By: A.B. Timothy
Zennith was a young lad sitting under the tutelage of a veteran warsinger. His attire was that of the standard youth, a plain brown tunic with trousers to match. His eyes were a deep, almost black, blue; his face was round and pudgy; his hair was blonde and well-kempt. His mother refused to let him out of the house if a comb hadn’t at least touched his hair.
The young man sat in a semi-circle that surrounded their teacher, the veteran warsinger. They all sat on the ground in an attempt to be as connected to the earth as they could manage inside this building. Around them were decorations that reminded them they were in school, tools of math, books of language, and implements of science. But now, all the young boys in the school had gathered here to learn from a master, just as the young girls of the school gathered in a different classroom to learn from another teacher, their secrets.
That day, the warsinger, Master Henry, was teaching the children a new song. This song was a song of protection. Henry began in a low baritone, as he had spent the last week teaching them all the fundamentals of Warsinging, strength is found in the deep bass notes. “Oooh shield strong, shield wide, brush our enemies away and put them aside.”
The melody stayed in the lower register of young Zennith’s voice. He sang the song and tried to follow his teacher’s vocal footsteps. The veteran’s voice became manifest in their air, a blue shield sprang into being, its color was a deep, barely translucent blue. Zennith knew that this meant the shield was strong and unlikely to break. When the young singer tried his own, it too became manifest in the world. A small blue shield floated in front of him, almost the same color as the sky, very easy to see through. His voice was not deep enough, his notes were pitchy, but the air heard his song and granted him protection.
Henry looked around the small semi-circle of young boys who were trying their part in the song of protection. Several of them managed to create a little shield, like Zennith, but others were not getting low enough with their voices, or their notes were too pitchy. He sang the song for them again, and again they all tried. They did this call and response for an hour before Henry called it for the day.
“You all have the gift of Warsinging, children, but some are tenors, and some are basses, and some are baritones. Take young Jor, his shield is light and you can almost not even see it, for his voice is naturally higher than most,” Jor blushed at first, but then Henry continued, “but now look at Zennith’s shield. Strong, and it got darker with each attempt, for his voice is naturally lower than most. However, next week, after I have given you your lore for the day, we will be learning a new song, a song of speed. I can say with certainty that Jor will be outpacing all of you before the day is out, and Zennith may be behind the group. This is not to belittle nor to bolster Jor or Zennith,” Henry explained, “rather this is to help you all understand. Each gift is different, but all are needful in the fight. Sopranos, altos? Those ranges are even more vital, some argue, than we bass clef ruffians. Your sisters or mothers may have learned some of those skills in school. Can anyone tell me what they do?”
A boy named Ramth raised his hand. Zenith knew he had three sisters and a very influential mother. “Yes, Ramth?”
“Well, sir, the higher voices are able to move things even faster than tenors, which allows them to bind wounds, light fires, and restart hearts,” Ramth said.
“Very good. This is why most hospitals will be staffed with alto nurses and soprano doctors. You will rarely find bass surgeons because of what some true basses have learned they can do with their gifts, but those men are rare.” Henry stood from his teaching chair and straightened his blue tunic, and swept the legs of his pants clean with a few brushes.
“That is enough lore and training for today, boys, now go home and be good sons.” Henry returned to his desk and began marking things off on a sheet of paper. Zennith stood and followed the crowd of students out of the classroom.
Zenith returned to his home, where he prepared for his extracurriculars. Mostly, his brother, who was five years his senior, would be home soon, and he would continue to teach his younger brother swordplay. It was good practice for Hock, Zennith’s older brother, as he was on the dueling team at the local youth school, and it was good foundations practice for Zennith as he hoped to join his brother on the team next year.
Hock was a tenor and ran in the yearly tenor race, so he had made Zennith promise not to use song in the duel. Duelists on the team had to wear mouth guards that muted them to prevent a tenor from merely outrunning a bass. Dueling was not about who could Warsing the best, but rather who knew the duel the best. This, they had been told, prepared the boys for real war. In those real battles, they did not wear mouthguards, but neither did the enemy; to tenors and basses used their voices to counteract each other. Shield walls grew from the ground in front of choirs of basses, and tenor soloists would have to run around the wall before they could close the gap and do any damage. At least, that’s how the stories went.
Zennith was practicing sword forms in the field behind his home when Hock arrived. The two brothers clapped their wooden swords and took their stances. Zennith was warmed up from the forms and Hock from the practice at school. They each put in their mouthpieces and went at it. Zennith was smaller, but sometimes faster than his brother, so he was able to win a few points, but the points that Hock scored were draining. Zennith received a bruise on his calf from a smack Hock gave him with his sword. The bruise drained his energy and sapped him of strength. It was less than five minutes later that Zennith surrendered the duel.
“You’ve got to work on defense. Your speed is good, Zennith, but if I can land those hits, your speed does not matter one bit.” Hock tapped his brother’s calf with the point of his wooden practice blade.
“Well, in a real fight, I’ll have my Warsong to defend me.” Zennith protested.
“And that’s why we practice with these,” Hock gestured with the mouthpiece he was still holding. “In a real fight, your only hope against a Tenor Assassin is your skill and instinct with the blade. He’d cut your vocal cords before you could get a single bar of a protection song out. Come on, let’s go again.”
They both took sips of water before putting their mouthpieces back in. Zennith attacked first. His sword flew from targeting one of his brother’s temples to the next, his hands twisting in the air. Finally, his brother caught his blade and threw it up, pushing Zennith back and pressing the offensive.
Hock pressed his brother hard, using up a reserve of energy he found to force his brother to practice his defence. To Hock’s pleasure, Zennith held his defensive line well. Hock tried all of his usual tricks and feints, but Zennith had been ready for each one. He stabbed at an opening in his brother’s right guard, but his thrusting sword was met with a sweeping reposte. Zennith’s blade knocked Hock’s aside and, in an impressive display, the young warrior brought his sword around in a defensive twist and put it right under Hock’s chin.
“I yield!” Hock cried, spitting his mouthpiece out. That made the score one-one. They each took a few moments to ready themselves for the inevitable tie-breaker.
They took their battle stances again and put in their mouthpieces. Just as Zennith went to move in, they heard, “Boys! Dinner!” They both sighed and lowered their blades; they would have to have their tie-breaker another time.
