Chapter Text
Nobody plans to get lost.
The path to even the most mundane life is rife with twists and turns, harsh bends and steep cliffs. To attempt to barrel through the worn path is dangerous, and will usually land one in the same destination as all others, albeit with a few extra thorns picked up along the way.
Zanka had traveled off the path worn down by generations before him, but that isn’t the reason he’s lost. In fact, he isn’t lost.
Well, he won’t admit that he is.
He’d been held back, saddled with an extra task by Lord Corvus. Zanka couldn’t possibly refuse a mission given to him personally by his liege lord, the overseer of the Order of the Cleaners.
“It’s an errand, really,” Corvus had explained, offering Zanka an apologetic smile. “Miss Semiu informed me of a handful of bandits operating near the western border of my land. I think it best to nip their antics in the bud before sending the lot of you off to the tournament.”
Zanka shifted his weight onto his other foot, brows furrowed as if he had just been told a riddle.
“Enjin’s a faster rider. Wouldn’t he be a better choice, considering how quickly he’d have to ride to catch up with the rest of the group?” He asked.
“Riyo and Rudo need Enjin to show them the way to the tournament. This is their first one.” If he felt so impertinent, Zanka might have argued that Enjin rides his horse like his saddle is on fire, and trying to keep up with him is a battle in itself. “Besides,” Corvus continued, “I trust you to get the job done swiftly and without any loose ends. I’m lucky to have someone as capable as you in my knighthood.”
A dumb smile twitched at Zanka’s lips, his weakness to praise ever exploitable. Seeing this, Corvus smiled patiently.
“The territory hosting the tournament is close to our western border anyway, so you should arrive at the accommodations by nightfall should your task be completed in a timely fashion. Can I entrust you with this mission?”
Zanka swallowed the giddiness still trying to crawl up his throat, bowing his head with solemn resolve.
“Yes, My Lord.”
“Great! Miss Semiu will supply you with the specifics.”
The bandits had hardly been a challenge, too unsynchronized to pose a threat to anyone with more fighting experience than the average farmer. The fight and subsequent capture had only served to get the blood in Zanka’s veins pumping. He felt rather eager to face a proper opponent in the tournament, even if he’d have to wait until it properly started the following day.
Feeling strangely renewed, he watered his horse and set out towards the countryside.
Now, the sun beats warmly as it does just before it begins its descent below the horizon, the last vestiges of daytime giving their final hurrah by embossing the ground in a golden glaze. A muscle ticks in Zanka’s jaw, Corvus’s words echoing in his head.
‘You should arrive at the accommodations by nightfall.’
Nightfall is nearing, and Zanka doesn’t know where he is.
He’s sure he’s been riding in the right direction, taking the right roads, but nothing looks familiar. He’d thought he’d certainly have taken this route at least once before.
“If nightfall does come, I s’pose I’ll have to start followin’ the North Star to find my way,” he mutters. “Unless you happen to be a navigator, Lovely Assistaff?”
The horse he addressed, a beautiful white mare with small ribbons tied in her mane, snorts in response and keeps trodding on.
It’s not like the stars would help him anyway, considering the thick canopy of leaves towering overhead. Trees line the road, the golden sunlight filtering through the foliage in a way that might make a less stressed out knight stop and marvel at the beauty of nature. The view is mostly the same for the next while, the chirp of wildlife reaching a gradual crescendo as the sun dips lower and lower in the sky.
Eventually, the trees thin out, and Zanka can spot something in the distance: a creek cutting its way through the forest, accompanied by a quaint bridge. Sniffing around on the other side is, strangely enough, a black horse. Zanka slows Lovely Assistaff’s pace, wary, danger pricking at the back of his neck.
As the knight draws closer, he hears the low timbre of a man muttering. It isn’t until he nearly reaches the bridge that he can make out the words.
“Bored… bored… maaaaan, I’m so boreddddd...”
Zanka’s gaze sweeps across the bridge, nearly skipping over a form sprawled on the bank until it flips over. It’s a man laying in the dirt, long dreads spread out around his head. He seems restless, rolling around like a petulant child.
“‘Popular road’ my ass. This is bullshit…”
He sits up suddenly when he hears Zanka near, his eyes wide and hopeful. Zanka had never seen such striking eyes, the color reminiscent of mulled wine. Maybe it was the waning sunlight making him see things.
The man scrambles to his feet, a grin breaking across his face.
“Yo, you headed for the tournament?”
Zanka blinks, still processing the scene. Upon mention of the tournament, he gives the man another once-over, realizing that he is, in fact, wearing a crest on his tunic indicating service to some house or order. A fellow knight, then. See? Zanka knew he wasn’t lost.
“I am,” he replies, moving to cross the bridge, only to be stopped by the shiiing of a sword being unsheathed. His eye twitches. “What are you doing?”
The man’s grin widens. He’s on his feet now, blade reflecting the dwindling sunlight as he points it at Zanka.
“Pas d’armes.”
Zanka blinks.
“What.”
“You know,” the man insists, waving his sword around for emphasis, “pas d’armes. Passage of arms. You never done it before?” At Zanka’s continued silence, he adds,
“You are a knight, aren’t you?”
Zanka is tired, so very tired. He’s running behind schedule, isn’t quite sure he knows where he’s going, is certain Enjin will make fun of him for it later, and the adrenaline from fighting those bandits has long worn off. Now, he has to deal with some weirdo waving a sword at him and speaking French of all things.
“I don’t know what you’re getting at, but I have somewhere to be.” He tries to go around the man, but his path is blocked once more. Lovely Assistaff snorts derisively.
“Now, now, Mr. Bad Attitude, it’s just a bit of friendly competition. Not like that tournament is going anywhere either.”
“You’re really gonna block the path for a stupid swordfight? Are you a knight or a highwayman?”
The man only shrugs, his smile never wavering.
“I’ve been waiting all day for someone to come along. Cthoni said this bridge was on a super popular path, but you’re the first guy I’m comin’ across! Man, she never lets me have any fun!”
Zanka rolls his eyes and backs Lovely Assitaff up, reassessing his way forward. The creek is deep enough that he can’t steer her straight through, but if they get enough speed, she might be able to jump across it. The man seems to see this assessment in the tightness of his brow, lowering his sword.
“Seriously? You’re just gonna avoid me? What a disgrace!”
Zanka whips around to glare at him. “Huh?”
“I said you’re a disgrace,” the man taunts. “Those are the rules of the pas d’armes. Any knight wishing to pass must first fight. If he doesn’t, he’s disgraced, and has to leave behind his spurs to make the rest of his journey in humiliating defeat.”
Unfortunately for Zanka’s better sense, he’s as weak to an opportunity to prove himself as he is to praise.
“This stupid French game is pissin’ me off,” he mutters as he dismounts Lovely Assistaff and draws his sword. Upon doing so, the man’s eyes lit up like Zanka had just handed him a present.
“Wha—? Really? You’ll do it?”
The two face each other on the little bridge, each breath seeming to pull the world around them deeper and deeper into shadow. Zanka had better get this over with quickly if he has any hope of reaching his destination with more than starlight as his guide.
“The match will be decided once one of us is on the ground,” he decides. The man tilts his head, eyebrows raising in a way that makes Zanka’s chest swell with indignation, but hums his agreement.
They each assume their stances, Zanka’s grip firm, poised to strike, while the man twirls his sword in his hand, shifting on the balls of his feet.
With a CLANG that unsettles the still night, the two surge forward as one, their weapons clashing. Zanka pushes first, pivoting as he tears his blade away and swings again so that his side isn’t left wide open. The man takes the brunt of the blow with his blade, grunting as he shifts his stance to accommodate the weight of the attack.
“You’re not holding back, huh?” He laughs, redirecting Zanka’s blade and surging forward, dropping his shoulder, and ramming into him. Zanka stumbles, his back slamming into the side of the bridge. He lets out a hiss of pain, but has no time to dwell on the throbbing in his spine, as he’s forced to roll to avoid the man’s next swing. The blade bounces off of the stone, the sound punctuated by the man’s gleeful laughter. “C’mon, try a little harder to kill me!”
The man is cut off with a screech as Zanka slashes at his heel, a surge of triumph running through him at the sight of bright red blood in the blackening night. He hooks his foot under the man’s injured leg, knocking him off his balance while simultaneously using the leverage to get back to his own feet.
The man stumbles and almost falls, but pushes himself off the ground with one hand, twirling his body to slash at Zanka’s chest. Zanka barely has time to deflect, his footing wavering. He’s never fought a knight so undisciplined before. Obviously, he’s dealt with bandits and worse, but not many opponents possessed both the recklessness of a self-taught warrior and the skill of an earned knight. This man is unpredictable, dangerous.
Exciting.
“Are you really a knight?” Zanka grunts, parrying another blow before returning one of his own. “You fight dirty.”
The man grins. When Zanka strikes again, he switches his sword into one hand, shielding the brunt of the blow with his blade. With his free hand, he pushes forward, gripping Zanka’s wrist and twisting until bone nearly snaps. Once Zanka relents with a gasp of pain, the man knees him in the chest, slamming him against the side of the bridge again.
Zanka crumples, his knees nearly hitting the ground, but the man grabs him by the collar before they do, hoisting him back onto his feet.
This guy’s insane. He won’t let me lose without more of a fight.
Despite the circumstances, Zanka wheezes out a laugh, readjusting his grip on his sword. This seems to please the man, his eyes sparkling like he’d just found a kindred spirit.
A breath, then they’re at it again, blades clashing, punches and kicks thrown in too for good measure. At one point, Zanka backs far enough off of the bridge to kick a patch of dirt in the man’s face. Adrenaline pumps through his veins. He’s not sure if the buzzing in his ears is blood rushing to his head or the growing crescendo of cicadas hiding in the surrounding trees.
“I like you, man, you’re crazy!” The man barks, wheezing as Zanka whacks him in the face with the handle of his sword. Zanka will later pretend that the thrill that raced through him as the man spat out a glob of blood was never there. He basks in it for a moment too long though, as the man then bangs his forehead against Zanka’s, sending him reeling.
“Fuck!”
“Haah… tell me about it. I could go all night!” Zanka’s world spins as he finds himself pushed over the edge of the bridge, landing in the creek with a splash. As he groans in pain and fumbles for his sword in the water, he hears the man talk from above him. “But, y’know, gotta prep for the tournament tomorrow. You’ve been a real blast. Thanks for playin’ with me!”
He’s leaning over the edge, smile smug despite the blood dripping from his nose.
“Once you cross the bridge, it’s a straight shot to the territory’s accommodations. They’ve got fires goin’, you’ll see it.” He blows Zanka a kiss. “See you tomorrow, Mr. Bad Attitude!”
Zanka distantly registers the jingling of spurs followed by hooves trotting off, the man presumably setting off up the road like nothing had happened. With a groan, Zanka pushes his wet hair out of his face, wishing that Corvus had decided to send Enjin on that damn bandit cleanup instead.