by D. A. Stone
Flanking either side of him from Orantak were Sedrik Idlebac and a tanned youth named Bailen Kent. Sedrik was broad and strong, quick with the blade. Bailen was a lean boy more skilled with the bow than anything else, but he’d proven a strong swordsman on more than one occasion. Even dead tired, Draz could feel the fire of competition coursing through his body, feeding him a little strength from hidden reserves.
“Behind me and break right,” Draz huffed as he ran.
Sedrik and Bailen dropped behind him.
The five Kessland boys clustered together in confusion as Draz picked up speed and charged towards them, the rest of his line following behind.
As the two groups neared each other, Draz swung out to the right, avoiding several opponents that were heading straight for him. He batted aside a clumsy strike from a Kessland student, the boy still surprised by their shift in direction. Draz shoulder-slammed him off his feet.
Sedrik and Bailen fought back-to-back, already taking one out of the fight and exchanging blows with another. Draz ran wide, circling the group and drawing out the remaining two. They raced after him across the grass.
He turned and saw one pursuing closer than the other. Stopping, he reversed directions and charged. Their swords crossed three times before Draz could create an opening. He struck the flat of his blade against the youth’s helm and tossed him to the grass, just barely bringing his sword up to deflect a slash from their last opponent.
He deflected two angry blows from the boy before Sedrik ran in unopposed from behind and rang his helm with a backhand strike.
Just like that, their first round was over.
They ran back to their stones, saying nothing. The first bout was always the easiest. They were fresh, relatively speaking. But as the tournament progresses, those who remain watch with keen eyes, remembering moves and styles, strengths and weaknesses. There would be many rounds.
Draz hauled his stone above his head and watched the next line race out into the circle, awaiting his turn. Kole was still out there.
***
Trobe’s whistle sent them out, round after round, sprinting into the field as the sun slid towards afternoon. Fewer Kessland youths were sent into the circle as the tourney whittled down the number of contestants. This meant more rounds for those who remained standing from Orantak. More sprints through the grass against the wind, more bouts with opponents and more chances to be knocked out.
Despite losing Bailen in their third round, Draz and Sedrik fought on fiercely, winning the next five bouts before Sedrik was overwhelmed and took a thrust to his lower abdomen. Draz had fought his way clear, but just barely. It had taken him a long minute of frantic running and hacking, but he managed to finish his remaining two opponents and end the round in victory. The next whistle would send him out alone.
The tournament was nearing its end. There was less than a handful of Orantak students remaining and around a dozen opposing them from Kessland. Larkin, big and strong, was dropped by a sword pommel to the back of his neck and a knee kick. Kole lost a partner several rounds in, but he and one other were putting on a fine show. They’d already knocked out several Orantak lines on their own, but Draz had yet to meet them in the grass.
Jornan lost Yuri during their second round, and his brother Rendell was felled by a lightning-quick riposte two rounds after. Jornan fought the next three bouts alone, each time returning victoriously against three opponents. He was always a sight at sword tourneys. Smooth and fast, his footwork would have them stumbling over each other. For someone so young, he was truly incredible.
Trobe whistled and Draz dropped his stone, drawing his sword and racing out alone into the open.
He cursed, seeing Kole and another run into the wide circle made up of eliminated students.
“Keep moving!” Jornan yelled behind him.
Kole slowed to a trot, letting the other student reach Draz first.
The two of them met. The boy was fast, his blade streaking out quick combinations as he circled left. Draz met them all with ease while pushing forward, slowly gaining momentum. He followed a block with a swift thrust that the youth barely leapt away from. Draz pursued him, his attack speeding up. After a quick exchange that put him off balance, Draz leapt into the air and slammed a boot into his opponent’s stomach, sending him to the ground.
The boy rose to his feet with a muttered curse and headed back to his lines. Draz watched Kole approach.
He seemed bigger than Draz remembered, like a grown man, tall and muscled with shoulders broad as a bench. Draz saw a gap-toothed smile cross his face as he raised the hand he’d injured previously. One of the fingers was missing above the center knuckle.
“Great,” Draz muttered to himself. He’d lost one of the damaged fingers.
Kole charged.
Draz blocked once and cut to the right, distancing himself from the angry student. He backpedaled as the larger youth came down on him with blow after blow. No longer sore or tired from their run through the forest, Draz found new strength in the field.
Kole was fast for his size, but Draz was more interested in the youth’s stamina than anything else. Their last bout had taxed the Kessland student and he’d all but run out of wind by the end, with Draz taking the moment.
Ducking underneath a swing, Draz rammed a fist into the side of his leather chest piece and spun away. Kole shrugged it off, but to Draz it was like punching the side of a horse.
They continued to throw vicious combinations at each other, blocking and striking, always moving for the next opening. Speed was everything here.
Two minutes of swordplay went by and Draz could feel Kole’s feet moving a little slower. He darted in with a thrust that was blocked, leaning back as Kole’s sword cut the air above him. Draz rammed his blade into the boy’s breastplate with a loud crack, hearing a grunt of air escape.
One of the Kessland instructors let out a whistle and turned back to their lines, signaling the end of the match. The excitement fluttered up inside his chest like a startled bird, triggering a smile beneath his helm that couldn’t be helped.
Draz had done it. Weary with exhaustion, he’d beaten Kole for a second time.
A cheer went up from the sitting Orantak students. It was the afternoon’s longest match and they were probably happier about resting in the grass than the bout’s outcome, but he didn’t mind either way. It still felt good. Great, in fact.
He jogged back to his lines when he heard the next whistle and Jornan was released for his solitary run to the center.
Suddenly Draz was hit from behind forcefully. Strong arms lifted him into the air before he was slammed back down on the field. His helm bounced off from the blow and his breath caught in his chest. Everything went black for a moment’s flicker.
When he opened his eyes he was on his back. Kole’s weight fell on top of him, dropping blows down from above with the force of falling tree branches.
“You took a finger from me, you little shit!” the boy screamed, eyes burning with hate.
Draz blocked with his arms, pushing against him and getting a boot on his chest. The stupid lug was taking this too far!
He pushed up with his leg, trying to grab one of the swinging arms for a lock, but the boy was too strong. Kole kept swinging, filling his vision, blotting out the sky. All Draz could do was cover his face.
An approaching yell and rush of footsteps could be heard far off through his pummeling. Then, in an instant, Kole was gone, the weight ripped off him with a grunt of pain and a horrendous collision.
Upon being released, Jornan had already been on his way but had sprinted to them when he saw what was occurring. The youth had leapt into the air with both boots to ram Kole with a flying kick. The impact had been so violent that Draz feared bones had been broken by the both of them.
He lay there a moment longer, staring up at the clouds dragging themselves across the pure, blue sky, tall grass framing his view. After a calming breath, he sat up and looked around.
&
nbsp; His face throbbed from the blows, his head beating like a war-drum. Draz saw Kole laying motionless a few feet away and Jornan slowly rolling to his feet. Shards of dry grass and dirt clung to his friend’s brown cloak as he rose, but he seemed none the worse for his aerial exploits.
Kole’s dishonest actions sparked the Orantak boys into a frenzy, while Jornan’s crushing blow equally fired up the Kessland youths. The instructors were closing in on the combatants, but there clearly weren’t enough of them to quell the surrounding students. This was to be an exhibition of blades, never to escalate in such a fashion. Academy pride and loyalty on both sides supplied the spark, while stress and long years of training stoked the flame.
Too many boys and not enough distractions, Draz’s mother used to say.
The spectators were on their feet now and they rushed into the circle with an uproar of angry shouts. Soon the brown academy cloaks were everywhere and the clearing became a riot of flying fists and tumbling bodies. Draz saw Larkin lift a Kessland student up over his head and throw him into the crowd, while Vextis watched his back, sending hooks and jabs to anyone who came near.
The few instructors fought to break up the students, pushing and striking them apart, roaring their rage and curses. Trobe entered the fray and began throwing those to the ground who wouldn’t separate immediately, his anger growing into a hateful fury.
Draz touched a swollen lip, his hand coming away bloody. He still sat in the grass as the turmoil surrounded him.
Should’ve kept eyes on Kole, he mused. Even after the bout. Especially after the bout.
A hand reached out to him, hauling him up. It was Jornan. Students from both academies thrashed all about.
“Looks like a win to me,” his brother said.
***
Late the next day, Draz and his class of fifty moved through the forest at a light jog, backs still bleeding and pained from the twenty lashes they’d all received. The sun was setting above in red and purple waves, the fading light filling pockets of shadow beneath the trees. Somewhere nearby—over the next valley of green perhaps—lay Corda, the Amorian capital. Draz hoped they’d reach the city gates by nightfall. To simply remove his boots and have a goblet of wine would be bliss.
Exhausted from the constant running and sword tournament the day previous, their current pace felt almost relaxed. Once their punishment had been dispensed and lashes properly dressed, Trobe had taken them through another grueling trek as further retribution for the chaotic end to the tournament, probably to expel any pent-up aggression that remained. The old instructor carried the expected air of anger towards their behavior, but Draz had his doubts. The outrage had been ignited by Kole and whatever happened as a result should be counted as Kessland’s fault. That’s how Draz felt about it, at least.
Upon waking the next morning, they found the forest damp and cold. No fires had been lit, as was customary when outside any fortified position. They were tired and hungry. Most of them had run out of provisions the previous day, but Draz knew they were closing in on the capital and not the Gambit, as he had previously thought. Most likely they would only be heading there to acquire a few supplies before heading to the mountain refuge. It was possible most of them wouldn’t even pass through the city walls while the materials were gathered.
Still, they were a happy bunch. Trobe had been kind enough to let them ditch the stones before setting off this morning. Traveling without the added weight was almost pleasurable.
They all stuck together now, climbing up the steep hill of the next valley. Over the last hour Draz had detected a smoky tang in the air. His first thought was cooking fires, but the scent was too heavy, too spread out. It seemed to have settled all around them, permeating the air, soaking into the land.
Draz pressed up the hill with the rest. Trobe was already at the crest, waiting for them, but something was not as it should be. He wasn’t berating anyone as he usually would, sending down a torrent of scorn and disparagement. Instead the old warrior stood atop the hill with his back to the students, staring off into the glowing sunset. Draz didn’t know what it was that affected Trobe so, but it was bothering him now too. He could feel…something.
A low flower of fear began to grow in the pit of his stomach as he rushed up the hill, arriving next to the instructor.
The capital stretched out beyond them several miles distant, surrounded by a wall of mountains that reared up into the fading light. Hazy darkness filled the valley, a storm-colored mist that lay upon Corda like a vile blanket, covering the capital in a sick shadow. Thick pillars of smoke raked the sky and buildings burned like glowing torches within the high city walls.
Everywhere one looked, the city was ablaze.
Draz was shocked to silence; all of them were. There were no words to speak, no thoughts to comfort such a sight. Corda was the largest city in western Endura and they were seeing it up in flames. Draz thought of all those within the capital: the families, the children. How could the fires have spread to so much of the city? he wondered.
Unless…
This was related to Goridai, of that he was certain. There was no other explanation. The battle had turned against them. It didn’t matter how or what had occurred, but this was the result.
The dragons were in trouble and the green-cloaked warriors were stuck right next to them. Or dead. Those left to guard the city had not been enough for whatever had fallen upon its walls.
The future was burning right before them. The world was changing and they knew it, they were seeing the proof. Everything was different now; he could feel it inside his chest like a lead weight pressed against his heart. Things like this didn’t happen here. Cities don’t burn, not in Amoria. Not its capital.
Draz wished someone would speak, that Trobe—or anyone—would say something that could help make sense of this madness, some logical puzzle piece that was missing from the burning picture before him, but there were no words to be heard and no voices strong enough to utter them.
All of them had wished for battle, for war, to earn their cloaks as their fathers and brothers had done. But not like this. This was not the way, not what they wanted. Yet there it was, right before them, their nation, their future, burning up into the red evening sky and stinging their eyes to tears.
What could any of them say?
Corda burned and this was war.
Chapter 10
Desik stared down at his hands, turning them over and examining them. Hard and calloused, the dirt of battle was encrusted deep into the lines of his palms and fingers. His forearm grieves were covered in a dried, sticky crimson and he longed to throw his armor to the soft grass. When he was younger, the filth of war that covered him always seemed permanent until he returned home to Paige.
Walking through their cottage doorway, the scene always unfolded the same way. Dropping his bags, his arms would wrap around his brown-eyed love and he would lift her small frame off the ground in an embrace. They would kiss, and Desik would forget about all he’d seen and all he’d done. He would forget about the smell of death and the feeling of its dark hand floating above, searching for a life to pull from the living.
When he returned home, all Desik smelled was her, all he saw was her, and all he felt was her.
He looked around. The sky was cloudless and bleak; he was alone for miles. His helm dropped to the grass, followed by his forearm grieves and breastplate. Drawing his sword from its scabbard, he unbuckled his belt and let it fall to the ground. The relief was immediate as the sweat on his back began to cool. Holding his blade before him, he examined it, noting all of its tiny nicks and dings, remembering how each came to be. Some were from saving lives and others were from taking them.
Letting out a sigh, he tossed the weapon away.
“You might need that,” a sweet voice spoke from behind. He closed his eyes and turned slowly.
“No,” he said to her. “Not anymore…I should never have left you.”
She giggled. “Why are your eyes cl
osed, Desik? Do you not wish to see me?”
“It is the only thing I wish to do.” A tear streaked down his face. “But this is a dream and if I open my eyes, you’ll be gone.”
“Open your eyes,” she whispered.
He opened them and was standing on top of a cliff that looked out across a vast blanket of forest, with towering peaks that rose up to pierce the green fabric. The sun was high and burned with golden warmth. Streams of mist flowed around the distant mountains, obscuring their bases to turn them into hovering islands of green and gray stone.
His hands were clean and his armor was gone.
“You see?” Paige smiled. “I’m still here.”
His eyes took in his slim wife, her light hair and happy eyes. She was barefoot in a soft white dress that swayed in the breeze, her hands clasped behind her back. It was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen.
He swiftly moved towards her and swept her up in an embrace.
“I never should have left you,” he repeated to her. “Forgive me. I’ll never leave you again.”
She shook her head, and this time it was she who began to cry. “You never left me, Desik. We were always together. What you did was important, and is important still.”
“No,” he replied. “I’m done fighting…killing.”
“You are not a killer, my love. You are a defender, a protector. There will always be evil men, so there must always be men like you. For those who cannot protect themselves, you are a shield.”
He held her tight and looked around. The cliff was sharp and full of jagged stone, like something from a nightmare.
“Where is this place?” he asked. “It looks so familiar.”
Paige didn’t answer. She lightly kissed him, her touch so soft that it was like a feather against his lips.
After the kiss, they rested their foreheads against each other.
“Paige?”
“Yes, my love?”
“Is it bright where you are?”