Page 57 of Stalk the Sky

“And Dacha always kicks my butt and makes me look like a toddler waving my sword around.” Fieran grimaced as he faced the arena, where Lt. Rothilion was already inspecting the rack to pick out his blunted weapons for the bout.

“Because you do not focus.” Merrik lifted his eyebrows.

“I think it’s more that Dacha is the great warrior Laesornysh. No one has a chance against him.” Fieran shared one last look with Merrik and Pip. Well, he’d delayed enough. Time to face the fight and hope he didn’t disgrace himself and his Dacha’s training.

After working his way down the stands and into the arena, Fieran went straight to the weapons rack, sorting through it until he found a matched set of slim swords. They were more clunky than the finely crafted dwarven blades he had back home, but they would have to do.

Lt. Rothilion held a leaf-shaped shield in the style the elven warriors had carried generations ago along with a slim sword that was heavier and longer than Fieran’s two blades.

That would give Lt. Rothilion a slightly longer reach, and that shield would be just as much a weapon as the sword.

Fieran wasn’t as well-versed in fighting someone with a sword and shield combination instead of two swords. Though he had practiced occasionally with Uncle Julien, who fought in that style.

The troll warrior overseeing the fights glanced between them. “Are you satisfied with your weapons?”

“Yes, these are satisfactory.” Lt. Rothilion hefted the sword, as if testing its weight.

“They’re fine.” Fieran experimented with a fighting stance. His hard-soled army boots weren’t the soft, flexible boots he was used to fighting in, nor did these swords feel right in his hands.

Hopefully Lt. Rothilion felt as off with his borrowed weapons as Fieran did.

The troll warrior stepped aside as two others pushed the weapons racks through a small door in the side of the arena, getting them out of the way. As soon as the door was shut, the troll warrior held up his hand.

Fieran tensed and focused on Lt. Rothilion, sinking into the familiar sword stance he’d been taught when he was barely big enough to hold the wooden sword his dacha had given him.

Across from him, Lt. Rothilion mirrored his stance, though with a sword and shield instead of two swords.

The troll warrior let his hand fall, signaling the beginning of the fight.

Perhaps it would have been wiser to circle for a few minutes, testing each other’s guard and movements.

But Fieran wasn’t the type to fight on the defensive.

He leapt forward, stabbing with his upper sword and going low with the other. Lt. Rothilion blocked both strikes easily, but he’d been forced to drop his shield slightly to block the lower blow. Fieran curved his upper strike into a swing, disengaging from Lt. Rothilion’s sword to take a swing at his head.

Lt. Rothilion ducked as he danced backward, trying to put space between him and Fieran so that he could make better use of his shield and sword.

The elf lieutenant was fast, but he wasn’t as fast or as light on his feet as Dacha. This might be easier than Fieran thought.

Lt. Rothilion sprang forward, smashing his shield into Fieran so hard and quickly that Fieran nearly toppled over. He stumbled backwards, even as he barely got his sword up in time to block a downward chop aimed at his head.

All right, not so easy. This wasn’t the time for daydreaming or getting cocky.

He couldn’t lose this fight. Not only would Lt. Rothilion never let him hear the end of it, but his dacha’s honor was at stake. Fieran might be willing to take the harassment, but he wouldn’t let Lt. Rothilion besmirch Dacha’s name…again.

Focus, that was what Merrik had told him to do. How many times had Dacha told him that same thing during morning practices?

Fieran let a hint of his magic flood his veins, though he didn’t release it. These fighting bouts were to be fought without magic. That was the rule.

But there was nothing in the rules against letting his magic fuel him.

With his magic coursing through his body, Fieran threw himself into an attack. He dodged Lt. Rothilion’s sword, one of his own swords grazing Lt. Rothilion’s cheek. The blade was too dull to do anything but skim the lieutenant’s cheek and tweak a section of his hair out of the way.

But the lieutenant would have felt the cold kiss of steel, and nothing would incite his wrath more than the affront to his long warrior hair.

With fury blazing in his eyes, Lt. Rothilion surged forward, swinging his sword with an abandon that wasn’t quite sloppy but wasn’t fully controlled either.

Fieran matched him blow for blow, his magic surging through him with a fire that blurred his swords and burned through his blood in a way he’d rarely felt, even in his practices with Dacha.

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