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shadows across the neat gravel, their forms dancing in silhouette.  Next to the fountain, a rack of practice weapons had been set up and a clear area was marked on the ground. 
    "Ok, it's time," Arctic called out, moving to the center of the group.  Soldiers pulled themselves to their feet, the grace of the morning long gone. 
    "Tuovo and Lennert, report to Razor," he said, pointing at the officer.  "The rest of you aren't done yet."  Arctic stepped aside as LT took his place.
    "I have already heard complaints running among you," LT started.  "You think certain applicants aren't qualified or others are getting it easier.  Well, I want to put that out of your minds."  His gaze touched each of them, some recruits nodding, others with confused looks on their faces.
    "Of course, we also want to know the skills of those who may fight beside us."  He gestured to the men in black fatigues behind him.  "So tonight, each Blade gets to choose one recruit for a public spar."  The men grinned and LT waited for the excitement to abate.  "Relax.  Get cozy.  I think this may take a while."
    The First Officer, Arctic, gestured to a young man seated next to Sal.  Barely more than a boy, only his age set him apart from being completely average.  Tawny skin and brown hair on a frame of medium height and weight, the kid moved like a predator.  Arctic handed him a pair of practice knives, then grabbed a two handed sword for himself.  When the Lieutenant called for them to lay on, Sal's eyes were glued to the fight.
    Arctic used his mass to deflect the whirling blades of the boy, forcing the kid to expend his energy to stay out of his reach.  In a few short minutes, it became obvious that the First Sergeant was more than just a tactician.  The moment the boy began to slow, Arctic moved in and dropped the sword, disarming him with a kick to one hand and a slap to the other, then manhandled him to the floor. 
    A murmur of appreciation swelled among the recruits for Arctic's skill.  Few soldiers had been privileged enough to see elites at work and the Black Blades held the reputation of the most ruthless fighters the CFC could boast.  When the combatants left the ring, another man in black stepped up.
    "Cyno," LT said.  Sal recognized him as the man who'd assisted Kinetry off the field, the one who'd checked her papers the first day.
    Cyno gestured at a tall man, a cold smile on his face as he swept his arm back to indicate the rack of weapons behind him.  The recruit appeared to be from a wealthy family from the jewel at his throat, immaculate hair, and fashionable but non-standard accessories to his uniform.  In stark contrast, Cyno's simple black uniform was scuffed and well worn.  His angular features cast shadows against his face and he stood a head shorter.  While the fop made his selection, Cyno slowly unbuttoned his shirt, peeled it off, and carefully hung it on the edge of the weapon rack.  Tattoos covered his chest, black designs that swirled and wove their way across his body to disappear beneath the waistband of his pants, heavier on his left, leaving the right bare.  They did nothing to hide the ripcord of muscles that covered his lean frame.  Dark stubble shadowed his head and made the vivid blue of his eyes startling, yet his cold gaze seemed to look right through them all.
    The recruit chose a pike, the only weapon on the rack close to his height.  He tossed it gingerly, getting a feel for it, before casually walking to one side of the combat arena and glancing at the Lieutenant.  Cyno nodded at LT, no weapons in his hand. 
    At the call, the recruit struck.  None of them lacked skill.  If they had, they wouldn't have made it this far, but this one never stood a chance.  At the first sign of motion, Cyno plucked the weapon from his opponent's hands, hooked the butt behind his calves, and knocked the man's legs out from under him.  He tossed the pike away and met the soldier's body before it even