"I want to serve my nation in the Royal Army." There was confidence in his voice, and a tiny hint of strong passion.

"You will be tested."

"I am ready," he said, almost impatiently, but with complete respect. Fine attitude for a true soldier! He was a little small, though. I couldn't imagine how he could pass.

"Follow me, then." I stood and walked out the door of my office and out to the testing grounds. Then I began to explain, "There are three steps in your testing, and each one must be passed in order to reach the next.

"First, you will fight a battle dummy, a wooden statue designed to fight back. You must destroy it to continue.

"Second, you will fight a trained war dog that I will choose. Our war dogs are finely trained in the art of death, so expect vicious and thorough attacks. If it looks as though one side has lost, I will shoot an arrow between you, signaling the end of the test. The dog is trained to step away from the fight, but will protect itself if the fight follows it.

"Finally, you will fight an existing soldier. The first one of you to fall to the ground loses their membership in the army, but the winner stays. This is one of the ways we keep the membership of the Royal Army exactly to 20,000 men.

"Are you ready for the first test?"

"Yes," he stated without hesitation. It wasn't just drama, he really believed himself ready. Respectable confidence, but I didn't expect him to make it. He was too young, too small. He didn't even have a beard, so he must be 16 or less.

I set up a battle dummy for him to fight. Battle dummies are vicious fighters. Any way you can possibly hit them causes them to spin around and strike you back equally. It was a bright invention, weighted beautifully. The only real way to beat it was tip it over. Most victors rammed it with their full weight to win, but I this boy had far too little weight for that. He would not get past this step.

"It is ready. Join the fight."

He walked forward to it slowly, untying the quarterstaff from his cloth belt. He tapped the quarterstaff on the ground and spun it around a little to warm up. Then he took the final step and, like most new recruits, struck the dummy as hard as he could. The crack of the wooden dummy against the boy's side sounded loud in the morning air as the boy stumbled to the ground. I smiled, remembering my testing. I'd brused a rib.

"You'll have to do better than that, boy!" I called to him. "The crown doesn't need boys, it needs men!"

"I'm not beat, sir." He said "sir" as though he was already in the army. He held himself as a soldier should. Too bad he was doomed to fail.

He returned to the dummy and swung his quarterstaff again, this time more controlled, watching the reaction of the dummy. As dummy spun around, he swung again, striking the very arm that had knocked him down. The dummy spun a different way, but the boy was ready for it. Another swing, stronger this time, and the dummy spun a different way.

He continued this way, swinging dozens of times, faster than I would have considered possible and stronger with each hit. Occasionally some flailing limb of the dummy would graze him, some even scattering traces of blood, but never again was he hit hard enough to slow his attacks. Soon, the dummy and the man were locked in an eternal pattern of swings, the dummy never striking the new boy, and the new boy swinging with all his strength. I thought he would grow weary, but he seemed to have endless endurance. The dummy's wooden limbs began to crack, then they shattered one by one. Soon, the dummy was reduced to a scattering of firewood.

He clutched a cut on his side for a moment, then came to me, suppressing a limp as he walked. He asked, "Where are the dogs? I'm ready for the next step."

He may have been a fairly good fighter, but he wasn't that smart if he believed he could pass all three steps in one day. Few had endurance enough to continue after using so much energy on dummy. "You are allowed to rest if you need to. You should be ready to fight again in an hour or so."

"I'm ready now. I have no patience for weakness. Take me there."

"Very well." If he wished to exact his own failure from fatigue, I couldn't legally stop him. I led him to the kennel where we kept the dogs of war, our secret to success in war. For each soldier, we had at least one trained fighting dog, and usually two or three. I picked one that was known for it's speed. This boy's speed must be depleted after that demonstration. Now he would see that my advice is always necessary. One shouldn't scoff at experience. I whistled to the dog to follow me and let both dog and boy to the arena behind the kennel.

We entered the circular arena, sealing the door behind us. It was a round room with about 15 rows of chairs around the top. It was used for training and, sometimes, betting on fights. The betting on fights was officially frowned upon by the military, but I don't know a single soldier who'd been in the service for more than a year that hadn't placed at least one bet.

He placed the cage near the ladder to the viewing area. Usually, spectators went up the stairs on the front door of the arena, but to get from inside to the spectator seating required a latter. The walls around the battle area were about 12 feet tall.

I climbed the ladder up to the spectator seating, and hoisted it up after me. Now they were trapped in the arena, alone and without escape. I retrieved a bow and a dozen arrows from their hiding place, prepared to fire the shot that signified this boy's failure. Then I whistled.

A low growl came from the dog. The boy was ready, clutching his staff in energetic anticipation. Shouldn't he be more tired?

He was waiting for the dog to make the first move, maybe to get a little rested before the fight. They walked slowly, neither toward or away from the other, both keeping the distance between them steady.

Suddenly, the dog lunged for the boy, snarling. With a deft swing, the end of the boy's staff cracked into the dog's side. The blow wasn't enough to stop the charge, but the dog could only just graze the boy's calf with it's claws. It turned and leaped again, this time catching the staff in it's teeth. The boy quickly kicked the dog in the chest, knocking it back.

The dog landed on it's back in apparent pain. The boy limped a few steps, watching the dog twist over to get up. It appeared to have a broken rib. I could see the teeth marks in the wood of the quarter staff from about 20 feet away. The dog rolled to it's feet, growled deeply, and charged again. This time the crack was audible as the staff came down on the dog's head. It fell to the ground, twitching. I put it out of it's misery with the bow.

I climbed down and retrieved my arrow. "Congrats, boy, another victory." The boy was ready for a rest, I could see. A few droplets of blood were inching down the calf of his leg, and sweat covered his forehead and arms. His shirt had a pair of cuts in the side, and he walked with a steadily worsening limp. "I look forward to your final test tomorrow. I'm sure you will give me a fine show."

"Tomorrow? There is enough daylight left, I think."

I laughed at his over-confidence. "You want fight a soldier of the Royal Army when you are already worn? This is an entrance test, not the battlefield! Rest, boy, and fight for the crown tomorrow."

"How long does it take to find an opponent for me? If possible, sir, I would like to finish tonight."

I laughed and shook my head. "It takes practically no time to find an opponent, but you couldn't fight off an old woman in your current condition. Rest, you will have your opponent in the morning."

"My condition is my concern. Bring me my opponent."

"Why are you so determined to lose? You're bearly standing already, and you want more? Unless you can come up with a very good reason for it, you will rest tonight and fight tomorrow. There is no need for you to fail from self-inflicted fatigue."

His blue eyes suddenly burst with anger-flame. "A good reason? Tonight is the anniversary of the murder of my parents! Three years ago this night, their bodies were found in the Waterwine River, killed by bandits." While he spoke, I imagined this boy, three years ago, hearing the news of his parents' death. It was the Royal Army's duty to protect the citizens of the Timut from harm...

"I cannot let another night, another hour go by without joining the fight to protect this people! This army failed me in the worst way. That cannot happen again! And it will not, not as long as I am in the Royal Army! Not as long as I have any power in this world!"

It brought back my idealistic youth to hear such an impassioned speech! This man would go far in the Royal Army. "Very well, I will find an opponent for you."

"Do not pick one that is weak just because I have fought already today. I do not want my fellow soldiers thinking that I'm not truly fit to join. In fact, bring me a soldier that I should not be able to defeat. If I am to change the very face of the Royal Army, I need to gain respect quickly."

Was he so over-confident? "I will bring who I will bring. Wait here, I will return." Passion was one thing, but did he know his limits? If he was not careful, he would get himself killed in a true battle.

We walked to one of the barracks and I entered. "Who here will volunteer to fight a new recruit?" I called. Several of them stood to volinteer. I studied them, trying to pick one that was outside the strength of the boy outside, one that would beat him.

That startled me. Why would I try to force failure on this man? His honor had stirred up my heart in remembrance of my own. He had earned my respect in a few short hours, and now that I felt that I knew him as a brother, I wished his failure. It struck me as I thought, it is because I'm afraid for him. He is too confident in his abilities. He will charge the hopeless battle, take on armies on his own, and they will kill him. That is what I feared. That is why I wanted him to fail.

Now that I understood my reaction, I believed it more. I picked a soldier from the barracks that would inevitably win. Romn caught my eye. Romn was an ogre of a man: tall, strong, and violent. He wore wooden armor and carried an axe that weighed at least as much as the boy outside. Failure was certain for the recruit. "Romn, follow me."

The soldier followed me out to the recruit. Upon seeing him, the man laughed. "You said I was to fight a man that wanted to join the army, but this seems to be a small girl! Should I be using my axe to fight her or build her a house for her dolls!"

The boy bore this as though he heard it not. No rage, no insult, no embarrassment, he was in complete control. He tapped his quarterstaff on the ground three times and said, "For you, Father."

They both followed me back to the arena. Romn jostled and joked with the recruit, always at his expense. "My shirt was torn from my back during battle last month. Could you sew it up for me, girl? You will have plenty of time, once you fail to enter our Royal Army!" I myself wished to hit him, to yell at him, to use my rank to destroy Romn's career for his cruel behavior, but I resisted. After all, I had a reputation to keep.

"Gentlemen, I believe you both know the rules, but I am required to repeat them. The first one to fall to the ground must leave, but the other will stay on as an official member of the Royal Army. If an arrow strikes between you, stop immediately. Remember, the goal here is not to kill your opponent," I said, looking at Romn, "you need only to knock him down."

I returned to my perch near the bow and arrows, and called, "Begin!" In my mind played the guilt from what I had done to this boy I hadn't known this morning. I had saved him, but by humiliating him. I would not sleep soundly that night.

Upon hearing my word, they both walked in slow circles, keeping their distance from each other. I couldn't imagine what the recruit could possibly do to Romn, but I could think of a dozen ways Romn could win.

Romn, still calling out insults, finally swung his massive axe, flat against his swing so that it would slap the boy, not cut through him. The boy jumped back, missed by inches by the great axe head, and immediately jumped forward and smashed the quarterstaff down against Romn's shoulder. The mighty crack made me flinch, but Romn only laughed. "The girlie hit me with a wittle stick!" And swung again. This time the head of the axe grazed the boy's arm, creating a bloody, red circle on the boy's sholder. The boy gasped slightly, but charged anyway, bringing the staff into the side of Romn's knee. Romn cried out, but reacted in no other way. The insults were gone now. Romn was paying attention.

I could see the hate building in Romn's eyes. This was wrong, this was stupid! Romn would kill him! Why had I chosen him? Why had I chosen this volcano of a man? I may have cost this boy his life! I scrambled to ready the bow. I would have to stop this.

Out of the corner of my eye, as I fumbled with the arrows, I saw Romn swing his axe with murder on his mind. This time, the blade was horizontal with the ground, slashing with more than deadly force. Deadly aim was bringing the massive axe head directly toward the boy! He'd be cut in half! I was too late! The boy would die, and because of me!

But the boy ducked under the blade and charged Romn yet again. While I brought the bow up and aimed, he jumped up to Romn's shoulder, held the quarter staff up to Romn's neck, and swung his own body behind Romn. Using his slight weight, he held the quarterstaff back hard against Romn's neck. Romn's look of surprise mirrored my own thoughts. Romn couldn't breath!

Romn dropped his now useless axe, and swung at the boy with his huge arms. The boy, so small compared to Romn, held himself in the small of Romn's back where he could not be reached. Romn spun and thrashed, but the boy held on until, finally, Romn's attacks became weaker and weaker. Romn slowed, then stopped, then fell to his knees. Finally, with a great crash, Romn fell flat on the ground. Only then did the boy let go, take his quarterstaff, tie it back to his belt, and ask me, "Why do you have the bow ready?"

The bow! I'd forgotten I was holding it. The boy! He'd won despite my stupidity. "I'm sorry!" I called, "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have..."

"Sorry for what? Do I not qualify? Did I fail at something?"

"No, no! You passed! You...," I got control over myself and continued more steadily, "You are hereby officially instated in the Army of the Royal Family of Timus Castle. Congratulations!"

The boy... no, the man, closed his eyes, lowered his head, and began to cry. "I did it, Father," he whispered. "I've come to serve the crown!"

I crawled down the ladder and joined the boy. Once outside the arena, I sent a few soldiers to remove Romn from the compound, and asked the remarkable man who won when all odds were against him, "What is your name, Soldier?"

The corners of his mouth twitched up slightly, the closest thing to a smile I'd seen on those lips, and he said, "My name is Dyluk, son of Dommik, Soldier of the Royal Army, and servant to the Crown."

"Dyluk," I said, smiling and near tears, "Welcome.