by Aldrea Alien
But Blue had the other woman on the defensive again and seemingly planned to make the most of it. Each of Red’s swings grew more desperate as Blue forced her back one step at a time.
Harried, Red overshot and her rival’s blade swung in a fluid countering move to knock the sword from Red’s hand. With a yell, Blue swept her injured leg under her opponent, slamming Red flat onto her back.
Blue levelled her sword point at her rival’s chest as Red went to pick herself up and gave her opponent an almost cheeky tap.
“Final strike to blue,” the man bellowed over the roar of a crowd who already knew the outcome.
Just like that, the duel was over.
The crowd’s cries were no less mixed than before, but they seemed to double in volume.
Their raucous quieted only when Red finally clambered to her feet and unwound her scarf to reveal a relatively young and pale face. Darshan hadn’t thought Queen Fiona had jested about the age of some competitors, but this woman had to be in her late teens.
It’s one less to worry about, he firmly reminded himself. The only actions he needed to be mindful of were his own.
“That was just a wee bit flashy,” said a young and vaguely familiar voice.
Darshan twisted to find Hamish’s niece and the trio of nephews standing at the railing not far from him. Their attention seemed trained on the competitors.
“And that limp is going to cause her all manner of trouble in the next trial. Would’ve been better if she’d lost,” Bruce continued saying to the others. “She’ll nae be able to dodge, never mind actually make it through the forest.”
Darshan was inclined to agree with the oldest boy. The woman would hobble off to have her injury treated, naturally. But there were no spellsters nearby that could mend the damage enough to see her fit to compete at her best. No one beyond himself, at least.
“Good,” Sorcha snapped, flicking the coils of her hair over her shoulder with a jerk of her head. “One less for Uncle Hamish to worry about. This is so unfair. I wish they’d all break their legs.”
Darshan cleared his throat. “You really should not wish ill on your people, your highness. It is rather bad form.”
The girl whirled on him, those stark green eyes widening to their fullest before she ducked her head. “I didnae mean it that way,” she mumbled.
“Uncle ‘Mish doesnae want this,” Mac said, earning him a susurration of shushes from the others.
“I know,” Darshan replied. Hopefully, the rest of the children knew better than to shout their uncle’s opinion on the contest to the world.
Darshan wandered through the crowd whilst the four children tagged along and offered up their opinion on each counter and hit. Other duels happened around them, most with little more than a few bruised egos.
How would his own duel go tomorrow? He had practised his hardest with Gordon, but the majority of these women moved with sharp precision. He couldn’t match that, not with a sword.
A shield, even an invisible one, was obviously out of the question as were a great many other tricks. And he would have to remain vigilant to keep anything vaguely magical from notice. During his training, Gordon had teased that he seemed to rely less on his physical abilities and far too much on the dazzling flare magic gifted him.
Watching these women, he was bitterly coming to terms with the reality that the man was right.
Still, Hamish had said to cheat. And maybe a brief burst of subtle magic could aid him. A gust at the right moment to blind his rival in an attack. Or even the slightly riskier approach of bolstering his strength like the time he had hauled Hamish back in through the window.
Out in the arena, another winner was decided.
Darshan frowned, still lost in thought. Timing any magic beyond the instinctive would take concentration. How much of that would he be able to spare with the furious might of a Tirglasian warrior bearing down on him?
Not enough. And he certainly couldn’t use the same trick twice without people finding it suspicious. He would have to win one point without such aid.
Darshan lingered at the railing whilst the children wandered off to watch yet another duel. He gnawed on the inside of his cheek. He should’ve thought of using his magic sooner, then he would’ve had time to practice such a feat. Sparring with Gordon wouldn’t be at all possible now, not without earning attention.
“I hope the scamps have nae been bothering you,” Hamish said, causing Darshan to look around for his lover.
Hamish stood not that far away, leaning on the arena railing.
“They were no bother.” In truth, it had been somewhat of an education listening to how they would’ve countered particular moves. Perhaps he should’ve trained with them as well. The children weren’t as impressive in stature as their uncle, but the two older ones weren’t far off from his own height.
“Really? I hear they’ve been making right pests of themselves so far.” Hamish tipped his head to one side. “You seemed a little uneasy in their presence.”
“Did I?” After Mac’s outburst, he had been waiting for the boy to voice even more of his opinion on the sort of person Hamish would prefer marrying. Mercifully, the boy had remained silent on that topic. “I do not mind the presence of other people’s children. It is the thought of having my own that is mildly horrific.”
A number of his sisters had learnt the unfortunate way that the Crystal Court was a hazardous place for a family, especially when they’d a killer within the bloodline.
Not that the court needed Onella’s assistance in thinning the imperial family. He recalled little of his early childhood years beyond Nanny Daama’s teachings, but the records on his twin and himself were rife with reports of assassination attempts. At least one from a governess his father had selected from a supposedly trustworthy few.
Hamish’s brows twitched downwards before the man seemed to become conscious of the movement and smoothed his features. His lips parted, but that too halted.
Darshan’s gaze drifted to their surroundings. There was nothing about the crowd that would spark an immediate alarm in regards to his proximity to Hamish. But that didn’t mean there weren’t any guards keeping the man under careful watch.
“I wonder,” he said, ensuring his voice was loud enough for those nearby to overhear. “Does his highness have the free time to explain a few of the finer points in all this sword clashing?” He squared his shoulders and pretended to ignore the snickers his question garnered. Playing the part of the clueless noble was an act he had become well accustomed to.
If he couldn’t attempt an actual practice with one Tirglasian prince to test how effective the magic attacks he had in mind would be, then he would have to settle with a theoretical conversation with the other and hope they were right.
Hamish smiled and stepped away from the arena railing. “I think I can manage a moment or two. How about a wee stroll whilst you explain what you find puzzling?”
I should’ve trained without my glasses. He might’ve been less able to keep up with Gordon—he had barely managed as it was—but at least he would’ve been prepared for this.
He could see his competitor, in a vague sense of the word. She paced before him like an impatient hound, standing at perhaps half a head taller than himself and swinging her sword. But whilst he could identify the being before him as human in shape, the details were blurred and overlaid by other impressions that he couldn’t pinpoint the source of.
Aiming with any precision was not going to happen. That didn’t entirely rule out the idea of sending a dusty blast her way. It did limit its effectiveness, though.
He dared to glance at the closest railing. The crowd was a blur of shifting colours. Hamish stood amongst them somewhere. He squinted briefly, trying to focus on the spots of orangey-red amongst the crowd, before giving up. Maybe it was best that he couldn’t be sure his lover was watching.
Darshan hefted his sword, testing the balance. The chosen weapons were clunky things in comparison to
what he had briefly trained with back home. Even the Stamekians favoured the more graceful and swifter scimitars when magic wasn’t an option.
“Competitors,” bellowed that same deep voice he had heard all through yesterday’s duels. “Begin!”
No sooner than the words had left the man’s mouth, did Darshan’s opponent rush forward.
Darshan jerked back. A shield sputtered around him, mercifully clear. No, no, no. He couldn’t allow himself a sliver of magic, not until the right time.
Yet, suppressing the urge took a surprisingly great deal of concentration. Certainly more than he had bargained on.
He backed away from the woman, his sword raised in warning. I should’ve realised. The usage of magical shields was rooted in instinct, like breathing or blinking. But however much having even a thin barrier between him and a training sword might stop him from being hurt, he couldn’t risk it. Unless he was extremely lucky in not getting hit, casually shrugging off any lack of a reaction to a blow would draw the wrong sort of attention.
His opponent circled just beyond reach, her sword low and ready to strike at any opening. She feinted a few times, her blade darting this way and that as she tested his reaction.
Darshan mimicked her stance, keeping his balance on his toes. One thing he could do without rousing suspicion was to outlast her. His healing magic would see to it that his muscles didn’t tire as quickly, but it would require a great deal of dodging. Any hit on her part would only make her bold. A hit on his could bring out her desperation.
He would prefer not to fight faced with either outcome.
Hollering from the crowd competed for his attention; bellows of encouragement to his opponent, cries for them to do something beyond dance around each other. He blocked them out. If they only knew. But he couldn’t let that happen. Not yet.
Giving a roar that could’ve deafened a bear, his opponent rushed into his range. She swept her sword upwards, knocking aside his pitiful block.
Darshan gave ground, almost slamming into the sturdy railing hemming them in. He darted to the side and just missed clipping another rail before escaping into the centre of the arena. Exactly how had she herded him into a corner whilst keeping him none the wiser?
He shook his head. Sloppy. As much as he would’ve preferred otherwise, a change of tactics was clearly in order.
Daring to loosen his grip on the two-handed hilt, he focused on stirring up the air. Such magic was a difficult task to accomplish at the best of times. It always started small, the wisp of a current drifting from the lazy sweep of his fingers. He had to follow the puff of air out, force more of his magic into the breeze.
All whilst keeping a wary eye on his opponent.
He let the breeze roam the arena, sweeping wide to encompass the crowd in a vague circle as it gained intensity. Not too obvious. He backed up a little more, drawing his opponent with him, as the wind hurtled towards him. There was a patch of earth trampled bare by previous contestants. Was it enough? Only one way to tell.
With his back to the oncoming wind, he let the full strength of the gust drift low and sweep up. The wind whipped dust all around them, bombarding his back.
His opponent lowered her head. Had she been affected as he’d hoped? Hard to tell with her eyes in shadow. He’d just have to risk it.
Darshan lunged, aiming low. Collecting a leg might—
Pain lanced across his side. His breath whooshed out his lungs. The world flashed red.
He dropped to his knees, bent over and gasping. More air. The scarf inhibited him too much. He grabbed the edge, prepared to tear the fabric from his face. No. It was one blow. He still had a chance. Revealing himself now would ruin everything.
“One point to blue.”
Darshan barely heard the call. He clutched at his side. Sharp pain dug into his chest with each breath, forcing him to breathe shallowly. Had he cracked a rib or—? Yes. His magic buzzed, steadily working to mend the injury, the drain more than bruised flesh or bone would warrant.
“Red?” their mediator barked, exasperation thick on his tongue. How long had the man been calling for a response?
Darshan lifted his head sluggishly. The world was slightly fuzzier now, his tears sapping the blurs of even more detail. He rubbed a hand across his face, clearing his vision as best as he could. Blindly, he faced the direction of the voice.
“Are you fit to compete?”
Breathing deep and wincing as a twinge hit his side, Darshan nodded. It’s just the first strike. He hadn’t given Hamish hope and risked throwing the whole contest into turmoil to bow out now. How could I have been so foolish? He should’ve waited, perhaps tried a second time, before reacting. Now he needed to win the next two rounds or—
Focus, you twit. Clambering back onto his feet, he marched into the middle of the arena and waited for the cry to begin the second bout of their duel. If he didn’t train his full attention on his opponent, then he would be walking out of this arena defeated. And exposed. He couldn’t let that come to pass.
His opponent, seemingly emboldened by her victory, hopped impatiently from one foot to the other. After dealing such a blow, she likely thought him easy pickings. She would’ve been right had he not his magic to lean on.
Darshan levelled what he hoped was a menacing glare at her. No mistakes. His healing magic still passively tingled through his body, not quite done with mending his ribs. Redirecting the energy to bolster the strength in his limbs took some concentrating, but far less than an initial summoning. He’d but a short window to use it.
“Second bout,” the cry came. “Victory or even mark. Begin!”
He raced across the space between them. His sword snapped up, smacking the woman’s blade aside before she could mount a proper defence, then down.
She scuttled backwards like a disturbed crab, barely missing incurring the same injury she had inflicted on him. Her left arm jumped, her grip loosening on the sword hilt. Was she used to fighting with a shield?
He feinted. Again, her elbow lifted that smidgen too high. And again, his sword swiped at her. Too wide. Even as he swung, he knew he had misjudged his aim. Too late to check himself. All he could hope for now was that she didn’t—
His opponent let out a roar of pain.
She doubled over, the sword falling forgotten from her hands. He couldn’t see anything wrong with them, but she cradled her hand nevertheless. Like Darshan, she wore gloves fashioned from simple brown leather. Meagre protection against a sword blade. Even a blunt one.
Had he broken her hand? The woman’s howling certainly suggested something more serious than a bruised knuckle.
He had learnt from yesterday’s duels that suffering a broken limb, even on the first blow, meant an instant loss. It wouldn’t have been so back home, where such injuries could be healed in mere moments, but the Tirglasians seemed adamant that their spellsters stay beyond the reach of other folk. Even when it would’ve made life easier for them to have skilled healers nearby.
“One point to red,” a voice bellowed over the woman’s screams. “Someone check to see if her opponent’s still fit to compete.”
Two figures vaulted the railing and strode their way.
His opponent’s hiccupping cries of pain abruptly shifted into one of rage. “That was a lucky shot!” she snarled. Her uninjured hand scrabbled for her sword hilt. With her weapon found, she used the sword as a staff to haul herself upright. “You dinnae deserve to win.” She brought the blade up in one clumsy swing that Darshan easily dodged. “You’re a bloody, dirty cheat!”
“Blue!” the voice snapped. “Contain yourself!”
Darshan backed up further. It had been fortunate for him that she’d chosen to deflect his sword rather than to stand beyond his reach and let the blade pass unimpeded, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t entitled to his victory.
“I’m fine,” his opponent hollered. She waved the point of her sword at the people who’d entered the arena to check on her, warding them back. “It�
�s nae broken.” Even as she insisted, she shielded her injured hand with her body. “Announce the next bout and I’ll prove I can still compete!”
Silence fell over the crowd. So singular in thought that Darshan fancied he could almost make out the words. Will he let her fight again?
It wouldn’t matter if she won the duel as she now stood, she would fail once they reached the final test. Attempting archery with a broken hand would hardly yield the best result.
Darshan lifted his sword in preparation for an attack. Given her temper, she was likely to come at him with all the fury of a mother cow protecting her calf. He was close now, he couldn’t risk dropping his guard.
“Victory to red,” the mediator called out to the astonished yells and bleats of the crowd. “I’ve made me decision. I’ve made it, I said! Blue is nae fit to compete. Red wins. That’s final.”
I won? He staggered back, his weapon almost slipping from his hand. Naturally, winning had been the goal, but to actually manage it without his magic being much use… he hadn’t expected it to be so exhilarating. It rather reminded him of his old training days with his sister, Anjali, and their Nanny Daama.
“Blue,” the man growled, clearly having lost his patience with the woman. “The duel’s over. You’ve lost. Remove your veil and return to your clan.”
The woman begrudgingly obeyed, tearing the scarf from her face. She marched past Darshan towards the arena gate, bumping his shoulder along the way. “I hope you fall on your face, cheater,” she grated. Her dark eyes flashed dangerously beneath the overhang of thick black brows. “A wee thing like you couldnae possibly swing that hard. Your sword’s nae the same, is it?” She lunged at him.
“Me Lady!” the announcer roared. “Step down or be forced.”
The woman ignored the man to favour of tearing Darshan’s sword from his grasp.
Darshan scuttled back, one hand on his scarf. It was still held tightly in place. Would she dare attempt to snatch it from his head?
“I kenned something was up,” she crowed, lifting the sword high. “It’s weighted.”