The rain was falling hard in the coliseum; a small circular arena with no ceiling located down the road from the main barracks. This is where Thrace’s battalion had spent most of the last year training. It was just large enough to sit one hundred men. In the arena, two soldiers were facing one another, the fog of their breath visible in the cold, grey drizzle. On the dais, overlooking them all, sat the captain. Thrace was watching. Thrace was judging.
Van held his sword as still as he could, but his arms were on fire. Over the last year, he had made several strides toward a more controlled method of swordsmanship. He had grown tremendously, impressing others and himself along the way. But now he was finally facing off against his brother in arms, Finnian Pell, in mortal combat. The training was over. Van had to prove he could hold his own against the recklessness and cruelty of real war, and that meant sparring without holding back.
Finnian charged, but Van held firm. Too often, Van had been the one on the offensive. Charging blindly and swinging rashly. He was still prone to those amateurish mistakes, especially when anger or the thrill of victory seemed immanent. But nothing is what it seems in battle. That was the first lesson Van learned in his training, and it was at the forefront of his mind now as he saw his best friend rushing in and arcing a blade for an overhead swing.
Van sidestepped fluidly, letting Finnian’s sword hit the ground. Then he raised his sword for a counterattack. Finnian parried and quickly sidestepped to put some distance between himself and Van.
Van kept his eyes on Finnian’s hands, wrapped around the hilt of the beautiful Pell sword that his friend fought with so well. It looked to Van that Finnian would attack from the right. Van readied himself just as Finnian took that first step in his assault.
Van was right. Finnian came in from the right but went low instead of his usual preference of attacking high. All the better for Van.
Van blocked Finnian’s blade with his own, then took his elbow to Finnian’s helm.
Finnian spun one full revolution before finally falling to his knees. The fight was over.
“Bravo,” an exhausted Finnian said as he removed his helm.
Van took off his own helm and bent down to help his friend up. He took Finnian by the arm and lifted him.
“It was a good fight,” Van said.
“Believe me, I am aware!” Finnian smiled. “You were right about natural talent. I can train the rest of my life, but I will never be as good a swordsman as you.”
“That road leads both ways,” Van said. “I could study all my life and never know tactics as well as you.”
“Nor history, law, the old lays of our people. Anything, really,” Finnian said.
“As always, you fancy yourself as someone who is so very funny,” Van said through his large, easy smile.
Comments
Post a Comment