A War of Silver and Gold

by Minerva J. Kaelin

  Griswold passed through the elves training in the rings, they stopped and bowed before him as he nodded his head and they continued with their training. He marched towards her, his head inclined and a mocking smirk strapped over his mouth. She fought the urge to draw her sword and dispose him of his useless head.

  He stood before her, a few steps away, hand draped lazily over the handle of the sword. She didn’t fail to notice that he didn’t wear armour. She had her gaze turned to Ael training with a guard; she barely acknowledged Griswold’s presence even though he stood before her.

  She shifted her glance to Griswold and raised an eyebrow, uninterested and irritated mostly. Her voice matched the iciness of the weather as she said, “And here I thought the best Adanei swordsman had backed away.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t want to duel with you.”

  Her mouth fell open, that was the last thing she had anticipated to hear coming out from his mouth at that moment. Her eyebrows shot up angrily. She swore under her breath in the dark dialect and stood. “If you are here to mock me better prepare your blade.”

  “I don’t think that’s wise.”

  She gritted her teeth and shook her head sharply. “Why?” She asked angrily. “You don’t want someone like me to beat you before all those guards?” She took a step forward. “Or, you are vain enough to think that you are sparing me of my own embarrassment?” She shook her head again, her eyes narrowing at him. “Either way your sword is going to end up in my hand threatening you in the end.”

  He took a step towards her, hand firmly placed over his sword this time. She could feel his breath on her skin, ice cold, not warm as it should have been or smoky, corpse-like and malicious against her flesh. He glanced down at her, his silvery eyes pinning her to her place several inches beneath his tall build. She held her ground proudly against him though, just like she had ever done.

  “You don’t wear armour.” She stated and tipped her chin up.

  “I honestly don’t want to fight with you.”

  She shot up an eyebrow and tilted her head. “Afraid of a short, little she-elf, are we?”

  He exhaled soundly. “Get in the ring and we might see who’s the best between us.”

  She clenched her jaw and took a step backwards, unclasping the leather armour from around her torso. She threw the armour on the bench behind her and tucked the white shirt underneath her belt. “I think now we are equals. No armour, just swords and wits.”

  He merely nodded as he pulled his cloak off, resting it in a neat pile on the bench. He showed her towards the ring. There was no way she would have allowed him a way out from this war. She was bound by duty to win him in the duel; his armies should have been already laid out to the rest of the Lords in assistance for the upcoming war.

  She stood opposite to him and drew her sword, the flame like a blade cutting through the winds. She braced her feet and kept her posture straight, waiting for him to react. The green handle was rough against her calloused hand. She couldn’t remember a day when her hands had been soft and ladylike. She had ever been a warrior, fierce and strong.

  He stepped across her and drew his sword as he eyed Cassia’s sword questioningly. “Are you going to fight with that? Isn’t that a sword for paper cutting?”

  Mock was evident in his words enough that almost made her want to snarl at him and lunge forward plunging the blade in question into his gut. She clenched her jaw instead and kept her eyes steadily on the ground, at the dim shadow behind him.

  She pointed at him with her sword and tilted her head. “Do you make a habit of being sarcastic?”

  “No,” he smirked. “It’s something about you that irritates my sensitive nerves.”

  Cassia’s chuckle rumbled through her chest. “Look who speaks about being a cranky, old goat.”

  He sighed heavily. “I don’t know why I am bothering with you.” He pulled his head upwards and rolled his eyes, the fingers around the handle of his sword convulsing. “You are the daughter of a human whore.”

  She had never been the one to give the first blow to her opponent, but she could barely hold against comments made for her mother. She didn’t even know what his problem about her lineage was. Her mother had barely ever hurt anyone.

  Cassia could barely control her hand and her legs as she sprinted towards him. Her heart pounded against her chest, her mind raced over a thousand ways that Griswold Blackthorn could die from her sword. She raised her blade, fingers firmly gripping the handle, braced her feet firmly onto the muddy ground and brought the talented blade downwards.

  Swift as the winds about them, her wicked opponent backed away took a step towards the borders of the ring and avoided impact with her blade. She had seen only two beings moving that swiftly in her life and they were not elves. Dragons mostly had that kind of fast feet and sharp mind.

  She gritted her teeth and pursed her lips. “Let’s make one rule; the first on his back on the ground is the loser.”

  He chuckled. She must have looked amusing, with her white loose shirt and messy braid, lacking her silver armour and circlet, her cheeks burning with spite and anger and her eyes blown wide from the adrenaline of the duel.

  “What’s in it for me?” He asked and wetted his lips slowly. “If you win, you get my armies into the war. What do I get?”

  She glared at him, her brows knitting. “You get my blessings to brag that you’ve beaten me. Isn’t that enough?”

  He hummed and shifted from foot to foot as if sensing that she was about to strike him with another force of her sword. She straightened her spine and turned to look at him, her eyes clouding. She had never met anyone else that got on her nerves the way he did.

  “How about you dine with me?”

  “No!”

  She stepped forward... one... two... and lunged with the blade aiming for his abdomen with a forceful thrust. He dodged her sword with a flick of his wrist as he stepped backwards. He flinched for a moment as he felt the vibrations from the impact on his sword. Cassia’s blade was designed to exhaust her opponent and that was exactly what she had in mind to do with Griswold.

  “Dance with me?”

  She twisted about her feet getting onto his personal space as she stepped onto his foot hard enough to draw a wince from the elf and throw him off balance. She took it as an opportunity to further assault him. After all, she never played fair; she was the Nevdori daughter of a human whore.

  She lunged again, the tip of her sword slicing through his clothes grazing softly over the skin of his stomach. He winced again as he found his balance on his two strong feet and turned swiftly to glance at her, his eyes narrowing.

  Her eyebrow rose, mocking him stubbornly. He was a vile example of a snake. She pulled her feet unwaveringly onto the ground and smiled, viciously and catlike, ready to conceive some peculiar and outstanding mischief.

  He pulled his hand up and touched the grazed flesh of his abdomen; he drew his fingers back and inspected the amount of blood coating his palm. It wasn’t deep; she knew that she never sliced through flesh deep with that particular blade. After all, she merely needed his armies not his death no matter how appealing the notion appeared.

  She grinned at him and took in a deep breath; her keen elven senses were able to catch the metallic smell of blood on the air, travelling with the bouncing winds towards her. She was about to close her eyes and relax on the drums of the fine bloodlust that ran through her that moment.

  Her throat bobbed, her joints crackled as she turned and took a step forward, she thrust her blade towards him, but the wicked elf brought his sword forward and parried her blade with his.

  A force ran through her blade, onto her hands, onto her system. She growled. He had used magic onto her to state how unworthy she was against his, supposedly, godly swordsmanship. She needed to grasp onto something, go away from him, let the earth open and suffocate her, but the need to win him made all of her cowardly desires to desert her. It prevented her from going away, the nee
d to acquire his battalions and secure the survival of her people first, and the rest of the Adanei allies she had grown to have.

  She pressed the sword against his; pressed with all the strength she had in her, all the warrior strength, the power of the Heir, her power, the forces that ran through her system. She pressed him down.

  Sword against sword.

  Silver against silver.

  Warrior against warrior.

  Lord against Lady.

  The forces of the gods and Nature alike were plotting with some strange way against them.

  If he posed himself to be the wicked one out of the two, then he hadn’t tasted a piece of her medicine. She stepped forward, risky enough for she could have lost her balance, and twirled her leg to the side. She sent a prayer to Nature as he lost his balance again and winced as he pulled down his sword and stepped backwards.

  By that point, they had already left the confinements of the ring. Swords clashed once again, bracing against each other as she twirled her hand, moving the blade in a circular, maniac way that confused him and made him lost his footing.

  She stopped then and swiftly slapped the back of his hand with the blade. His sword fell onto the earth with a muted thud. Satisfaction bore over her features, it was a battle won for her, even though she knew that he barely tried to fight against her at all.

  She growled and pointed the tip of her sword against his chest, pressing gently. “Retrieve your sword and fight me.”

  He smiled and shook his head. “I don’t want to fight with you, princess.”

  She groaned and pressed the blade firmer against him. “Don’t,” she said sharply, her whole body tensing. “Call me that ever again.” She hissed as she threw her sword onto the ground and growled at him.

  She took a step forward and launched onto him with her fists. He took several steps backwards, avoiding her angry assault. Her excessive groans and growls exhausted her lungs. She saw red. She wanted to hold his withering, black heart against her hands, feel the contours of his death and breathe in the ashes of his burnt flesh once she was done with him.

  She hated him at that moment. So much and so fiercely that she could barely see what was real and what fantasy around her.

  She lunged again, her fist reaching for his abdomen. She screamed as he winced and coughed onto his hands.

  Another fist met with his side, she could feel his muscles rippling underneath all those layers of clothing.

  He winced again and bit down his lips with his teeth. When his head rose and he glanced at her, his silver eyes had turned white. White, pure white as if he were blind and the pupils of his eyes were the only black spot. His breathing came in short gasps as he straightened.

  Cassia’s throat bobbed, he looked a lot taller, his muscles a lot more toned and powerful from that angle. She was merely something short and small compared to him, dull in beauty and of no particular body shape that could be called enticing.

  She kept her regard iron and strong, never wilting. He towered over her and threw a couple of well-aimed punches that she managed to avoid.

  She twirled around her feet to knee him on his stomach, but he caught her leg firmly onto his hands and threw her onto the ground, throwing her off balance and orientation.

  She had barely time to grab onto the dagger stuffed inside her one boot. She fell onto her back, hard, but not hard enough to bring her that strange discomfort she anticipated. The remnant of her wounds from yesterday pulsed, she gritted her teeth.

  He crawled above her, his body pressing against hers. She glanced up at his strange eyes with all the spite and hate she could muster. Her anger had taken the best of her. She clenched her jaw. Both of them breathing heavily. He just hovered above her as if nothing transpired between them a few moments ago.

  His face was there over hers, his eyes returned back to their normal terrifying silver shade as he realised that she had been defeated. He thought that she had been defeated. She never went down unprepared.

  He smiled sheepishly then and leant closer to her, his breath mingling with hers and suddenly she wanted to dig into his flesh the dagger she held secretly against his stomach.

  “I won.” He whispered barely loud for her to hear.

  She swallowed all of her pride in one long thought about that courtesan teacher she had when she was thirty-two years old in the Citadel, the one the King had personally commissioned for her to take care of the lessons on death and rutting of male elves.

  A smile crept all over her face, her eyes softening as she brought up a hand and splayed it over his chest gently, feeling the pounding of his heart underneath her fingertips, strong and loud.

  The way of a male’s heartbeat, the courtesan had told her. Says the truth about his character and ideas...

  Her smile broadened and his face softened, his heart slowed down, relaxing a bit. He seemed to let a shiver ran over his body, concealed behind an unfaltering wall. His heart spoke to her of an elf full of affectionate emotions, but she knew better than trust the words of an ancient courtesan.

  “Maybe we should have that dinner,” she whispered and wetted her lips, his eyes shifted from her eyes to her lips and stayed there. “And,” she bit her lips slowly. “And that dance you wanted.”

  He shivered again no matter how hard he tried to suppress it. She snatched her chance, braced her legs around his waist and twisted him onto the ground. She snarled and brought up the dagger to press against his neck. His brow shot up in surprise and chuckled bitterly.

  “I guess now we are even, prick.” She growled and pressed the dagger firmer against his neck.

  He laughed as she felt the cold surface of a metal dagger against her own stomach. She snarled again and narrowed her eyes on him.

  “Now we are truly even, whore.” He said mockingly and smiled.

  Her eyes widened. “Maybe we match each other’s strength and cunning.”

  He cleared his throat and his face contorted. “My armies are yours as long as you dine with me every night from now on.”

  She pressed the dagger against his skin. She would kill him and then dance over his corpse, which was all she wanted to do that moment. She was certain that if she were to bite her tongue she would choke on her own venom.

  She hated him.

  But she needed his forces and she needed him to hold strong against the King. He was the last stand.

  She needed him.

  The world did.

  She snarled at his face and pulled away, sitting on her bum on the ground. She exhaled soundly and combed her dirty fingers over her hair, pushing them back away.

  “I doubt I can do anything else to convince you.” She growled and stuffed the dagger back inside her boot. “You barely like me why would you waste your time with me?”

  To poison me...

  He inhaled sharply and stood. “Some things are predestined.”

  She shook her head. Bullshit! “Then we have a deal.”

  “Good.” He went off and gathered his sword from the place she had thrown it; he cleared his throat and sheathed the blade. “I will wait for you tonight.”

  She chuckled bitterly. “Don’t hope for it, Beathan and the Lords want to have dinner in the city.”

  “Tomorrow then.”

  Before she could speak to him, he had already turned on his heels and walked away from her, away from the training grounds. She bit her tongue to stop herself from screaming at him and clenched her jaw.

  I hated him... I did.

  44

  When Arslan returned back to the Citadel, he had little need to continue, little want to keep living a half life.

  The circumstances, though, called for him to sacrifice more and more parts of himself. He was beyond hurt, beyond shattered. He knew though that Astrid would have wanted him to fight and sacrifice what was required of him. She had used magic willingly that day, even though she knew her death was certain. She had done it for him, to let him live. She had deemed it preferable, instead, they could b
oth had died. There was no other way out of the mountain.

  He took a good look at the stars above him, cursing, swearing and reviling. He thought, for a moment, he might have understood the King a little better, at least his hate for the gods. They never helped, they never answered to questions and requests. Vile creatures.

  Yes, Arslan understood the King's hate for the gods, for those blasted creatures that blindly believed in them. He understood, but he had fought for the light since his birth, fought for freedom, not for them, not for a bunch of unknowing entities living peacefully at the other side of the Slit. Maybe it was time, time to end their reign, their vile crowns were more than ready to be passed on to other creatures.

  He understood the King, but that didn't mean he justified him. The elf had killed innocents out of spite for his own misery.

  Killing and gutting were not the correct ways to achieve peace, to establish his hate as a universal law. Arslan would have chosen a more obscure way to slither in power.

  But he couldn't do it, he couldn't do it. Astrid wouldn't have done it. Astrid had cursed the gods many, many times, but her unfaltering belief in peace and freedom humbled everyone.

  Astrid would have wanted him to continue, to move on and never falter from his road, her road.

  He chuckled bitterly as a star flickered, twirled, a magnificent ray of light marring the dark canvas of the sky, and then it went out.

  They were not meant to be, they were not. At least, she was gone, they would all die one day. Even Arslan would be gone, an elf that had lived for far too much, for far too long, lived on borrowed time anyway.

  He took in a deep breath. His Astrid was a star, somewhere up in the sky now. And the only thing that warmed his cold heart was looking up there, in the infinite darkness of universe, searching, forever searching for her.

  Arslan walked numbly into Madame's esteemed brothel. It might have appealed to him once, but not anymore, not when Astrid wouldn't come at the end of the night to drag him out of prostitute's arms, throw him in a hidden alley and give him a proper tongue-lashing.