On one hand, it fuels my frustrations, envy, and sharpens my battle skills because that’s the only thing on which I can focus.On the other hand, itpisses me offin a way that has me ready to break.
“Will you shut the fuck up about your rancid, gaudy cloak already? No one cares!” Lukain snorts, waving his sword around. “It’s in tatters. Like you’re about to be. Maybe you shouldn’t have abandoned it on the Floorboards.”
My fine eyebrows arch. “On the Floor . . . what? The hells is that? Doesn’t even make sense—”
Lukain charges headlong, waylaying into me before I can finish. I see his trick now, to confuse or distract me, but he’s not swift enough to execute his plan.
Our blades whirl and clang off one another, sending sparks and bone-jarring rasps through the Firehold. He falls into a three-part pattern that’s imminently foreseeable, and I easily smack his sword away with flicks of my wrist.
Clang—clink—shlink.
The last one pitches him left, and I riposte, falling into my own jabbing rhythm that keeps him on the back foot. He curses under his breath, angry at himself for pushing too hard with his momentum and now being forced back.
My attacks are firm, not meant to wound but to keep him honest. I need him to anticipate where my next attacks will come, so when Idochange the script, he’s floundering to keep up.
Swordfighting is a game board. We each have pieces at our disposal—lesser fighters have fewer pieces to work with. The game isn’t about overwhelming your opponent with force. It’s about tricking them into a false sense of security and comfort and then ambushing them when they least expect it. That’s always how I’ve fought, and it’s a tenet I live by.
The game is afoot. It’s quite good when I’m on the rider’s bench with the whip, dictating the flow and rhythm of the backand forth. My onslaught is measured, not too flashy, enough to keep Lukain centered.
Which is precisely when I widen my attacks, veering left and right of his guard, causing him to throw his arms out a little further to parry each one or else get cut in the shoulders and sides.
He throws a few strikes of his own in between mine, more defensive measures than anything so he can catch his breath, and then he’s back on defense.
The swell of the audience is rising. I feel the tension in their unified breaths, expecting the big moment to come. The moment where one of us will bleed and curse, and the other will laugh at them, victorious, and talk about how shitty of a fighter they are.
It’s all healthy competition, in my mind.
So far, I’ve been the one laughing after every bout, for a month straight. Lukain doesn’t have the tenacity, the brain cells, or perhaps the superior speed, that is required to defeat a vampire of my caliber in a swordfight. The sooner he realizes a dhampir can’t best a vampire, the sooner he can give up trying.
I’ll enjoy beating him down and breaking him until he does.
My finishing strike will come in seven moves. I see it now, playing out as our meeting swords clash louder and louder, our precise strikes become more frenzied and hurried. Our blades begin to blur.
I’m spinning now, which is move one—and then feinting to spin the other way while bringing my stabbing sword low—step two.
Then I’ll skitter back, force him to engage to close my guard, since I have a longer reach than him thanks to my fencing position, which will trick him into watching my sword rise up to meet his chest. That’s three and four. By move five, he’s locked in my trap, and with a simple flick of my wrist I’ll push his blade out, six, dash forward so our chests nearly meet, seven, and mysword will either take him in the stomach or the side. I haven’t decided yet.
I fall into step three, backpedaling, and he follows, as predicted. A smirk tilts my lips, angering him, which was precisely what I needed to do for him to veer his eyes to my rising sword—
Pain lances through my mind. Steps four through seven swiftly collapse in a brain-numbing jar of sensations I’ve never felt before.
My smug smile twists away, lips parting, and I gasp a ragged sound, stumbling back. My brow threads and I glance down to see where he’s struck me, but he hasn’t. His sword is right where I need it to be.
But my tactical mind isn’t where I needitto be. Blinking wildly, I take a step back—
And that’s when pain caused from steel mixes with the psychic onslaught I’m facing. I wince, turning my gasp into a groan, and the fight goes out of me.
I’m on my knees before I can blink, stare down for a second time, and find the tip of Lukain’s sword lodged in my belly.That will take time to heal,I consider.
My thoughts go adrift, like a determined longship sluicing narrowly through the waves, thrown off-course by a sudden tsunami. The waves crash against my mind and I hear a distantthudand rattle as my sword clatters out of my hand on the mat.
I look up as reality settles in that I’ve been bested. The applause and cheering from the Grimsons audience is louder than it’s been all evening, funneling in from my foggy, hazy mind.
Blinking in confusion at Lukain, I tilt my head.
His visage is caught in a smug state of triumph, smiling down at me, soaking up his hard-fought victory.
But then it changes. There must be something on my face he sees, because his expression twists into one of . . . concern, perhaps? Worry?
