The slender ironwood battle staff tumbled from Chuktik’s bloodied paw and clattered on the damp stone of the courtyard, the return stroke sweeping his feet from beneath him. He tried to fall as his masters had taught him, but the attack caught him off-guard, and he instead landed hard on his back, head bouncing once to emphasize his failure. He reached for the staff, and Kikt’ch’chet brushed it away with a swipe of one unshod foot, dancing back and balancing on his toes as he readied for another attack. The old Enforcer was whip-crack thin and moved with a silky grace that even the loose-fitting clothing could not hide. The tops of both ears were tattered from battles long-past, but the mind beneath them was as keen as the edge of a skinning knife. And right now, his eyes were hot coals burning within a smoky gray band, the snowy whiskers twitching on cheeks and chin. His band was not dark enough to mark him as noble-born, but far darker than Chuktik’s.

“Get up, whiteface. I’m not finished with you.” Chuktik’s face and eyes heated at the hated term. The kit, like his father, had a band so pale it was practically indiscernible from the rest of his facial fur, which was almost completely white; no one of any consequence had ever risen from such stock. Kikt’ch’chet waited for him to make his move, and when none came the master relaxed, twirled the battle staff once, and lay it across his chest in the crook of one arm. The sun peeked over the outpost’s eastern wall, limning Kikt’ch’chet’s head in a soft, yellow-orange glow.

The novice bared his teeth and crawled toward his battle staff. “Leave it!” The Enforcer’s tone left no doubt the morning’s lesson had ended. He held out one paw to help Chuktik to his feet, but the kit ignored it and stood on trembling legs. He calmed his blood, straightened to attention, and bowed.

“I apologize for showing my teeth, Enforcer,” he said, expecting the inevitable strike on his shoulder as punishment. Kikt’ch’chet openly stared at him with those dark, implacable eyes, ears twitching as he studied his worst student. Chuktik lowered his chin in shame. “It was rude of me, and—”

“And the first time I’ve seen you show any fire, whiteface.”

Chuktik’s blood boiled, and his ears flattened against his head. Why does he hate me, so?

“Ah… you see?” A smile spread, burying his eyes in folds of white and charcoal. “There is at least one thing that heats the blood and clouds that willful mind.”

“I never disobey, Enforcer,” Chuktik protested, ignoring the taunt about his lineage.

Ancient Kikt’ch’chet laughed loud enough to frighten the seabirds from their rest. “No, little kit, you do not.” He leaned closer and winked, ears twitching in humor. “Not intentionally.”

Chuktik took the light-hearted rebuke without comment. There was nothing he could say; Kikt’ch’chet was right—he’d failed at so much of his Enforcer training, it must appear to any observer as defiance. He didn’t know why he must endure this anyway—as the son of a great Chet, he was a legacy. Learning to fight was more tradition than a necessary skill for a modern Enforcer; keeping the peace among the populace had been their mission so long, it reduced even the dance to a mere meditative technique. Kikt’ch’chet must have seen all this cross the novice’s face, because he straightened and frowned.

“Your time with me grows short, Chuktik.” He stroked the wisp of gray fur on his chin with long, thin fingers. “Endure,” he intoned, his voice deep and resonant. “Trust the Path to take you where you must go.” He set the heel of his staff on the stone, leaning on it like the old Chet he was, then drew a balance cloth from his robe and held it out for Chuktik. The kit had seen many of the simple squares of colored silk in his life, but never one such as this. Pure white and smooth as ice, the one flaw was hidden in the weave by a true master—so well, none of the novices at Southmost had found it, meditating for hours at a time over its hidden meaning. “Take it,” Kikt’ch'chet said, waving the cloth in front of the kit’s nose. “Perhaps the time you spend finding its secret may aid you in the search of your own.”

What secret is that? Chuktik wondered, arching his pale band. Kikt’ch'chet always said things like that, and it always left Chuktik wondering. Sometimes he thought the old Chet strung random words together to confuse the ignorant novices. This time, it was possible the Chet hinted at something Chuktik had worked hard to keep hidden. But how could he know? Hesitating, he reached out and took the cloth from his master’s paw, touched it to his forehead, showing the proper reverence, then stuffed it into his tunic.

“And when you return to Maker City, remember what you have learned here.”

“Of course, Enforcer,” Chuktik said, bowing. Why else come to this worthless outpost? Southmost Tower had no purpose. Maybe at one time, but no one had scented a Hairless Bear—what Westlanders called ha’la’ai—on the coast of Eastland in over fifty years. If Chuktik hadn’t heard the tales from Westland Traders about the creatures, he'd have considered the whole thing a legend. Many of his cohort did, but none of those had access to the Citadel’s records. The towers were an anachronism in his opinion, and should have been abandoned years ago; the posting was little more than punishment for recalcitrant Enforcers.

Kikt’ch’chet straightened, still resting his weight on the staff, gripping it with both hands, and grinned. “Go to the dining hall and get a morning meal in your belly. We will work on your falls after.”

“My falls?” Chuktik whined before he could stop himself. “That is beginner’s work.”

“Just so,” Kikt’ch’chet nodded. “It seems you are destined for many beginnings.”

Chuktik heard chuckling behind him, recognizing the amused Enforcer without turning. Both of them, in fact, now the other had joined in the laughter. Chuktik clenched his jaw and fought the anger even as it rose once again in his throat. Kikt’ch’chet arched his band and padded away from the training ground toward his quarters. Chuktik watched him until he’d left the pen, then spun on his heels and trudged toward the dining hall, hoping Glek’cha would ignore him.

No such luck.

Glek’cha reached out from where he sat on the railing and snatched at Chuktik’s short sleeve, tugging him close. Dolik’cha, his female companion and nominal superior, chittered amusement at his side.

“You will never touch true steel, whiteface,” the fat Enforcer growled, patted the hilt of his Singing Blade, then laughed straight from his round belly.

“Nor do I wish to,” Chuktik sneered and jerked his arm away. “I leave the Dance to those best suited for it.” The Enforcer, if he had ever danced with his blade, certainly could not do so now; he wasn’t only too fat, but walked with a limp from an old injury.

“Did you hear that?” Dolik’cha said, elbowing her partner in the ribs. “The kit called you clumsy, I think.” Her grin was not the least bit friendly.

“Why, I believe he did, Doli.” He punched her in the shoulder while Chuktik scowled and stalked inside.

#

Chuktik sat alone on the bench before the long stone table, picking berries from the bowl and popping them into his mouth one by one. He chewed without enthusiasm and kept his eyes lowered. It was easy to be alone most meals; there were no more than thirty Enforcers at any one time in a post built for two hundred, and few of those wasted their time with a novice. Especially one who couldn’t fight. Two brown eggs rolled across the table and wobbled to a stop against his bowl, and Chuktik raised his head for the first time since he’d sat.

“Protein,” Claktiss said, and slid in beside him. “You’ll need it.” A novice Enforcer like himself, she was both younger and smaller, but already a better fighter by far. Her banding, though not as black as his mother’s, was darker even than Kikt’ch’chet’s, and could pass for noble-born if one didn’t know her lineage. Her ears were also tipped an engaging black, but the soft fur on her face beneath the band was winter white. She reminded him of his mother in most every way except temperament, and was his only friend in this forsaken place.

“I sucked two eggs already,” he protested. Claktiss eyed him dubiously, but he held her gaze.

“Right,” she said, tilting her head and frowning. “These are to fatten you up.” Her short brush of tail swished side to side, a soothing sound for his grating heart. “You’ll need all the meat on your bones you can get, Chuktik.” She leaned over and chucked him on the shoulder with her dainty and hard fist. “Kikt’ch’chet has us paired to battle soon.”

“What?”

“Oh… I assumed you knew. Weren’t you training this morning?” She held his eyes for several moments before he lowered them to stare into his bowl again. He plucked another berry from inside and shoved it into his mouth.

“We didn’t get very far,” he grumbled and ducked his chin. “I folded with his first attack.”

“Oh.” Now she sounded as morose as he, and he chastised himself for tipping her mood out of balance. “Well, he catches everyone,” she offered helpfully. They both knew of his failures in the pen, but she rarely dwelt on them, and never ridiculed him as others had.

“I have to work on falls after breakfast.” He said it like someone had killed his favorite bear.

“Ha! I wish I was working on falls.” She twitched her nose and sighed. “I’m practicing spotter duty all day.”

Chuktik snorted in real sympathy. “I’m sorry.” Spotter duty was the worst. Stuck high in the main tower with nothing to do but stare at a blank blue ocean, searching for ha’la’ai squaresails on the horizon. If the sun’s glare reflecting off the waves didn’t blind you, the wind would suck the moisture from your eyes. Most of the time it was a solitary job, but as an apprentice, she at least had the company of a teacher. “Who is up there with you today?”

“Dolik’cha,” she said dolorously.

“Now I'm really sorry,” he said, stifling a chuckle.

“Right?”

“Maybe she’ll talk about something besides her lost Singing Blade,” he offered hopefully. They both laughed knowing full-well that wouldn’t happen. Dolik’cha hadn’t literally lost it; she’d shattered it against a stone obelisk in O’rland during a drunken brawl some months ago. Rather than toss her from the ranks, her Chet had sent her here to Southmost to prove herself worthy of a blade once again. It doubtless didn’t help Chuktik's relationship with her that it was his mother who’d approved the order.

The seagulls complained outside the building, drifting inland from the beach hoping to raid the morning’s garbage. Their calls had grown so loud it was difficult to think, marking the time as late morning. Chuktik realized he’d spent too much time in the dining hall.

“We both better get to it, I guess,” he said, standing. He lifted his bowl, looked inside, then tipped it and poured the remaining four berries into his mouth. While he chewed, Claktiss retrieved the two eggs and placed them into his other paw.

“Suck these clean before you leave,” she ordered. “I’m not kidding. I won’t take it easy on you in the pen.”

“Fine,” he said, placing one in the bowl and lifting the other to his mouth. He poked a hole in the small end with one sharp claw, placed the hole against his mouth and sucked, poking a hole in the opposite end as he did so. In a heartbeat, the yolk leaped through the opening into his mouth, the whites chasing it down his throat. He placed the empty shell into the bowl and retrieved the other.

“Good boy,” she said, grinning, then leaned closer. “By the way… you always dip your shoulder just before you attack.”

“Do I really?” he said, poking holes in the second egg.

She smirked and lifted his paw with hers, putting the egg in front of his mouth. He snorted and finished the second just like the first and walked the bowl to the far end of the room and placed it on the table full of dirty bowls. Tomorrow they scheduled him for washer duty, but that was still better than the tower. Claktiss went with him to the exit, then parted ways as they each turned toward their respective training. She smiled at him, swished her tail, and waved. He grinned back, wishing he felt as happy as she looked . Her path is clear. Always in balance. The Path required spiritual balance, but his always seemed out of reach.

He crossed from the main building to the covered walking path encircling the courtyard, the arched columns supporting the upper floors obscuring his view. When he stepped into the open, he wasn’t surprised to see the Enforcer Master standing in the center of the training pen without his battle staff. It surprised him to see Kikt’ch’chet was not alone. Beside him, unshod and unsaddled, was one of the smaller ponies the outpost kept for rapid travel. It’s head barely higher than his own, it was thinner and friskier than a true horse. Chuktik groaned and quickened his pace. So… not falls—

“I have changed my mind, kit. This period we work on balance.”

#

“Now one leg,” Kikt’ch’chet said, barely louder than the pounding of hooves. Chuktik complied and lifted one foot from the pony’s back. He had been standing on the animal’s back as it trotted around the pen, his knees flexed, doing his best to stay upright. He got the foot as high as the knee of his planted leg, wobbled, and lowered it again to stabilize. “Again!” the old Chet cried, slapping at Chuktik’s leg as the pony circled. “This time without quitting half-way through.”

He wanted to complain that he was doing his best. Instead, he cast a quick glance to the top of the tower. So far away he could almost make out her form, Claktiss was there watching him instead of the ocean. She leaned over the parapet, resting her elbows on the flat stone, ignoring her duty. The pony slipped, reminding him where his eyes should be, and he shifted them front again. She must think I am useless. The pony slipped again, and he fell to her back hard on his tail.

“Stand up!”

“This would be easier if she were shod,” Chuktik whined while he struggled to his feet again.

“If ease is what you require, perhaps she can teach you to chew grass.” Kikt’ch’chet slapped the pony’s rump, and the animal increased her speed. “Now… one leg.” Chuktik sighed, gritted his teeth, and lifted his foot. He held it above the beasts back, steadied himself, then lifted it higher, raising his knee almost to his chest. “Now out,” Kikt’ch’chet ordered.

Chuktik concentrated, calmed his thoughts, slowed his breathing, and relaxed his muscles as much as he dared, then stretched the leg straight out in front of him. His planted knee flexed with the pony’s hoof-beat, and felt the sway and roll of her gait, using the motion to maintain his center. His mind floated as he rode, erasing everything from his senses but the wind in his face and the undulating movement beneath him; he was a leaf bobbing with the waves on the surface of a lake. He saw the look of satisfaction on his trainer’s face and had to quell a shout of triumph. It didn’t matter, his heart soared for the first time since he’d arrived in this forsaken place. Chuktik chanced another look to the top of the tower, but Claktiss was not there. Her trainer must have directed her back to her duty.

The call of the seagulls had faded since he’d mounted the pony, replaced by the sounds of insects and smaller birds in the trees beyond the courtyard. He smelled the air, the scent of trees and grasses, the pony beneath him, the damp stone below her hooves, and the tang of salt water all blending into a single sweet smell of life in balance. A strange thunder rolled in from the sea, and he had little time to consider the sound before another intruded. A whizzing whoosh of wind passed overhead, and he ducked just before a stand of trees erupted in a gout of flame, sandy soil flung high into the air. The pony reared and Chuktik lost both concentration and balance, and he fell from her back to the hard stone. Two more whooshes followed in quick succession and the first structure on the outer ring exploded. The third blast erupted inside the ring. Bits of stone and dirt rained over the courtyard, and a strong paw grabbed his tunic and lifted him to his feet.

“Get your staff!” Kikt’ch’chet''s cry betrayed no sign of panic.

Someone sounded the alarm, and enforcers and apprentices alike boiled from the buildings with weapons in hand. Some were not fully dressed, but all were ready.

“Squaresail!” someone—the trainer, likely, Chuktik thought with the small part him that could form a thought—hollered from the top of the tower. He angled his face up as the top of the tower disappeared in a cloud of gravel, smoke, and flame. None of it registered in his mind, and he watched chunks of stone and burning bits of… something cascade in slow motion down what was left of the tower wall. Claktiss, he thought, his mouth slack with horror.

“Chuktik!” Kikt’ch’chet grabbed his shoulders and shook, demanding his attention, drawing it away from Claktiss’ fate. “We must get to the aviary.”

Of course we must, Chuktik thought with what was left of his sanity. How else to send the news of our deaths? He thought these things as Kikt’ch’chet dragged him toward the building. He thought them while others scrambled to fend off an assault they couldn’t see. He thought them while his trainer thrust the useless battle staff into his paws. And he thought them as he watched the aviary swell and rupture, vomiting flaming birds into the air, throwing both master and apprentice to the ground with the following shock wave of heated air.

Kikt’ch’chet struggled to his feet, staggering at the sight on the edge of the courtyard, spun in place with wide eyes, his mouth agape, and mouthed words that never sounded. His musk now held the first hints of panic, and the realization calmed Chuktik for reasons he couldn’t fathom. The kit’s head cleared, and he stood and pointed at the wild-eyed pony pawing the air inside the training pen. It clearly wanted to run, but every direction promised only death.

“We must flee,” he said, as calm as still water.

Kikt’ch’chet stared a moment longer and watched the base of the tower explode. It fell piteously to the side as if laying for its final rest, the sound of crashing stones rivaling the explosions now ripping the compound—the cries of the injured and dying barely registering as sound. He shook himself and locked eyes with Chuktik.

“No, kit… you must flee.” He gripped the apprentice hard and drew him close. “You must get to Brokeleg Tower and send a message to Council Home. Send it directly to your mother and make her believe. The ha’la’ai will land their ground forces soon and any still here will die.” He shook the kit to be sure he was paying attention. “Take the pony and go,” he said, resignation in his voice. “Do not stop and do not look back.”

Ha’la’ai? The hairless bears of kits’ nightmares were little more than legend, even if the towers were constructed to watch for their incursion. “I can bring Enforcers back,” he said. “I can—”

“You can send a message and stay safe!” Kikt’ch’chet’s tone, harsh and deep, told Chuktik the old Chet would brook no further discussion. “Go.” The Chet drew his blade, the steel singing as it left the scabbard. “Now,” he said, then strode toward the beach, blade at the ready, Eastland’s last—only—line of defense.