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The city square erupted with excitement, yet all Vinn could hear was his own heartbeat in his ears. He adjusted his grip on the hilt of the ceremonial dueling sword once again. The blunted weapon was a heavy but familiar presence in his mail-gloved hands, the vibrations of metal links against cord a welcome confirmation that his grip was solid. This was the moment his training would have to prove true, his opportunity to prove Braakeburg’s strength and glory to… some kingdom or other. Never mind that.
Focus. Observe.
Across the square, encased in glass, guarded by two stern-faced sentries and attended by a servant in livery whose only duty appeared to be chasing away the ever-present pigeons, the ancient steel shone like a beacon, a symbol of glory and power. He tried to steady his breath. Resist the urge to adjust his helmet and mail gloves yet again. Remember the oath he had sworn to the King’s Sword all those years ago. This was not a fight to the death. Worse, it was a fight of honor, and, if the rumors could be believed, diplomacy.
Vinn’s gaze flickered to his opponent, Gerrit, from that foreign place Vinn could not recall if his life depended on it. Vinn had been told that his opponent was a commoner, and they had not been formally introduced. He would have to rely on first impressions, then. Tall, with a lean frame, the man clearly had reach, the most dangerous weapon in a duel. Those long arms and legs of his would give him an important advantage. Vinn was shorter, stockier, and hopefully stronger - but he would have to close the distance fast. Otherwise, it was obvious what his opponent was going to do. Gerrit would make use of his height advantage and control the distance… if Vinn let that happen.
The crowd’s clamor rose again, louder this time, and Vinn glanced toward the royal platform adorned with flower garlands kept fresh with water, fertilizer, and no doubt expensive spellwork. There stood the King of Braakeburg and some other places Vinn had never been to, a silent judge surrounded by nobles whose eyes flickered toward the arena as though this were no more than a performance.
A sharp voice cut like lightning through the thunder of the masses, unmistakable in its familiarity. Vinn’s heart clenched.
Imke.
Even from the far side of the square, where she was perched on the makeshift benches for those too noble to stand with the commoners but too unimportant for proximity to the royals, Vinn could feel his sister’s unwavering gaze locked onto his. Never content to be a part of a faceless crowd, she wasn’t hard to pick out, her poise always a little too still, her dark eyes always watching a little too closely. He could not understand the words she was yelling. Didn’t need to.
There was no going back now. The last moment for visiting the privy one last time had irrevocably passed. The king raised his hand and the square fell silent.
Vinn glanced back at Gerrit. The man stood ready, his expression unreadable. No bounce in the feet, no twitch in the hand. No unnecessary movement at all. Slowly, Vinn exhaled, and with one final glance at Imke, he stepped forward into the twice-marked arena.
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Ashes on the ground and red ribbons tied to four posts marked the boundaries of the sand-strewn fighting area, keeping out malign spirits and overexcited spectators, respectively, in the traditional way. Gerrit’s formal salute was minimal, but precise, just like his own. After taking the required three steps back, they assumed their stances.
Blade held high in Vom Tag, Vinn frowned. Gerrit held his sword extended in Langort, the tip aimed squarely at Vinn’s chest, steady despite the weight. Rude. Was it a first strategic choice or a deliberate insult? It didn’t matter. Vinn reminded himself of the things he would need today: breath, centerline, timing.
The signal was a simple white handkerchief. The crowd collectively held its breath while the cloth slowly made its way to the ground, carried in a lazy spiral by a swampside breeze until it finally settled on the line of ashes. For a short moment, Vinn floated along.
All right, then. Close the gap. Force him in.
Vinn surged forward, cutting through the air with the first diagonal strike, aiming to break through Gerrit’s guard. Zornhau. Gerrit parried smoothly with a fluid Hangen, no hesitation in his movements, only calm precision, his blade catching Vinn’s with a soft, metallic hiss, immediately followed by a Zorn-Ort aimed at Vinn’s center that he deflected on muscle memory alone, the blade an extension of his will, the familiar names losing all their meaning, knowledge to familiar pain to song.
Sparks, ignored.
The song was not beautiful, yet welcome, an old folk tune he had often sung to Imke when she was little. Now, ringing in his ears, it was distorted and slowed down as if played on an old and broken barrel organ laid over the crunch of sand and the beating of his heart. Vinn danced to it anyway, glad for that haunting melody howling about the promise of spring, carrying him seamlessly from one maneuver to the next.
Gerrit’s blade dipped low, first just a shift of weight that pulled Vinn’s guard, a feint, then the true cut aimed for his open flank, blades locked, a screech that could not be ignored, disrupting the refrain. The sky so blue. Gerrit unshaken. Distance reset again.
Press. Need to press.
Vinn surged forward, aggressive overhead strike followed by a crooked slashing cut he would later remember as a Krumphau designed to close the distance. If only he could get into grappling range… Yes. Closer. Inside his reach, his tempo, his space. Then, Gerrit’s whole weight shifted. Feet – kicking? Vinn felt it in the crescendo first, screams breaking through. Then, he felt it in his mouth, his eyes, the song dissolved into small, gritty particles.
Eyes! What?
His vision blurred, more than sweat in his eyes now, rhythm gone, he regained just enough thought to understand it was sand, blink it out in less than a heartbeat, but the damage was done. He was nowhere. He was no one. His sword still moved, but without him in it.
In that moment, Gerrit moved forward with a precise Zorn-Ort thrust, no warning, just cold inevitable purpose cutting through the last chords lost beneath the roar of the crowd. Vinn’s arms remembered the parry, but the timing was irrevocably broken now, and then a twist – a Winden, Gerrit’s blade rolled under his, unseating the bind. Vinn’s grip loosened. His sword hit the sand.