“Riah, would you mind taking over?” she asks.
Riah takes me in from head to toe, a slow and thorough assessment of her opponent. Her face reveals little, and I can’t help but wonder what she thinks she sees.
She smirks at me wryly. “Are you sure?” she asks, a bit of cockiness slipping into her voice.
I’m not sure who she’s asking, but her eyes are still on me, so I don’t hesitate to reply, “I’m sure.”
Awri steps out of the ring, and I begin to regret my mouth when I see that the group of onlookers has more than doubled. The clink of silver rises above the murmurs of the crowd as coins are exchanged and wagers made. My demon stirs inside me, as if it had been waiting for this very moment. It uncoils within my belly, begging to show the female its teeth.
Riah removes her helmet, casting it aside, revealing a head of thick black hair cut to follow the line of her jaw. A thin white scar, faded by centuries, runs from the tail of her right eyebrow, across her eye, and over the bridge of her nose. She’s lucky she wasn’t blinded.
“Ready?” she asks, taking a relaxed stance across from me.
I nod, taking an intentionally sloppy stance of my own. I already have the advantage, but it won’t last beyond this round. Her uniform tells me all I need to know about her ability to fight. I on the other hand, as far as she is concerned, am a privileged lady who had been taught a bit of hand to hand at the request of an overprotective father.
The longer we exchange attacks and counter attacks, the longer she watches me move in the ring, the more the illusion I’ve built will crumble. She takes her time, studying the wrong placement of my feet, the level of my arms, my fists. Just when I think she might attack, she walks across the ring.
“You shouldn’t stand like that. It leaves you open here.” She points to my side then her hands fall to my hips, and she adjusts my form until she is satisfied.
Her eyes follow the bend of my arms from shoulder to wrist.Examining the placement of my elbows, those she moves as well, bringing them closer to my sides. Once she’s satisfied with her work, she retakes her stance, falling back into position.
I can feel my brow drawn as I contemplate the female. I expected her toteachme my mistakes the way I’d always learned, with a painful blow to the exposed area. That is the way of the Drakai. Painful lessons are harder to forget. Something I recently learned doesn’t apply only to broken bones.
Riah throws a series of blows, some to my face, others to my abdomen, assessing my defensive skills. I watch her closely and when her brow begins to dip at the ease with which I evade her, I allow her to land a strike. A blow to the gut would be ideal, but I’ve already made up my mind to let her land whatever comes next. I can tell she expected me to dodge it easily when she doesn’t pull the punch and my cheek splits under the force of her knuckles.
It’s far from the hardest I’ve ever taken, but I stagger back a step and hiss at the pain, my hand poking the tender bleeding flesh dramatically, the way I assume any lady would.
Awri rushes into the ring. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” I assure her, glad the general isn’t here to scoff at the declaration.
“That’s enough for today,” Awri says, and I can hardly control the tone of my voice when Riah turns to leave the ring.
“No. I’m all right,” I say forcefully, “Let’s go again.”
“Are you sure?” Awri asks, her voice full of hesitation.
“Do you really think I’ll improve if I walk away every time I get hit?” I ask.
There is a spark behind Riah’s eyes when I pose the question to my friend. Awri gives me a nod and retreats outside the ring. Though I can tell by the look on her face that she’s not sure she should allow this.
“You attack this time, I will defend,” Riah says loud enough for Awri to hear.
No doubt attempting to settle my friend’s nerves.
My first strike is intentionally slow and a little sloppy. She bats my hand away like I’m little more than an annoying fly in pursuit of her lunch and makes a few minor corrections to my form. I take the opening when shelets her guard down, her attention on my stance, rather than my trajectory. Her attempt to block comes too late, and my fist connects with her face, splitting her lip.
Her eyes widen under the shock of the blow, as she takes a step back. Her tongue flicks out to sweep the blood from her lip and, despite my expectation of her wrath, a toothy grin breaks on her face.
“I guess I deserve that,” she chuckles.
She rounds me in the ring and now the actual sparring begins. Voices raise on the sidelines and without looking I can tell our audience continues to grow. The strikes are a little half-hearted as we both hold back for very different reasons. On her part, I’m sure she’s worried she will hurt me. As for me, I have no intention of displaying the true extent of my training.
I’m not sure how long we have been at it when she brushes a dark, sweat-slicked strand of hair from her forehead. The crowd grows quiet, only the sound of our heavy breathing fills the silence. When it’s clear that our time in the ring is coming to an end, I lunge, determined to land another blow, not willing to let this moment pass after weeks of wanting for this, needing this.
I feign to the left and she takes the bait, realizing her mistake too late. I swing, and my eyes flick to the right, snagging on the general’s dark glower as he stalks across the grounds. I falter, and she takes the distraction, landing another strike, this time on my lip. It splits, and the general’s frown deepens.
Riah smiles, satisfied with the strike. We’ve exchanged enough blows that she knows I can take it, and I’ve given her plenty of smug grins of my own to warrant the proud look she’s leveling at me.
