Gearspire: Advent

by Jeremiah Reinmiller

  Ryle’s toes gripped the floor better than he’d hoped. The cool water drew the heat from his skin as he stepped in. He walked back and forth a few times, getting a feel for the footing while he shook his arms out. At least the heat was loosening his aching shoulder. He rolled it a couple times but the familiar tightness above his left collar bone remained, tugging at his neck. There was no time to dwell on that. He had to do better this time if he wanted to survive. He doubted any medikers with miraculous healing skills, like those the Professor kept on hand, were in the crowd tonight.

  Ryle took a couple practice cuts with the sword. It hadn’t improved any. The balance was off. The blade felt slow in his hand. He looked around the arena., but Lastrahn was nowhere to be found. He wasn’t surprised. Probably off entertaining some high society folks. Not like Ryle was up to anything important here.

  A crescendo of voices on the far side of the audience drew his attention. Two men and a woman stepped into the area. One of them was already glaring at Ryle as he cleared the crowd.

  Ryle swore under his breath as he met Nir’s gaze.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, good evening.” Hartvau’s scratchy voice rang out as he appeared on an elevated platform, hollowed from a wall to the left of the fighting area.

  The exotic music faded. Both women who’d flanked him earlier, Mawren and the strange, veiled one, were there along with a number of others. Light glimmered from the assortment of jewels encrusting necks and fingers in that crowd. Wealth upon wealth flaunted in a sickening display.

  Lastrahn was among them. Ryle had to admit he cleaned up well. His black coat was gone, and he now wore a fitted white shirt and black pants. His hair was pulled back, and it gleamed in the dim light. Ryle couldn’t see his scars from where he stood. A curvy brunette in a tight green dress stood next to him with her hand on his sleeve. Lastrahn said something to her and she laughed against his shoulder.

  When Lastrahn’s eyes met his own, Ryle saw, nothing. The champion looked back to his companion without a hint of concern. He’d never planned on becoming friends with the champion, but the respect he’d once had for his master was just about used up.

  Ryle snapped the sword through a sharp cut and turned back to his opponents.

  Hartvau continued. “We’ve got a special, surprise exhibition for you this evening. A contest between a warrior from the north, and the best of our own Del’atre fighting circuits.”

  The sound of clinking glasses filled the space. Hartvau waited for it to subside.

  “Direct from Pyhrec, protégé of master swordsman Mero the Maelstrom, and traveling companion of the legendary Champion Lastrahn, who is here with us tonight.” More clinking glasses. Lastrahn waved and flashed the crowd a smile. Ryle rolled his eyes. “I give you, Aiden!” A distinct lack of clinking followed his announcement. Ryle did his best to ignore the sound.

  “And now on this side, these fighters need little introduction—”

  Ryle tuned the man out. Words were of little use now. His opponents waited before him.

  Nir saluted the crowd first. A large curving hatchet hung from his belt. As Hartvau rambled on he rolled his thick shoulders, whipped his equally thick neck from side to side. Snarling and bouncing in place he shoved a finger in Ryle’s direction, then jabbed toward the arena floor.

  Heat surged in Ryle’s chest. He’d had more than enough Southern crap for a lifetime, but then he took in Nir’s motions, the look in his eyes, and he felt relieved.

  The fighter’s intentions were beyond obvious. He could already guess how the Southerner would attack. Ryle left his mind to pick up any cues it could and moved on to the next fighter.

  The thin woman with the tattooed jaw and long dark ponytail stood beside Nir. Another familiar face. She’d changed into a clean shirt since last they’d met, but her eyes remained just as cold. She waited quietly, a sword held down against her leg where Ryle couldn’t see it. Her sharp features remained unreadable.

  For all of Nir’s naked aggression, she worried him more. She gave nothing away, no intention, no stance. A blank canvas. Hartvau named her as a duelist from the far south called Torilane. Ryle had no doubt when Hartvau pronounced her one of the best in the city.

  The last man was the star of the room, the main event, and it was easy to see why.

  Balrod. He was even bigger on his feet, standing at least a head taller than Lastrahn, and half again as wide. He wore a battle harness over his bare, hairy chest. His tree trunks of legs were planted wide. An enormous, studded, two-pace long, metal club stood on end before him, his thick forearms rested, crossed atop its handle, and the water around the club’s tip seemed to steam.

  And some sort of blasted oldcraft atop everything. Sure, why not.

  The crowd erupted in an enormous roar as Balrod was announced. He was the top challenger in the city below the Grand Champion herself, and it showed. He was confident, but it was clear he didn’t want to be here. He glowered at Ryle, eyes hard, and shook his head in disgust. Ryle would have to see if he could use that somehow. So far he didn’t see many other weaknesses.

  He pulled in every detail he could find. He would need everything if he wanted a chance. Details like their already bare feet. He’d at least figured that out on his own.

  He forced air through his dry lips, trying to keep his anger in check, to stay focused. The sword still rattled in his grip.

  “—We’re not monsters, we’ll give the lad a fighting chance against our finest. Nir first, he looks eager enough, don’t you think? Cold blooded Torilane, second. And then, if he’s very fortunate, Balrod.” Shouts and clinking glasses filled the room. “Each bout is ten minutes by my watch. Fighting continues until Aiden falls, he’s bested his opponents—” Laughter erupted and Hartvau waved the crowd down. “Or time expires. Fair enough?”

  Shouts of agreement went up.

  Ten minutes. Each. It may as well have been ten hours.

  “Then let’s begin!” Hartvau shouted.

  The crowd roared, their eyes frantic behind masks of disdain for something they would scream for, and laugh about. All to stave off the boredom of their hollow lives for another evening.

  And Lastrahn wondered why he hated dueling for coins.

  Nir stepped forward, threw his arms up, and let loose a high pitched cry. Ryle’s neck tingled. He’d heard that Southern cry before. He clenched his jaw as the crowd echoed their own version back The sound hit him like a blow across the face.

  Nir grinned.

  Hard anger spread out from Ryle’s chest. Anger at the crowd, at Nir, at Lastrahn for not sharing a blasted word of this. But mostly at his father for sending his life down this bloody road.

  Before Nir even ran his thumb along the gleaming blade of his hatchet, and smirked, Ryle knew the truth of it. He wanted to fight this Southern duelist prick. He wanted to hurt him. He wanted to embrace the surging heat.

  His hands shook. But he’d submitted to the rage before, too many times, and he’d paid for it dearly. His scars throbbed.

  Nir yelled again, and charged.

  Ryle was already in seventh position, his sword in his right hand hanging loose against his front leg. He took a long breath in, focusing past his disgust for his opponent and everyone around him.

  Nir accelerated, snapping his hand-axe up in a fist. He was eight strides away, now seven.

  Anger, fear, and fatigue swirled inside, battering Ryle like the cries of the crowd. He breathed past them and sought his center.

  A roar burst from the duelist’s throat, his eyes and lips stretched wide.

  Casyne’s pendant was cold against Ryle’s bare chest. His heart slowed its mad dance at the thought of his beloved. He took another breath, and pictured her face, her eyes, her smile.

  The water misted around Nir’s pounding feet.

  Ryle smiled to himself. She’d curse him for a fool for forgetting his training. He took a deeper breath, forced the air out.

  Nir crossed the last few paces.

&
nbsp; Ryle let Lastrahn, Hartvau, and the crowd go. He tossed away the anger, the weight of the mission, even the comfort from Casyne’s name. He let it all fall away. The jittering in his hand stopped. His sword hung still as he found his center.

  The water lapped cool across his feet, the air warm on his back. A drop of sweat rolled down between his shoulder blades.

  Nir’s hatchet snapped back, and he swung.

  If he wanted a duel, Ryle would give him one.

  A twist, a duck, the strike whistled by. Ryle’s sword trailed back across his body as he lunged past. He felt it bite and stepped clear. Water sprayed away as he slid to a stop.

  Crimson colored the water. Ten seconds, and he’d drawn blood. Southern blood. The crowd didn’t miss a beat. A bloodlust driven roar, no longer held back, erupted around them.

  Revulsion slapped the edges of his calm.

  Nir turned to face Ryle, his face showed no pain. From all the scars across his body he’d probably done worse shaving. He ignored the shallow cut, rolled his wrist, flexed his legs.

  Ryle circled clear as Nir leapt forward, then flicked away the low and high strikes the fighter spun into. He counter struck, but Nir’s hatchet met his blade. A continuing steel blur, the angle changing. Ryle stepped back as Nir’s hatchet swept past his neck, his ribs, his knees. He snapped a blow for his opponent’s collarbone, but Nir’s hatchet was there again.

  The Southerner suddenly shifted his grip, and the hatchet twisted hard against Ryle’s blade. He snapped his sword over, freeing it from the disarm, and ripped it across Nir’s shoulder.

  Blood welled up from the wound. The fighter didn’t stop. He hacked for the back of Ryle’s knee. Ryle spun clear. Nir’s hatchet tried to embed itself in his skull. Metal screeched as their weapons met.

  Ryle’s irritation rose over the lagging, ungainly steel in his hand. He paid for the lapse. Nir’s shoulder crashed into his sternum. A dull pain rolled through his guts, but he wouldn’t lose his feet so easy. He skidded back on locked legs for three steps as Nir drove into him. Then he found footing and shoved the Southerner away.

  Nir rolled through, water flying, and was back on his feet in a heartbeat. Ryle dashed after him.

  Blurring steel met in a hail of sparks that flew sizzling into the water. Nir’s defense lagged. Ryle’s sword lanced for the duelist’s heart, but he was gone, rolling away again. A pillar came up behind Nir.

  Ryle charged to pin him in place, but Nir exploded off the floor. Water streamed from his arms as they launched him up into the air feet first. Ryle skidded to a halt as the Southerner landed, coiled against the side of the pillar.

  The short fighter hung suspended for the barest fraction of a heartbeat, lips pulled back in a vicious grin. Then he dove for Ryle, hatchet flashing. If his sword hadn’t been up Nir would’ve taken his head.

  The impact threw Ryle backward, and slapping water filled his world as he hit the stone floor.

  Move! He choked on a throat full of water but leapt up. Before his feet hit the ground, Ryle whipped his sword over his head into the fourth unknown defense. Nir’s hatchet rang off steel instead of Ryle’s spine. The second unknown defense caught two more blows aimed for his skull before Ryle skipped away.

  Water ran from both their faces as they eyed each other.

  Cheers rippled through the crowd. A few shouted less than complimentary things toward Ryle. The next thing you knew someone would call for his—

  “Taking his stinking head off, Nir!”

  Ah, the mob. How could anyone enjoy this? Ryle dimly felt his pounding heart, the familiar tingle through his veins. His lungs sucked in air and he cursed his stupidity for being taken in by such an obvious ploy.

  Pulling back his tilting center, Ryle focused on the man before him. For all his disdain, Nir was an impressive fighter, but his wild attacks must leave openings. He had to exploit them.

  One more hard breath of the hot stifling air was all they allowed each other before steel flashed again.

  Nir launched into a leaping twisting attack and Ryle slid away, leaving the damp air to take the fighter’s flurry of blows. Nir landed on his feet again. Ryle didn’t know how he managed it, but the movement left him open and Ryle nearly took his side before the shorter man ducked away.

  Ryle kept after him, probing his defenses with different strikes.

  Nir’s hatchet never slowed, but with each blow, Ryle glimpsed vulnerabilities, gaps he covered with speed and strength. He pressed, changing angles, changing attacks.

  Nir’s eyes narrowed as Ryle’s sword darted. A snarl replaced his smile.

  Deep inside, Ryle grinned, but quickly crushed that feeling. The Southerner remained fast and dangerous, and Ryle danced away as he unleashed a series of new strikes.

  They traded blows, counters. Water flew from Ryle’s blade, sweat from his hands.

  On the next combination Ryle saw the opening. He spun through another series, weathered Nir’s blistering response, and started his setup for the combination to finish him.

  He never got that far. Nir flinched after a feinted second lunge and Ryle’s blade leapt on its own, catching the fighter across the forearm. Nir’s hatchet dropped from his fingers and then the tip of Ryle’s sword hovered at his throat.

  Nir’s chest heaved as he glared down the length of the sword. Ryle’s center wavered. He wanted the Southerner to make a move, an attempt. To give him a reason.

  He pictured a different Southerner’s throat under his blade. Nir wasn’t that man, but Ryle gripped his sword tighter.

  To his disappointment, Nir was a professional and knew the game better than him. He knew this moment, and he raised his hands, blood flowing from his wounds, jaw muscles bunching. He nodded and after a final moment’s struggle, Ryle let his blade fall back to his side.

  A small smattering of cheers and clinking glasses sounded in the crowd. Ryle didn’t know clinking could sound begrudged, but they managed.

  One down.

  CHAPTER 34

  Ryle’s center drifted. Fatigue caressed his muscles.

  How long had they fought? Two minutes? Five? Not long enough to account for the weight in his arms, even with the horrible sword. The long, hard week was catching up with him, and he had an eternity to go.

  Torilane walked toward him past the departing, spiky-haired, warrior. Ryle drew lungfuls of hot air as he went to meet her in the center of the arena.

  He risked a glance to the raised viewing area. Lastrahn’s expression gave nothing away. With everything on the line he could give Ryle something. He didn’t. Ryle’s center suppressed his need to utter a frustrated sigh.

  Torilane got there first, her weapon still down behind her leg. Ryle stopped well back.

  She stood a hand span shorter than him, but her loose fitting shirt couldn’t hide the shape of her muscled shoulders.

  Her body held no tension, her tattooed face no aggression. She waited, dark eyes unreadable. Her cool calm unnerved Ryle more than he cared to admit, and he possessed no fire to match it. Not now.

  Nir’s surrender had snuffed the blaze that carried him through the first fight. A cold hollow in his chest, was all that remained.

  He used his training to keep those feelings off his face. She looked like the sort to use emotions against you. He would.

  After a few heartbeats Torilane nodded. Ryle took one more breath, pulled his center back in, and feeling empty or not, nodded in return.

  She circled left, feet gliding across the rippling surface. He countered with a circle of his own while he measured her pace, her balance, each controlled motion she made. Her movements were perfect. He did his best to keep the worry that observation held from touching him too deeply.

  The space tightened as they spiraled toward each other, matching step for step, drawn by the gravity of the impending moment.

  Her weapon flashed up. Ryle deflected it, just, but something was wrong. No clang of steel vibrated through his arms. He couldn’t ponder it. She spun in
to a low sweep, and he stepped away to save his shin.

  Blast. She was fast. Even in his center he felt concern.

  Her weapon twirled and came again. Ryle slipped the first strike, parried the second, but her weapon gripped his somehow. He was jerked forward and barely kept hold of his sword.

  She threw an elbow at Ryle’s face. He deflected it off his forearm, but her knee rammed into his kidney. He gasped and leapt away before a flat draw of her blade opened his stomach. The crowd cheered the first blow landed for the home fighters.

  Ryle circled, arching his back against the dull ache, and got his first look at her weapon. He’d never seen anything like it.

  Torilane held a pace long, four fingers wide blade of polished wood. Teeth of dark metal ran along its edge. Strange, but effective. She’d almost disarmed him in their first engagement.

  More importantly, a black bar bisected her hand holding the sword. From the way she moved, he could’ve guessed as much, but seeing the mark screwed his nerves a twist tighter.

  What schools resided in the Deep South? He should’ve known a few, but his exhausted mind offered none up.

  He raised his sword into second position, holding it with both hands. The scar in his left palm ground against the unfamiliar grip, and his scraped skin burned with sweat. He ignored both, forced himself not to squeeze tighter.

  Their blades met again, the sound dull and flat, leaving room for the splashes of their feet, his labored breaths, the roars and jeers from the crowd.

  He felt exposed, hollow in the space between their quiet movements. His center trembled.

  They exchanged another series. Her sword whipped down and back again. Ryle’s eyes picked up the motion, and he stumbled out of the way without losing his sword or taking another blow.

  The swordswoman came on. Ryle circled away while he searched for some opening.

  Her feet slid, weight shifting. He threw two quick cuts during her half step. He was too slow. His weapon lagged an instant when it counted, and her wooden blade slapped his blows away in short, unhurried movements. Without the calm of the center, Ryle might’ve noticed the sour fear in his stomach.