Homecoming

Chapter Four

Clink.

Clank.

These sounds of metal striking on metal overwhelm the chatters from the living spaces of the Village, which are otherwise the only intrusion from the monotony of silence that has been blanketing the environment—heck, the whole world, most probably.

This open lot—which presumably used to be a tennis court, as evidenced by a few mowed-down rusty steel poles around the perimeter, with frayed, interlocked, browned white strings still attached to them—serves as the rangers' training site. It's about a quarter-kilometer walk away from the living spaces, located so, in order for the unconcerned citizens to be kept away from the dangers of what we do here.

Today, especially, is sword day.

The rookies, myself included, are being schooled by the inducted rangers on how to properly carry and use this weapon in times of crisis, starting with the mandatory orientation in distinguishing the pointy end from the handle, as if that isn't obvious, even to people who haven't watched a single episode of Game of Thrones.

Commander Michael Horton, the head of the United States Secret Service—or should I say, the former head of the now-defunct Secret Service—is overseeing the process by making sure that only the qualified and willing are drafted, that the trainers are teaching only what is necessary and that petty brawls among hotheaded men, such as what happened a while ago between a few recruits, never happen again.

Thankfully, he is a Jeor Mormont and not an Alliser Thorne.

Which is a pleasant surprise considering that his son, Gabriel Horton, a.k.a. one of Alexander's cronies, the ginger—yes, I have learned both their names now—resembles not the personality of the respectable Lord Commander of the Night's Watch but of the bitter, mutiny-initiating character from the show.

The apple sometimes does fall farthest from the tree.

I've also been told that Commander Horton is an exceptional agent, with immeasurable loyalty, valor, intellect and gun expertise. It sucks that I'll never get to see him in action with a pistol, nor will I be coached by him in using one myself.

As it appears, guns aren't the preferred weapon choice here. Nor are they even a weapon choice, per se.

It's already my second day in training and my fourth watching them drill, but there has never been a 'gun' day, nor has there been any kind of firearm in sight at the dug-up weaponry near the president's quarters.

Maybe they were all discarded, since they're pretty much useless in this war against the Antes, or so I've been told. Because, apparently, shots of ammunitions made from lead and other regular metals can't even wound or, much less, kill an Ante. Only a particular metal called Omer, a sharp-as-diamond element which is quite rare—the same material these blades are made of—has been proven to annihilate them.

So, rather than be used against the troops' advantage, their guns may have been thrown away at sea or destroyed.

"Now, we switch places," Commander Horton tells everyone, with confidence—but not cockiness—in his utterance, as is expected of a man with such dignity. "The attacker will now play the defense and vice versa."

"Wait!" shouts someone with a very familiar voice.

The exclamation distracts everybody's concentration, just as we have already assumed combat position.

And I happen to know one other person besides Ashley and Sasha who enjoys and craves this much attention:

"Alexander!" Commander Horton calls out, marching away from us to meet the smirking bastard. "What are you doing here?"