[b]CHAPTER 3:[/b] There was no sound beyond nature's own. A tranquil unity of oriole squawks, rushing waters, calm zephyrs. There were no pollutant coughs of revving engines, no thrums of shimmering grav-fields. There were no voices heard, no clothing rustled. Everyone was silent. Even her pets, crouching dormant in the stables. He eased backwards, feeling sand grind beneath his feet. He teased them with his spear, shifting it back and forth. He breathed deeply. The air was cold, refreshing. Something screamed overhead. A wave of heat washed into the courtyard, scattering dirt and tools. A landing vessel. He ignored it. He readjusted his footing, shuffling backwards. His eyes flicked between the pair. The two opponents gripped blades and bucklers. They converged, slowly, slowly. He was perfectly still, his form poised and taunt. The opponents tightened, the pincer move locking in. He altered positions, his footwork coordinating with his arms, his hands synchronised with his spear. A fluent symphony of harmonies that his body executed without thought, without rational thinking, moves inculcated into his muscles and his tendons, motions as integral to him as breathing. [i]Whsshhh[/i]. He maneuvered to the side, stepping past the swinging, pronged, wooden weapon. Another whistling streak of brown and he ducked the stroke before it landed. He pranced back, kicking up sand. One of them spurred forwards, blade held back, buckler in front. A jab, a feint, and then a thrust sent him staggering backwards. The sangheili spat, and then both of them refocused with a determined glare. His heart pumped with adrenaline as the stimulants burned his system. He breathed hard. His sweat was a balm to his exertion, filtering the slight winds into a freezing breeze. The opponents spread out to either side, shields in front, blades ready to attack. He let them, willing instinct to become as much of a sense as vision and hearing. He aimed his spear at one opponent, and then flicked his eyes at the other behind. They didn't move. An oriole cried out in the skies. They closed in. He threw himself to his left, slamming his spear behind as he went, feeling it tear against wood. The opponent in front slashed forward, the sharpened tips close enough to his flesh he could feel the air being sliced. He escaped the trap, and then pressed the attack. Left, right, parry, duck he retreated again, and one of them drove forward, and the blade nicked against his forearm. He parried the next stab, and then switched into offense, driving the tip of his spear into the buckler in a muffled [i]thunk[/i] of snapping splinters. He yanked the spear free, sending his opponent staggering towards him. He twisted around the shield and hooked him underneath the jaws in a fluid, precise motion, catching him in the throat with the butt. The sangheili dropped. The next one came, emotion charging his movements. He whirled around the flying blade, and then flurried; neck exposed - hit, and then down to the ribcage, numb the waist, disable the thigh, jar the knee; cut elbow joints if necessary. His opponent lunged, sagging, and he slid to the side, rapping him cleanly across the head with his spear. Dead. Master Aputho howled. He grinned, and the gathered crowd cheered. The defeated pair dusted themselves from the sand and bowed. Aputho stepped into the pit and cuffed one across the ear. He turned to the victor. "A true Helios," Aputho declared. They clasped forearms. "A fine duel," he replied. He pulled off his tunic, baring his chest to the cold air. Sweat lathered into every groove. "Still young, brother. The wives must be impressed." He winked. "Indeed they are." Aputho shambled closer, his wounded eye twitching. He counted out twenty notes. "There," he said, jamming the money into his pocket. "Next time," he huffed. "You'll be paying me triple." The other warriors headed out the gate, stacking equipment. Outside the main fort's stacked stone walls, the ocean beat against piers and wharves. Aputho kicked sand from his feet and left the pit. He followed, the cobblestones still grainy and cool. The shadows had not yet fully fled. He stretched, his contracted muscles loosening. The exercise felt good. He looked up at the sky as he swung his arms. Behind flushed clouds, the three suns began their march to noon. Aputho headed for a patch of sunslight. He dragged in a footstool and plonked onto the damp wood. "Nirall said tonight will be on him if you won," he said. The Helios wiped his scalp with the tunic. "He didn't think I'll win, did he?" Aputho peered up at him, the fluttering eye shut from the sunslight. "No one thought you would've won," he muttered. "Well. I think you all need to have some faith." Aputho snorted. The Helios laughed. "You'll owe me sixty tomorrow. " "Masters!" It was one of the men from atop the stone ramparts. "She's returned!" he shouted. Aputho regarded the parapets irritably. "Who's back, eh?" he called, half-blinded from the sunslight. The warrior glanced back outwards. "Sharquoi!" he hissed. Aputho groaned. "Oh, Ancients" He ran his hand down his face. There was a jumble of movement as warriors poured in from the gate, running back for their stations. Aputho swore. He collared the closest sangheili. "How far?" he demanded. "She's just outside -" She returned. She returned, with fire and lightning, her soft footsteps like thunder, her dark eyes burning depths, her braided locks a mass of serpents, her body clad in the impenetrable robe of hierarchy. She returned, in a furious tempest of billowing rage, a terrible avatar of anger, of order, of authority. She returned, to chain them once again beneath crushing words of obedience and submission. She had returned. She came in through the gate, her servant guard beside. She entered, drawing in the courtyard. The wagons, picks, shovels, gartered boxes, belted crates, metal scraps and exhausted gravity drives. The coiled ropes, wires, wood palings and cut planks. The shafts of timber, chopped pine, trashed welding machinery and used oil tanks. The sheets of grimy aluminum, iron tread plates, tied haystacks, storage bins, waste dumps, rolled fishnets and crustacean cages. The smell of manure, earth, cold stone and dirt, with the faint underlying of the raw ocean. The collective hush of fifty men, silent and guilty. She came in, and ignored it all. She had eyes only for the single individual standing amidst the crowd. He stood there, his chest naked in the sunslight. "My dear, dear Qaetha," Alaiya smiled thinly. -- [Edited on 07.24.2012 12:13 AM PDT]