by Jeff Wilson
explained to anyone else, or even himself, how exactly he could recognize his brother only from the sound of his walk.
“It’s good to see you, Beonen,” Aisen said, as he turned to greet his brother.
Beonen responded with a smile, and continued forward, but there was a certain nervous excitement in his manner, as if in response to a long held anticipation of this moment. “Endless patrolling agrees with you,” Beonen said. “You look well, Aisen, a little shorter than I remembered, but you look well.”
“You are the one who has grown taller,” Aisen answered. “You passed me a while ago, by the look of it, and I fear you haven’t stopped growing yet either.”
Beonen looked pleased at this observation, almost excessively so. Aisen had long ago accepted that his brother would one day stand taller than he did, so it was no particular surprise to learn that just such a day had come at some point during the last year.
“I hear you outfought the king’s champion,” Aisen said, in reference to his brother’s success in a contest held by King Eivendr at the capital during the year end solstice festival. “It doesn’t seem like you have even a single suitable rival to challenge you amongst all the noble houses of Nar Edor.”
Aisen’s brother was less affected by this compliment, than he had been by the acknowledgement that he had grown to become the taller of the two of them. Beonen was used to being praised for his skill, and so that recognition meant less to him, but he still looked visibly contented upon receiving this confirmation that the news of his most recent accomplishment had reached Aisen’s ears. It was to have been expected, though. The duels held at the king’s court were major events, and news of the results spread out quickly across the country. Beonen knew that his brother paid little attention to such things, but this was not something that would have gone unspoken of, even in the far flung places where Aisen frequented while performing his duties for the corps.
“He was nothing,” Beonen said. “It was difficult to not embarrass the poor man. If you had been there, you would have seen that it was no great accomplishment.” The dismissive arrogance, with which Beonen was trying to downplay his victory, lacked even the smallest trace of discernable humility, and he walked closely past Aisen with his head inclined towards the ceiling as he spoke, before turning around in the center of the room near a corner of the sarcophagus.
Aisen recognized his brother’s movements for what they were. Beonen was maneuvering an opponent, trying to position him carefully and draw and direct his eyes. Aisen took a few steps, turning to face his brother now as if he had noticed nothing, but creating a little distance in the process. He kept a part of his attention focused on the entrance to the room, where four men, two on each side of the doorway, peeled away from the walls and moved to close the doors.
It took two of them working together to lift and place the heavy beam that would secure the room. Aisen recognized a couple of them immediately; sons of House Afnere and House Novin. It took him a little while longer to place the other two. From House Hemir was Baron Gensaer’s first son by his second wife. The last he knew as the youngest son from Baron Udras’s first wife. Try as he might, Aisen could not remember any of their names. They were all young, these men who had come in support of his brother, and none of them of any real importance; a collection of nothing better than the second sons from four of the five sworn Houses.
“You should introduce your friends,” Aisen said to Beonen. Aisen had no idea what all of this meant, but a fear was growing inside his heart. Conspicuous more for their absence, there was no one representing Lord Teveren. He would be involved too, of course. He might even be behind this; powerful enough to force the involvement of the others, while keeping his own hands clear.
“They will not interfere,” Beonen said. “They are here only to observe.”
“Observe what?” Aisen demanded.
“They will all confirm that I acted in defense, after you made an unprovoked attack.”
Aisen could not accept what he was hearing, or believe that these words had come from Beonen. “What are you talking about?” Aisen asked. He was certain that he had either not heard his brother correctly, or that he had misunderstood.
“You are the wrong person to lead our house,” Beonen answered.
Aisen stood silent, bereft of any mean by which to understand what was happening, and unable to form a response. This was a brother that had idolized him when they were young. Beonen was still young now, and not yet even fully grown. When their father, Aedan Elduryn, had left Nar Edor, Aisen had then taken over responsibilities that would have belonged to a parent, teaching Beonen everything, and protecting him against hurt or harm from anything that could threaten him.
“I am sorry Aisen,” Beonen said. “You need to surrender the Edorin Sigil Blade.”
“And then what?”
“Then we fight,” Beonen answered. Pain could be seen in the younger brother’s eyes, but he was also filled with purpose, and determined to carry this through.
“I refuse to do it,” said Aisen. “I will not draw my sword against you.”
Beonen was starting to appear uncertain. He felt a strong bond with his brother, but his resolve barely wavered as he formed his response. “I am sorry, Aisen, but I will not let you leave this room alive.” As Beonen said this, he drew his weapon, a dueling sword of exceptional quality that had won him much fame.
There could be no mistaking these words or the solemnity in which they had been spoken. Beonen’s intention was to kill his brother, and assume control over House Edorin himself. Aisen felt anger, but no fear. Beonen was going to learn that there was a difference between contests with the champions of the noble houses, and attacking a captain of the Sigil Corps. Beonen was going to learn the difference between the regimented dance of a duel, and the uncontrolled floodwater currents of a battle.
“Will you allow me to clear my sword?” Aisen asked, thinking of the trouble he would have getting the weapon free from its scabbard. He carried nothing else, and there was no way to quickly draw the weapon.
“No,” Beonen answered. “I won’t allow that blade to be damaged.”
Aisen laughed at this. He had rarely used the ancient Sigil Blade, but in the years he had carried the great weapon, he had never once been able to do anything to damage its edge. It had never tarnished, or received any mark or blemish. Beonen was about to find that Aisen and this sword were of a kind; he would discover, that he had no power to harm either one of them.
“You without armor, me without a sword – the terms sounds fair enough,” Aisen said, amused, but also troubled. He did not want this to happen, and he could not imagine what would make his brother think that he could possibly win. What Beonen knew of sword fighting, Aisen had taught it to him, and surely he should have appreciated the differences in their skills better than most. Aisen’s experiences during years of constant training in the Sigil Corps were worth more than all of the duels Beonen had ever fought.
“I am not the boy I was when we last tested each other,” Beonen said. He spoke with confidence, hinting, with what felt like a shade of remorse, at a deeper meaning to these words than was conveyed on the surface.
Beonen made eye contact with one of the men who stood guard by the door. In response, the young noble from House Afnere stepped forward. Aisen took a couple of steps backwards, so as to keep both his brother and the approaching nobleman, in front of where he stood.
“I told you before, they are not here to help me,” Beonen said with exasperation. He seemed to not like the idea that Aisen might think that such help was needed.
“Not if they expect to live,” Aisen threatened. This situation was still within his control, but if he had to fight them all at once, he would certainly injure or perhaps even kill most of them. That would hardly improve his relations with their fathers.
“Temet, give Aisen your sword,” Beonen ordered. Temet complied, drawing his weapon with slow d
eliberate care before handing it to Aisen hilt first.
As soon as Aisen took hold of Temet’s arming sword, the man began backing away, and continued to do so until he once again stood with the three others. They all looked on in awe, awaiting a battle that would ensue between two rivals, witnessing a contest that would decide the future of House Edorin and their places within it. It was far from their minds in that moment, that they had by mutual agreement, sworn to fabricate the accounts that they would give.
Now that he had a weapon, Aisen was better armed than his brother. In this confined space however, the heavy plate mail could in a number of ways be a significant disadvantage. It would slow Aisen’s movements, it would make it difficult to move around obstacles, and it would wear him down physically if the fight wore on. He would have much preferred a lighter set of armor, or even no armor at all. The heavy plate did give Aisen a margin for error though, and would allow him to take risks. He would need to be taking some of those if he wanted to end this quickly.
Without giving any further warning, believing that he had more than adequately declared his intentions, Beonen began his attack. Not able to believe that his brother would really do this, Aisen was slow to react. He barely brought his sword up in time to block. Beonen’s first strike
