The warrior is known by the clarity of his thoughts and the purity of his purpose. To clear your mind you must rise above your emotions. Fear is death, for fear brings paralysis, leaving you helpless before your foe. Rage is death, for anger brings the kill fury, which slays first your own judgment. The warrior stands his ground with clarity of purpose, attacks without rage, defends without fear. The warrior can never be less than honorable, for the warrior chooses with clear mind a purpose higher than himself.

-- Conserver's teaching

The arena floor was deep in sand, difficult footing. The smell of hot dust filled Pouncer's nose as he shifted his rear leg and adopted guard stance, the pommel of his variable sword in rest position. He thumbed its extend button and the almost invisible magnetically stiffened wire slid from the coil inside to its full length. He centred the weapon between his breastbone and groin and tilted his grip until the blue marker ball at its tip was aligned precisely on his opponent's nose, v'scree, the resting guard position of the single combat form.

A leap and a half away Myowr-Guardmaster's eyes narrowed to slits, ears flat on his skull as he shifted stance to receive the attack.

"You're a coward." he spat. "You don't deserve the name of Rrit."

The insult stung and Pouncer dropped to attack crouch and leapt to avenge it in a single, fluid motion. His weapon came back for a killing blow, kill scream echoing from the bare stone walls. He landed and let his momentum carry him forward, sweeping the sword at his adversary's throat where there was a gap in his mag armor, but Guardmaster was already dropping to a knee and his own sword was coming around to amputate Pouncer's knees. Pouncer leapt vertically and the blow went under his feet. He swung again on his way down but the blade glanced off Guardmaster's mag armor. Guardmaster kicked up from his position on the ground and connected with Pouncer's wrist, sending his variable sword flying. Pouncer fell back, empty handed as his opponent rolled to his feet and advanced on him, variable sword raised for the kill. Fear is death he told himself, picturing the ground behind him as he moved backwards, watching not his opponent's weapon but the shoulder of the arm that held it. Before the weapon could move the arm must move. Before the arm could move the shoulder must move.

"You don't deserve the name of sthondat!" Guardmaster spat the words in disgust.

And before the shoulder can move, the mind must move. Myowr-Guardmaster was confident, his stance solid. Pouncer could sense his developing attack…
There! He screamed and leapt before his opponent could, claws extended as though they could rip mag armor. Guardmaster pivoted out of the way and Pouncer went past, to roll and recover and attack again, but Guardmaster pivoted and countered. As he did Pouncer dropped sideways to the ground, kicked out, connected with his opponent's ankle. Guardmaster tumbled forward, overbalanced with his forward momentum and Pouncer rolled to one side to avoid the molecular blade coming down at his head. He flipped to his feet, only to be knocked backwards as his opponent back-kicked from below and swung around. He found himself flat on his back with the tip of Guardmaster's variable sword a paw-span from his nose. Fear is death he told himself, but fear was not the only emotion that led to death and he could see his own face snarled in kill rage in the perfect mirror of Guardmaster's breastplate.

"Your line ends here, sthondat." Guardmaster's words were laced with contempt, and Pouncer knew he had lost.

"Hold!" By the wall First Trainer had his arms upraised, stopping the duel. "First positions."

Panting hard, Pouncer retrieved his variable sword and made the chest-to-nose-to-chest gesture that acknowledged his opponent's victory. Guardmaster responded in kind. "Well fought, Pouncer. Well fought, but you leapt with anger again."

"You taught me yourself, when in doubt, attack."

"And were you unsure of what I was going to do?"

"I knew you were about to attack."

"I know you knew, I saw it in your eyes. So you had no doubt, but you attacked anyway. When you are sure of your opponent's intent, anticipate it in order to defeat him. When you are unsure, attack to make him unsure also, but do not over commit yourself."

Pouncer moved back to his starting point. "You insulted me, Guardmaster."

The battle scarred warrior rippled his ears. "Of course. I fight to win, and if I can cloud your mind with anger I will win. Insults will not kill you, but losing self control is fatal. Rage is death. Anger makes you fight hard, but you cannot win if your mind is not clear."

"It is easier to say than to exercise."

"One day you will be Patriarch, Pouncer, and then you will have no-one but yourself to keep your rage in check."

"I will do better, Guardmaster." Pouncer took a deep breath to ready himself for the next bout. "Again, First Trainer?" He moved to resting guard position in anticipation of the command.

"Again! V'scr'ee!"

"Wait!" All three of them looked up to the gallery that ran around the top of the arena. Second-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit was there watching them, idly scratching a purring kzinrette behind the ears. Pouncer's younger brother had the same Rrit-characteristic orange/black coat as he did, but he was short and broad compared to Pouncer's lean form, with a distinctive series of black bands along his shoulders and back.

"Your training time is long over, Elder-Brother. This is my time for the Arena."

A momentary annoyance washed over Pouncer. Second-Son was right, but as always his manner was un-necessarily hostile. He raised his ears and kept the irritation from his voice. "Of course Black Stripe, I am tired of looking up at Guardmaster's blade anyway."

Second Son's lips curled in a suppressed snarl at the sound of his hated familiar-name but he too kept his voice level. "Rrit-Conserver is expecting you."

"My test is tomorrow, brother."

Guardmaster watched the exchange in distaste, offended by Second-Son's antagonism. He trained First-Son because he enjoyed it and Second-Son because it was his duty. He hefted his variable sword and cocked an ear in not-quite-sincere invitation. "Would you care for a bout, Second-Son?"

"I will confine myself to the training drone." Second son's voice held an arrogance he was entitled to by birth if not by ability. "Guardmaster, First Trainer, you are dismissed."

Guardmaster swirled his tail in indifference. "As you wish." Trainer gathered his training aids, turned to Guardmaster and Pouncer and gave a claw rake salute.

"Sires, until tomorrow." He left through the training gate.

Guardmaster turned to Pouncer. "A quick hunt in the Darkmoon Park might make a meal."

Pouncer de-powered his mag armor, the perfect mirror surface reverting to lustrous copper, and tossed it aside for the Pierin training slaves to collect. "The Hero's Square Market has easier prey for a tired student." He rippled his ears in amusement.

Guardmaster twitched his tail as he depowered his own armor. "Hrrr. You know I disprove of the risk."

"What risk, with you as my sword and shield?"

"I'm too old to duel on some kzintzag's whim." Guardmaster twitched his whiskers grumpily. "But I'd better come so you don't get yourself lost."

On the gallery above them Second-Son watched them leave, his lips curling up over his fangs in distaste. He had been watching them for some time from the shadows of the gallery, his impatience growing steadily. First-Son used the arena as though it belonged to him, as he acted about all things in the Citadel of the Patriarch. The knowledge that one day it would belong to him, along with the Patriarchy and all that went with it galled Second-Son. The kzinrette beside him sensed his displeasure and nuzzled at him for re-assurance. Angrily he pushed her away, and when she tried again he swatted her across the nose. Offended she slunk off into a corner and curled up, tail twitching in annoyance. He ignored her, his thoughts occupied with his brother. It pleased him to see Guardmaster administer humiliation to his father's favored son, but there was no denying Pouncer's skill at single combat. Second-Son disdained the rigors of the formal combat form and its emphasis on self restraint. He trained with a drone and naked aggression, and on occasion indulged in strictly forbidden duels with carefully chosen czrav, some nameless wretch who had violated his honor and become outcast. There was little danger in a duel between a hapless pariah and a noble equipped with mag armor and a variable sword, but much excitement. He had earned twice eight ears for his belt in such illicit combats. He was sure his brother had no ears at all, simply because the Patriarch had forbidden live duels to his sons. First-Son lacked the liver to defy their father's edict, but simple obedience was not what it took to wield the power of the Patriarchy. For now there was little that Second-Son could do but bear his brother's unfounded arrogance and keep his trophies well hidden, but one day his moment would come. When Second-Son was Patriarch he would wear his ears with pride, and everyone who saw them would know he backed his rule with his own claws.

He pressed keys on the arena control board. The training drone slid from its niche into the arena, and Second-Son screamed and leapt from the balcony, his variable sword a blur of slash attacks as he channeled the rage he felt at his brother into his weapon. On the balcony the prret, tired of being ignored, went to sleep.