She sheathed her sword, with a light sweat on her forehead and her muscles loose. She closed her eyes and told herself to fight the first person she thought of.
Dyson.
Of course.
Her husband, and the one who taught her how to fight with a sword. Dyson always had the upper hand in strength and used that to his advantage—which forced Crystil to master the art of the quick jab, the step-back, the sidestep and instantaneous reaction. She unsheathed her sword and looked out onto a blank space of land. She focused closely until she could see Dyson, hear his voice, smell his sweat and develop the edge she always had when sparring with her former husband.
“He” approached and came down hard with a two-handed chop. She deflected and pushed off. Dyson came back at her with long windups that resulted in powerful attacks, and she parried them all, knowing even all this time later his tendencies and his favorites, like the way he always cut right to left, but rarely left to right, and how he did a good job of keeping his balance on defense but rarely on the second swing on offense.
She went into such a zone, imagining Dyson in front of her, that though she used her terrain against her opponent, she did not hear Celeste or Cyrus call her name from the edge of the forest.
“Hit me,” she “heard” Dyson say, but she knew that was his taunt—an invitation to a trap. Dyson’s counter was too good—she had to goad him into attacking by not going on the offensive. She could hit him only after his first attack.
Sure enough, she saw Dyson approach and come in with a wild swing which missed, leaving his shoulder vulnerable. In one quick motion, she struck the sword out of his hand and brought her blade to his throat.
“How’s this for hitting you?” she said.
The illusion disappeared, and she sheathed her sword, wiping the sweat from her brow. A smile formed as she felt accomplished and refreshed, even if the Orthrans and Kastori stared at her like she had lost her mind. Which is probably the case… except, ironically, when I’m doing this. This is when I feel most at peace, and most at home. No magic. No tents. No Kastori or Typhos or planet-hopping. Just me, an opponent, our immediate surroundings, and our weapons.
Would be nice to feel this way when someone isn’t going to die, though.
She immediately decided she wanted a second round, and decided to fight the next person who came to mind.
Dyson. Cyrus. Ma—
Well, OK. This seems amusing.
She unsheathed her sword and imagined Cyrus coming over, a smirk on his face, holding the sword loosely and generally making for a poor foe.
“Hey, I’m Cyrus Orthran, I once fought fifty bad guys at once and killed them all in under a minute. What you got?”
“I got me,” Crystil said confidently to herself.
Cyrus charged with his sword held high, and Crystil stepped to the side, letting the figure go by. She held her sword out, and the imaginary Cyrus walked into it. I need to think of some tougher bad guys.
“Hey, don’t think that just cuz I’m bleeding it means I’m dead,” Cyrus said. “I’m your imagination. You can’t let me go.”
OK, woah, focus, Crystil, this would never happen in real life.
“C’mon, Crystil, why are you playing so coy?”
“Enough!” she said, and she recaptured her sense of space as she saw the real Cyrus and Celeste approaching. She sheathed her sword slowly, knowing the two of them were watching, still not entirely unable to let go of a need for an aura. The slow, dramatic finish made Cyrus nod with his eyes narrowed, clearly impressed.
“Hey, we’ve got some really good ursus waiting for us at the outpost,” she said. “Erda brought it back.”
“Two days in a row? We’re going soft,” Crystil said, but with a smile that softened her comment. “How did hunting go?”
“Without a hitch!” Cyrus said loudly, to which Crystil tilted her head with a smirk.
“I take it that means you screwed up badly and needed magical assistance?”
Celeste laughed so hard even Crystil started laughing without knowing what was going on. Cyrus blushed and became genuinely angry, which made it even funnier to Crystil.
“I wish we had a way to record it, Crystil. The ursus, chasing him, his face… oh, he went from poking the ursus to thinking the ursus was going to poke him! Thankfully Erda was there.”
“Yeah,” Cyrus said, and Crystil loved it, applauding as she laughed. I would give so much for a replay of that. Maybe I’ll fight him for real and make him get that look.
“Hey, if it makes you feel better, been there, done that,” Crystil said. “Well, with the fear. Not with poking the ursus. You deserve all of the grief from everyone on this planet for that.”
Cyrus rolled his eyes and snorted.
“Good training?” he asked, clearly eager to change the subject.
Crystil’s eyes went wide, as she decided to challenge the man. And she knew just how to do so.
“Yeah. I imagined fighting you, and you lost within ten seconds. Think you can do better than that?” she said as she pulled her sword back out.
8
“Better than that?” Cyrus said loudly, his voice rising in sardonic disbelief.
He looked down at her sword, which her gaze followed. She admired the perfectly sharpened blade, bloodless—for now—and able to cut through anything that might fight back. She looked up and saw Cyrus shaking his head sadly as if he couldn’t believe the sight of the sword.
“See, you have quite the sword, but there’s a problem. You can’t deflect or dodge bullets. Your sword would lose to my gun before you could raise it.”
“OK,” Crystil said, taking two steps back as if daring Cyrus to fire. “Show me your gun and I’ll drop the sword and declare you the winner.”
Cyrus panicked, then quickly dispelled his expression with the drawing of an imaginary gun. Crystil laughed and pretended to block his bullets.
“You can’t do that!” Cyrus said.
“Why not?”
“Because… argh, that’s not real!”
“And your gun lighter than air and with no kickback is?”
“You… you…”
Cyrus stammered as Celeste laughed at the whole scene.
“Thank goodness this wasn’t your strategy for Calypsius,” Celeste said to both parties.
“It was our emergency plan,” Crystil quipped, a surprising remark even to herself. “In case Cyrus decided to talk to skulls again.”
“Crystil,” Celeste said with a warm but warning smile, and Crystil ended it there.
Cyrus, having stammered himself out, dropped his imaginary gun and folded his arms.
“In all seriousness, Cyrus, you should continue learning sword fighting. I know we haven’t used our guns since Calypsius, but the reality is we will run out of ammo someday. But we can always use blades. Blades will make you a better warrior, more aware of what’s around you and your opponent.”
Cyrus nodded, but his eyes didn’t follow his gesture, so Crystil waited for him to respond verbally.
“It all makes sense, I’m in agreement. But it’s like… on the one hand, I know Typhos might come back.”
“Will,” Crystil said.
“OK, will come back. But if I keep fighting seriously, as if a great war might come tomorrow… I’ll never relax. Get to enjoy time with Celeste. With you.”
Crystil felt her stomach knot when he said that, and it didn’t help his eyes had intensely locked on hers.
“With the Kastori. Enjoy this planet. If I can’t go back to Monda, then I need to at least make Anatolus Monda-like.”
“OK,” Crystil said, and she looked over at Celeste, who had started to speak but always deferred to the commander. “Let’s face some realities. We are useless when Typhos comes back since we don’t have magic. And we don’t have Omega One. We have guns and the element of surprise, but even that is rendered useless by their sensing skills.”
“The ones with red magic,” Celeste reminded h
er.
“Right. But with that all said, there’s a difference between being useless and being a hindrance. We may not be able to fight the war the way the Kastori would. But we can make sure we’re not making it more difficult for them. We can become more aware of our surroundings and help them learn sword fighting.”
Cyrus shrugged. It’s not that he doesn’t like training. He just doesn’t like training hard. He sees it more as a game than as a battle.
Speak his language. Lure him into the trap of thinking it’s a game, then slowly force him to fight a battle.
“Here, you know what, you’re right,” Crystil said as she motioned for the other two siblings to follow her to the entrance of the ship, where she grabbed the second sword. “Let’s compromise. We train, but we go slow. As long as you pay attention. Deal?”
“Deal,” Cyrus said, the cocky swagger back and the arrogant smile back on his face.
She tossed the sword to him, and he caught the sheath with both hands. He pulled out the sword, dropping the sheath to the ground, and admired it. It was a carbon copy of the one Crystil held, made in one of the manufacturing plants far away from Capitol City.
The only difference was the wielder, and in that department, Crystil had a significant advantage. I wouldn’t even call it an advantage. It’s so overwhelming. I have skills. Poor guy doesn’t.
This will be fun. Teach him when he’s pinned.
“Feels good every time I hold it,” Cyrus said as he swung it awkwardly and loosely in the air.
The soldier in Crystil cringed and wanted to look away at the terrible technique the man used when holding the sword. She had to remind herself he’d only held a sword a few times in his life, and never in battle.
He sniffed the air and stopped looping the sword in front of him.
“They’re cooking our food,” Cyrus said. Our? “Crystil…”
“Uh uh,” she said, her playful side winning out. “You come and talk trash to me about how your sword can defeat my gun, you’re not walking away from this. But I’ll make a deal with you—beat me in practice and you can leave immediately.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I’ll let you go after three rounds. And listen to me. I can make this super quick for you while still giving you lessons. Or. I can toy with you for the next couple of hours until you get worn down and lose because your shoulders can’t support holding the sword up.”
Cyrus smirked, focused. He knows he wins either way.
“Celeste, would you care to alternate with Cyrus? It would do you well.”
“Oh, I’m good, I like watching you two fight. But maybe when you two are done, I’ll jump in.”
Crystil shook her head as she turned her attention back to Cyrus, who was now tossing the sword between his hands like a small ball. What… what is he even…
“This isn’t you fighting in a simulation, Cyrus. Don’t be stupid and don’t do anything you wouldn’t do in a battle,” she said, her voice firm but not cold.
“That’s so boring,” Cyrus said, but he stopped tossing the sword between his hands and gripped it properly. At least he remembers something.
Celeste suddenly groaned loudly and grabbed her head, falling to her knees. Cyrus dropped his sword and Crystil put hers in her sheath as they both ran over to the young girl.
“Celeste!” Cyrus yelled as he lifted her back to her feet.
“You OK?” Crystil asked.
“I…” Celeste said. “I don’t know what that was. A sudden rush of something. It was so painful.”
“Get some rest,” Crystil said. “You hungry?”
“Not anymore,” Celeste said as she rubbed her head. “I’m… gonna go in Omega, if that’s OK, Crystil.”
“Of course,” she said. Take your time. It’ll force me to stay here and not retreat and isolate myself.
“Thanks. I’ll be back out later.”
She looked at Cyrus, and the two seemed to lock eyes for quite some time. Wonder if they just know what the other is thinking. To be that close as siblings. To speak a language you don’t actually speak. Wonder if I could ever have something like that.
Celeste smiled to Crystil as she went past her and to the ship. Crystil was curious at how Celeste awkwardly ran to the ship. What’s that important to push through pain like that?
“Let me grab my sword before we begin, can’t let this be an unfair fight,” Cyrus said as he walked back to his weapon.
“What, and that won’t be when you have a weapon?” Crystil jabbed back.
Cyrus responded with a gesture that, six months ago, might have infuriated Crystil and compelled her to give a speech on respect to superiors. Now, seeing his hand raised his finger held high, she just laughed. His humor’s all right, once you get used to it. And really, what would Cyrus be without the loose attitude?
Just the male version of me. Let that never happen.
Stay the way you are, buddy. You’re pretty cool.
She glanced at the ship, where Celeste had vanished. She figured the girl would assume her seat inside the cockpit and meditate the pain away, as she caught Celeste doing often in the past few months.
She turned to see Cyrus having found his sword, and he raised it high in the sky triumphantly before pointing it toward Crystil.
“Crystil Bradford,” he projected as if giving a great speech. “I, the great and mighty Emperor Cyrus Orthran, have come to do battle with you. This may be our final battle. Do you have any last words?”
Oh, this is too easy.
“Yeah,” she said, pausing for dramatic effect. “Don’t ever hold your sword like that. I’ll knock it out of your hand before you have the chance to even jab.”
Cyrus’ attention went to his wrist, and he gave a loud sigh as he tightened and turned back to Crystil.
“Not so famous last words,” he said, and he charged. “Battle!”
Crystil smirked, having not yet even raised her sword. Based on the way Cyrus was running with his sword, she wouldn’t even need to until the last moment.
“Easier than the simulation,” she mumbled to herself as Cyrus closed in.
9
Cyrus rushed toward Crystil like the angry ursus had toward him earlier, determined to finally beat her in training. She’s gotten me too many times. I’m going to overwhelm her and claim victory.
His speed received an extra boost from the adrenaline pumping inside him. His right hand gripped the sword with such vigor, it might as well have become a part of him. His eyes locked in on his target, his peripheral vision vanishing. Crystil smirked, and Cyrus sought nothing more than to erase it and replace it with an open mouth of fear.
Gonna finish her here. Beat her, finally. And if I don’t… well, she won’t kill me.
I think.
I hope.
He closed to mere feet from Crystil, close enough that he could’ve chucked the sword accurately. As he got closer, though, his thoughts shifted from determined to nervous as her smile vanished in favor of narrowed, steeled eyes, a stoic expression and a tensing of the body, like a balicae coiling to launch its body. Oh boy, move fast, think fast, act fast, no, don’t think, instinct, Cyrus, inst—
He came to her, and he lunged. But he overextended himself, having lunged too soon, and he fell forward. Crystil sidestepped, so close to the blade that part of her hair whistled in the air, and before Cyrus knew what had happened, his weight carried him forward to the ground. His right foot slammed into something hard, sending sharp pain from his ankle up through his shin. He cried as he fell to the ground, and before he could reach back to grab his lower leg, that same strong object—Crystil’s artificial foot—had pinned his right arm and his sword on the ground. He felt a prick between his shoulder blades.
“I wouldn’t move if I were you, you’ve got a sword right on your spine,” Crystil said.
Cyrus groaned and gave up, defeated once more too easily. He let go of the sword.
“You were right about one thing, Cyrus. If I
wanted it so, this would be our final battle.”
“Agh,” Cyrus cried out in pain as her foot dug into his arm, right on his elbow, creating sharp, searing pain. “You’re cheating! If I had an artificial foot I could win too.”
“Oh?”
Her foot lifted, but before Cyrus could pull his arm toward his body, a new foot came in, still wearing combat boots, but not quite as strong. Unfortunately, it was still strong enough to keep him pinned.
“What’s your excuse now? If you could fight like a girl, you would’ve won?”
Cyrus tried to lull Crystil into a trap—a trap he had not thought out at all—by going silent and letting his breathing slow down. It tested his patience, as Crystil didn’t check on his health immediately. But the opportunity came when she lifted her blade.
“Cyrus,” she said, more of a reminder than a question.
“My excuse… is you’re too slow!”
He threw an immense amount of force at her, rolling toward his right, trying to knock her off balance with his body. Instead, she played into it, thrusting her other knee into his stomach, knocking the breath out of him as her sword went inches from his throat.
“I will admit, I haven’t had this much fun in a while,” she said. “If you surrender, I’ll let you breathe.”
Cyrus, gasping for breath and in agonizing pain, gave the same gesture as before with his left hand.
“Surrender to me, Cyrus,” Crystil said.
“OK, OK!” he gasped, raising his hands. Crystil got up, and Cyrus took quick, deep breaths in. She offered him her hand, and after he had recovered, he accepted it and she hoisted him off the ground. She put her hand firmly on his shoulder, and for once, Cyrus wanted anything but her touched.
“Running full speed into battle like that might inspire your troops, but if you actually carry it to your enemy, it’s a good way to die,” she said, helping him dust off the grass and dirt on his clothing. “You ran so fast there was no way you could control yourself. The line between moving fast and being thrown off course is dangerously thin, and you as a green combatant need to stay far from it. You need to be quick but in control. Take the initiative, but don’t abuse it.”
Kastori Devastations (The Kastori Chronicles Book 2) Page 4