by Jeff Wilson
was compact and simple, intended to initiate action and explore Aisen’s defenses. His second attack, expertly thrust in under Aisen’s guard, was of a more serious nature, and Aisen was only just quick enough to step away in time. The weight of the armor was affecting him, and Beonen would know how to take advantage.
From this short exchange, Aisen could see that his brother had indeed grown in skill since they had last trained together. Aisen took a few steps back. It would have been better to close the distance between them, where the extra protection afforded by his armor would give Aisen the advantage, but he could not afford to chase his brother. He needed to draw him in.
Chancing a quick look towards the entrance, Aisen confirmed that the others had made no move to support Beonen. Failing to appreciate that Aisen was trying to lure him into another attack, Beonen took the invitation and stepped in with a heavy rising strike, hoping to take full advantage of his brother’s brief moment of inattention. Aisen expertly knocked the attack away, opening up his brother’s guard, and he stepped in as well, close enough now that he could almost take hold of Beonen with his free hand. Another step and he could send his brother to the ground.
Beonen, recognizing the danger, leapt away with a speed that defied reason. Safely out of reach, he began to pace a little, with his sword held low and a broad grin spreading over his face. He was exulting in the thrill of combat, burning fiercely in this test of his skill. He wanted to be challenged, and he wanted to feel the excitement that only came in the face of a grave risk.
Still trying to comprehend the impossible speed with which his brother had retreated, Aisen became concerned for the first time. Hindered by eighty pounds of armor, it would be impossible to catch Beonen. He would have to trap his brother in a corner, but Beonen had more than enough skill to avoid that.
Beonen caught the look in his brother’s eyes and it was now his turn to laugh. “You think that you know the extent to which I have grown, but you have not seen it yet,” he said. Aisen did not doubt this claim. He could not bring the fight to his brother. He would have to wait patiently, and try to force Beonen to make a mistake.
“Why are you doing this?” Aisen asked. He was not sure that his brother would answer, but he needed to know.
“Because you would be a puppet of the Sigil Corps, and you would upend the order that our grandfather fought for.”
“You believe I would do that?”
“Ledrin has already seized control of all the trade, and commands all of the military strength in in this city. You would be ruler of House Edorin in name only. It is Ledrin that would hold the power.”
There was truth in these accusations. But it was all by the designs of their grandfather. Duke Kyreth Edorin had cared more about the future of the Sigil Corps, than he did for the continuation of his family line. The ideals of the Sigil Order were the part of his legacy that he had most wanted to preserve and leave behind. He had hopes too for both of his grandsons, but those plans did not include an expansion of their wealth and power.
“You don’t understand, Beonen,” Edryd said, pleading with his brother. He needed to make him listen.
“No, Aisen, I do understand. I already know everything.”
Aisen could not think what his brother meant, although Beonen seemed to assume otherwise.
“What are you talking about?”
“Aedan betrayed our grandfather,” Beonen replied, watching Aisen carefully to measure his reactions to this accusation. “He wanted to create an Ossian colony city in Nar Edor.”
“I don’t see many Ossians in Nar Edor, or Rendish people of any origin, apart from the both of us. Father didn’t even stay here himself. If he was creating a home for Ossians in Nar Edor, it failed. There are no more men with Rendish blood in this land. They were expelled from their homes and forced to leave Nar Edor forever, well before you were ever born, Beonen.”
“And what do you call the Rendish Districts?” Beonen demanded.
“A virtual prison to those who live there, under constant guard with barely the space needed to accommodate trade. Aedan swept the rest of Nar Edor clean of every last one of them, because the king ordered it, and our grandfather in turn ordered Aedan to carry it out. Exceptions made for him, and for us, but no one else. If Aedan betrayed anyone, it would be the men who shared his blood, not House Edorin, Grandfather, or anyone else in this country.”
“Even in that light then, the man was a traitor. Besides, he knew it all could be reversed, and he saw forward to a day when he could put Nar Edor under the heel of the Ossians. It only means Aedan was patient enough to play a longer game, waiting until he could place a son at the head of our house.”
“You are talking about our father,” Aisen said, trying to make his brother see clearly. “I know you don’t remember him very well, but he was nothing like what you are describing, and he was your father too.”
“Maybe,” Beonen said, “but if he is my father, I do not claim him. He was a filthy traitorous Rend.” Aisen’s brother spat these words as though he had doubts about whether Aedan was truly his father, and as though Beonen did not himself share the Rendish blood that both he and Aisen had inherited. He had also conveniently ignored the fact that Aedan had saved Nar Edor from an invasion by an alliance between Seridor and several other Rendish nations. Those factions had sought to carve out a territory here, but Aedan had led the forces that defeated them. He was not a traitor, he was a hero.
Aisen was overcome with sorrow as he looked at his brother’s light blue eyes. Beonen’s face was a picture of seething rage and hatred, reserved if not for Aisen directly, then with so much anger for their father, that it boiled too fiercely to be calmed by means of simple persuasion alone.
“What happened to you?” Aisen said, expecting no response. He had no sound theories for what could have affected such a terrible change in his brother.
“I learned the truth, and some other things besides,” Beonen answered, a light reappearing in his eyes as he spoke, signaling that the time for talking was over, and that he was eager to resume the fight.
Beonen leapt forward, attacking recklessly with a wide two handed overhead strike. Aisen stepped clear of the swing, and attempted to bring his sword down atop Beonen’s, to prevent his brother from bringing his weapon back to a ready position. Aisen’s intent was to create an opening in which he could safely step in close, but Beonen suddenly reversed his swing. The two swords collided with tremendous force. Aisen’s weapon vibrated painfully in his gloved grip, resonating with the impact. Aisen did not have time to marvel at how his brother had generated such force in that upward swing, for Beonen was already crashing down with another overhead strike aimed across Aisen’s guard.
At the outset, Aisen had reasoned that although his brother might come close to matching him in speed, Beonen was nowhere near his equal in strength and power. Blocking Beonen’s current attack, Aisen was forced to reevaluate those assumptions when the force of the impact nearly tore Aisen’s sword loose from his grip. This was not his brother’s typical style of combat, which relied on rapidly connecting feints with well-timed thrusting attacks. Beonen was instead trying to win this contest, by bringing to bear sheer brutal force.
His pride allowing for no other response, Aisen pushed forward, taking over the flow of the battle, delivering a combination of short compact attacks that pushed Beonen back. The force behind Aisen’s attack was focused and powerful, but Beonen simply gave ground as he blocked the strikes. Aisen was trying to conserve energy, using short efficient movements, but as things were going, he would to tire out long before his brother did. It was time to take a risk. Holding the hilt of the weapon in both hands, Aisen let his sword drop low, and breathing in and out quickly as though he had begun to wear down, he stumbled forward into the range of his brother’s fencing sword. Counting on the protection of his armor, he prepared for the blow Beonen would surely deliver.
The attack came, too fas
t it seemed; so much so that Aisen nearly panicked. Releasing the grip he had on his sword with his right hand, Aisen raised his right arm to ward off the incoming strike. A cutting weapon like the one Beonen was using was almost useless against his heavy armor, and Aisen trusted that the strike would glance harmlessly off of the reinforced plate that protected his arm. Simultaneously, Aisen made a long arcing swing with his sword, which was still held in his left hand. In the middle of delivering his own attack, it would not be possible for Beonen to get clear.
The competing attacks were executed all at once, with neither one preceding the other, and no discernable moment of separation between them. Aisen’s shoulder pauldron deformed heavily, absorbing the impact from Beonen’s sword and nearly breaking loose in the process. But Aisen’s sword had also connected, splitting Beonen’s tunic from his right hip all the way up across his torso to his left shoulder. Beneath the divided shirt, was a similarly divided protective leather jerkin, and beneath this, Aisen could see traces of blood. Beonen had not been as imprudent in his preparations for this moment as Aisen had supposed, but the light armor had not helped. Beonen had survived, only because Aisen had not wanted to kill his brother. The cut could have gone much
