to bring another load of weapons back from the base’s stores.

I climbed the rock face, sat on a small ledge, and watched the crowd grow. It was easy to differentiate the oppositions’ men from the others—their cheeks were unshaven, and their eyes were dark with lack of sleep. Everyone made a wide berth around the instructors, who wore Bellgate’s military uniform. We have far to come before we will work well together, I worried.

When the influx of new members had abated, I climbed down from the rock and made my way through the crowd, stopping a handful of times to introduce myself to the recruits. I was received warmly, although I detected a hint of wariness from some of the opposition’s men. Still, I pushed forward, confident that I would gain their trust with time.

As I turned around, I caught sight of Gizem’s dark mane of hair. I tapped her shoulder and she spun around, looking at me with her dark, eerie eyes. “It is good to see you,” I said. “Will you be training with us?”

She smiled and leaned close. “I would like to go with you,” she said in a low voice.

“Train with me?”

“No, go with you. To Amberasta.”

I met her eyes, taken aback by her perceptiveness. “We will see.”

She glanced around. “There are spies for the elders here.” As the crowd parted, she pointed through the gap to a figure leaning against the rockface. My jaw tightened as I recognized Muriel’s stocky build and her corporal’s uniform. I watched as she took apart and cleaned her pistol with a sick feeling in my stomach. After a moment, I walked a few paces in her direction as if to confront her, but suddenly thought the better of it. If I force her to leave, the elders will just send another spy in her place.

“The trainees should not see me squabbling with one of the elder’s informants,” I said to Gizem.

“You’re right. But you should say something to them—they are uneasy.” She gestured to the training camp, where the instructors were finishing setting up the straw mats. A few yards away, the crowd was eying them warily, like prey watching a predator eat its kill. No one made any move to assist as one of the female instructors struggled with the equipment, and I thought I caught smirks on a few of their faces.

Gizem frowned. “I will find you a voice amplifier,” she said, disappearing in the direction of the tents. It wasn’t long before she returned with a large, cone-shaped device. I tucked it under one arm, skirted the crowd, and climbed upwards about ten feet to the nearest ledge. From my vantage point, I could see the entire crowd. It was far more intensive than I had imagined—a sizeable number of people had come from both Gibnor and the opposition.

I took a deep breath. Even back in school, the thought of both public speaking and leading had filled me with a sense of dread. Lately, I seem to be doing a lot of both.

With shaking hands, I raised the cone to my mouth and called for quiet. As more and more people recognized me, the crowd fell silent and looked at me expectantly. For a moment, suspended in time, my mind was blank. Then, finally, I found the words to speak. “I have made a deal with the elders,” I said, “so that we can train under their finest men and use their finest weapons. We are citizens of Bellgate—what is theirs is now ours, as it always should have been. I do not ask that you trust them, but that you learn from their men. Do not be afraid; there are less than ten instructors, but over one-hundred of us. It is we who hold the power, and once we learn to fight, that can never be taken away from us.”

I looked past the crowd, where Muriel’s figure stood. “I know,” I added, “that you are apprehensive. You say: ‘there are spies here’! But I say, ‘let them spy’. Let them see how far we have come.”

The crowd roared its approval. I listened for a moment, then climbed down the rockface and joined Nico and Gizem at its base. “Let’s sort them into groups,” Nico said. “Including me, there’s eleven instructors. That’s about ten trainees per group.”

I nodded. “You, me, and Gizem should join different teams. We’ll meet and report our progress at the end of the day.”

“I’ll have my men spread out as well. Then we’ll have eyes on every group.”

We locked eyes in agreement. Nico went to speak with the instructors, and with Gizem’s help, I began delegating people to each instructor. The work went quickly, and before half an hour had passed, each of the eleven groups was stationed at a section of mats.

Despite my bold words about control, I placed myself in a group with Muriel to keep tabs on her. Besides the two of us, there were four men from the opposition and five from Gibnor. Our instructor, a middle-aged man with dark skin and broad shoulders, introduced himself as Sergeant Dale. Before we began, he looked at me searchingly, as if for guidance, but I shook my head, indicating that on the training grounds, I was just a student.

“All right,” Dale said, clapping his hands together. “Today, myself and the other instructors have decided to focus on hand-to-hand combat. Before you handle a weapon, the body and the mind must be in sync. There may also be times when you have no weapon, or when yours is out of commission. A fast-acting martial artist can disable an inexperienced or hesitant gunman.

“We will begin by sparring. The rules are simple: for now, keep the headshots to a minimum. No biting, scratching, or hair-pulling. We will add that later, but not today.” He gestured at two of the men, one from the opposition and one from Gibnor. “You two are up first. What are your names?”

“I’m Paul,” the opposition’s man said. He was small and wiry, and looked to be about my age.

“I’m Lukas,” the other added. He was at least ten years older, and had the large arms of a construction worker.

The men took their places across from each other on the mat. I stepped forward, eager to watch the spar. From looks alone, Lukas should be the more powerful fighter, but General Zubek had said that he would send his best men to train, which meant that Paul might not be completely inexperienced.

Lukas stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and Paul. He struck out with his right fist, aiming for Paul’s stomach, but met only empty air. He struck out again, but Paul evaded easily by slipping a few inches to the side. Growing frustrated, Lukas lunged forward, tackling the smaller man against the mats. He lifted his fist, but before he could strike, Paul used his arms and torso to propel his legs around Lukas’ neck.

Lukas squirmed as Paul’s legs tightened around his throat. He desperately tried to claw Paul’s legs off of him as his face turned a progressively darker shade of red. Finally, just before he lost consciousness, he pounded the mat in submission.

Paul loosened his hold, and Lukas doubled over, gasping for breath. Once he had recovered, the instructor ordered him back to the sidelines, and he retreated with his head lowered in shame.

“That was a good fight,” Sergeant Dale commented. “The larger someone is, it becomes exponentially harder to beat them. Paul’s win is down to one factor: experience. It’s clear that he has trained in not one, but at least two disciplines: one standing, and one grappling.”

He turned to Lukas. “You attacked first, without waiting to gauge Paul’s skill. Paul held back, using surprise to his advantage. But as a much larger man, you could still have escaped his hold. Let me show you.”

Dale knelt on the mat and gestured for Paul to assume the same choke on him. When Paul tightened his grip, Dale gripped Paul’s thighs, planted his feet firmly on the mat, and forced himself into a standing position. As Paul’s body was pulled off of the ground, he struggled to keep his choke tight enough. His grip failed, sending him falling back onto the mat.

“The most important thing in a ground fight is to stay calm,” Dale said. “If you shift your position, an opening may appear.” He turned to Paul. “Good work. Next time, try a wrist lock when you are fighting a much larger opponent.”

I listened carefully, knowing that I needed practice with larger opponents and grappling. As Dale picked the next sparring partners, I looked around at the other mats. At each one, two opponents were locked in struggle. A shock of black hair caught my attention, and I watched with wide eyes as Gizem jammed her hand against a man’s throat, disabling him instantly. Her instructor jumped between them, as if giving her some sort of reprimand. I ground my boot deeper into the sand. Perhaps she was not bluffing about fighting by my side. I should spar with her if I hope to improve.

For the next half-hour, Dale watched the spars and offered a brief commentary. When someone won, he would match them against another opponent to further assess their skill level. I made note of each person who won their match and the way that they interacted with their peers; if I was to pick the assasination team in only a few months, I would have to be very familiar with each trainee.

When it was my turn, Dale matched me against one of the opposition’s men, who had won his last fight. Like Lukas, he was large and bulky, and had shown some skill in fighting a less experienced opponent.

We took our places on the mat. I took a deep breath, feeling my heart thudding in my chest. I was in good shape: I had gained weight, and my muscles had filled out since my journey from Karakul. However, except a few spars with Nico, it had been years since I had fought in earnest.

We circled each other on the mat, neither of us wanting to move first. The man was panting from his last fight, and he wiped away a bead of sweat as it dripped into his eyes. He stepped forward, as if to fight in close-quarters, but I struck out with my front leg with a cutting kick that met the flesh just above his knee. He grunted with pain and retreated quickly.

The man rounded about me and lunged forward again, but I pushed my foot between his ribs and kicked him away. His eyes widened, and he gasped for breath as the air left his lungs. I swung again, using the opportunity to hit his leg in exactly the same spot above the knee. He crumbled, falling back onto the mat with a thump, and Dale called the fight in my favor.

“A lot of good choices were made in this fight,” he said once the man had retreated. “Glace, you chose to use out-fighting to keep your opponent at a distance. If he had gotten closer, his punches may have been too heavy to block. It was also advantageous to hit his leg in the same place both times—you ensured that he would not be able to bear weight on it. I can see that you have some experience in a kicking discipline.”

Dale looked around the mat. “Now, for our last fight… Corporal Muriel, against Glace.”