I bare my fangs and hiss. Before I can think of the repercussions, I charge the snide nobleblood with my longsword and shortsword drawn, itching for blood. “I promised I would kill you,” I say as I close the gap.
“And I told you to try,” he answers.
He stands stock-still until I’m a single lunge away, and then the silver saber rasps to life and clangs against my swords. His strength is such that the blow rattles my forearms and sends me skittering on sliding boots.
There is no underestimating a nobleblood vampire of Skartovius’ strength and experience. I did that the first time and would have died if it weren’t for my mother saving me.
I’ll not do it again.
I read his stance for any sign of weakness and notice nothing. My intuition and skill guides me, and I lunge again.
Lord Ashfen fights as a fencer. He’s never too bent, never too hurried. His footwork is impeccable. The man has an effortless gracefulness to him that eludes me, and he’s one of the strongest fighters in Olhav because of it.
But I’m one of the strongest fighters in Nuhav, and I have a vow to uphold.
It doesn’t help that I fight out of desperation, while he seems to fight for nothing but his own satisfaction. There’s a smirk on his face as he fends off my attacks, hand behind his back, and wheels my blades around my body, making me lose focus with his blurring movements.
Every strike I show him, he counters. Every change in stance or foundation I throw at him, Skartovius has an answer for.
Before long, we’ve danced around the room for minutes without a drop of blood being spilled.
“You are a fool, Lukain, but you can’t be judged for that,” he says, trying to get a rise out of me. I’ll not fall prey to his schemes. “Alacine Mortis is to blame for your failed upbringing.”
“Fuck you, fiend!” I shout, barreling down on him.
He ducks, elbows me in the stomach before I can skip aside, and he straightens and scampers back on gliding feet before my longsword can eviscerate him.
Turns out that even though I’m perhaps the best dhampir swordsman I know . . . it’s difficult to match that against the bestfullbloodswordsman I’ve ever met.
“You killed me father,” I say, beginning to pant from the exertion of my constant onslaught. “You must pay for that. The sword you wield is proof of your misdeeds!”
“Again, you speak of things you don’t understand.”
Sparks fly as our swords collide. The clang of steel rings in my ears, and I whip my shortsword around with my left hand to try and stab into his armpit.
Skartovius levels his sword-point down, sliding it across my blade, and parries my off-hand at the last second, slapping my sword arm wide.
My blade whooshes over a lit candle and snuffs out the fire with a sizzle.
“I did kill your father,” Skartovius says, “and I’m sure you believe I danced on his grave, too.”
My nemesis notices the room falling into darkness and smiles. There’s only one light left, a single candle behind him. I rifle toward it, trying to put it out with my blades.Without the candles and light, he can’t utilize the shadows to his advantage!
“The Damned knows I should have,” Lord Ashfen mutters to himself as I approach, flaring my anger.
I swing wildly at him, trying to get him to evade left or right to give me access to the candle on the wall sconce.
He moves as I anticipated, ducking left toward his oak desk.
I slash at the wick, sputtering the candle in an instant, plunging the room into complete darkness save the open door at the other end of the room letting in a small glimmer of torchlight from the hallway.
Skartovius oddly comes up from his desk with his sword in his right hand and a leather tome in his left.
I move to parry him, but the book catches me off-guard, and he feints with the sword.
I gasp, my momentum carrying me past him.
He tosses the book at my chest, and I instinctively want to reach for it but resist the urge. My eyes lift to his gold-flecked orbs, confusion chasing across my face while his paleness is stark in the black room.
