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veterans of more combat than he had ever seen.
Duncan rapped his lance on the turtle's thick shell, thumping like a drummer.
His beast stomped forward toward Hiih Resser's mount, thrashing its monstrous
head from side to side and snapping at anything in reach.
"I'm coming to unseat you, Resser!" But Duncan's turtle chose that moment to
stop, and no amount of urging could get it to move again. The other turtles
wouldn't cooperate, either.
The turtle-joust was the ninth fighting event in a decathlon the students had to
pass before they were admitted to the next level of the class. Through five
grueling days breathing ash-thick air, Duncan had never placed lower than third
-- in swim-fighting, long-jumping, crossbows, slingshots, javelins, aerobic
weightlifting, knife throwing, and tunnel-crawling. Throughout, standing on his
high rock, Mord Cour had watched the proceedings.
Resser, who had become Duncan's friend and rival, also achieved a respectable
score. The other Grumman students formed a clique of their own, clustering
around the bullyish leader Trin Kronos, who seemed immensely full of himself and
his heritage (though his demonstrated fighting abilities did not set him much
apart from the others). Kronos crowed about his proud life serving House
Moritani, but Resser rarely talked about his home or family. He was more
interested in squeezing every bit of ability from Ginaz.
Each night, deep into the hours of darkness, Duncan and Resser would set to work
in the base-tent library with a pile of filmbooks. Ginaz students were expected
to learn military history, battle strategies, and personal fighting techniques.
Mord Cour had also impressed upon them the study of ethics, literature,
philosophy, and meditation . . . all the things he had not been able to learn as
a feral boy in the forested cliffs of Hagal.
In evening sessions with the Swordmasters, Duncan Idaho had memorized the Great
Convention, whose rules for armed conflict formed the basis of Imperial
civilization following the Butlerian Jihad. Out of such moral and ethical
thinking, Ginaz had formulated the Code of the Warrior.
Now, while struggling to control his curmudgeonly turtle, Duncan rubbed his red
eyes and coughed. His nostrils burned from the ash in the air and his throat
felt scratchy. Around him, the ocean roared against the rocks; fumaroles hissed
and spat rotten-egg stink into the air.
After constant, ineffective prodding, Resser's turtle finally lunged forward,
and the redhead had all he could do to remain seated and keep his blunted lance
pointed in the right direction. Soon all the turtles began to move, lumbering
together in a slow-motion frenzy.
Duncan dodged simultaneous pike thrusts from Resser and the second opponent, and
struck out at the third with the butt of his own weapon. The blunt end of the
lance bashed the student squarely on the chest armor, sending him sprawling.
The downed trainee landed heavily on the rough ground, then rolled out of the
way to avoid the snapping turtles.
Duncan flattened himself against the shell of his mount, evading another thrust
from Resser. Then Duncan's turtle halted in its tracks to defecate -- which
took a long time.
Glancing around, helpless in his saddle, Duncan saw the remaining mounted
adversary go after Resser, who defended himself admirably. While his turtle
completed its business, Duncan waited for precisely the right moment,
positioning himself to one side on the hard shell, as near to the combatants as
he could get. Just as Resser countered with his own weapon and knocked down the
other combatant, he raised his lance in a show of triumph -- as Duncan knew he
would. At that very moment, Duncan reached over and slammed his pike into the
redhead's side, tumbling Resser off the turtle. Only Duncan Idaho remained, the
victor.
He dismounted, then helped Resser climb to his feet and brushed sand from his
chest and legs. A moment later Duncan's turtle finally began to move, lumbering
about in search of something to eat.
"YOUR BODY IS YOUR GREATEST WEAPON," Mord Cour said. "Before you can be trusted
with a sword in battle, you must learn to trust your body."
"But Master, you taught us the mind is our greatest weapon," Duncan interrupted.
"Body and mind are one," Cour responded, his voice as sharp as his blade. "What
is one without the other? The mind controls the body, the body controls the
mind." He strutted along the rugged beach, sharp rocks crunching under his
callused feet. "Strip off your clothes, all of you -- down to your shorts!
Take off your shoes. Leave all weapons on the ground."
Without questioning orders, the students peeled off their clothing. Gray ash
continued to fall around them, and brimstone gases sighed up from fumaroles like
hell's breath.
"After this final test, you can all be quit of me, and of this island." Mord
Cour pursed his lips in a stem expression. "Your next destination has a few
more flowers and amenities." Some of the students gave a ragged cheer, tinged
with uneasiness about the ordeal they were soon to face.
"Since all of you passed a 'thopter-pilot competency test before coming to
Ginaz, I'll keep my explanation brief." Cour gestured up the steep slope to the
high crater lip, surrounded in hazy gray murk. "A craft awaits you on top. You
saw it on your way in. The first to reach it can fly away to your clean and
comfortable new barracks. Coordinates are already locked into the piloting
console. The rest of you . . . will walk back down the mountain and camp here
on the rocks again, without tents and without food." He narrowed the eyes on
his ancient face. "Now, go!"
The students raced forward, using their energy reserves to get a head start.
Although Duncan wasn't the fastest student off the mark, he chose his route more
carefully. Steep cliff bands blocked some paths halfway up the sheer cone,
while other couloirs tapered off to dead ends before reaching the top. Some
gullies looked tempting, thin streams and waterfalls promised a slippery,
uncertain ascent. Upon seeing the 'thopter high up on the crater rim during
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