Page 2 of Into the Isle

I paced from one side of the Sticks to the other, never moving my narrowed eyes away from my brother’s face. My fingers bit into the worn wood of my light spear, leveled at my side in a single hand, while my off-hand danced in circles to distract.

That’s how we were doing this. With spears. The Old Way.

Damon, my brother, took a similar stance across from me, bending his knees, raising his spear, watching me. His foundation looked less confident than mine. Perhaps that was my bias talking.

I knew how to look for weaknesses. Our village swordbaron had taught me well. Damon’s stance was riddled with them.

Folding my lips into a thin line, I resisted smirking at the younger man. My half-brother had only turned eighteen a few months ago. I was in my twenty-second year and, unlike him, had taken my training seriously. I’d known this moment would one day come.

Damon looked antsy. Sweat beaded his forehead and upper lip, yet we hadn’t even thrown our first thrusts. I wondered how much ale he’d had before this duel. It appeared to be having the opposite effect of calming his nerves. I could practically smell him, fifteen feet away.

Trepidation poured off him in waves.

Contrary to my honed training regimen, Damon had a tendency to chase the nearest skirt into the village pubs. He would drink with his little gang of sniveling blowhards, talk effortlessly about the great battles he hoped to be part of in the future, and try to fuck anything that moved.

I didn’t have time for that shit.

I had an academy to get to.

Lunging forward one step, I pulled up short before making it two, kicking up a plume of dust and dirt around me. Damon flinched at my feint. I tilted the corner of my lip with the smirk I’d been hiding.

My half-brother’s face twisted with anger—at flinching and being made to look like a fool by his sister.

Bystanders on the other side of the Sticks chuckled. A few hushed words rose up. I immediately drowned them out to focus.

My confidence was bordering on arrogance. Korvan had taught me not to underestimate my opponents—even one I’d grown up with and had known since he was knee-high.

So I squared my shoulders, bent my knees, and focused.

Damon flared his nostrils and charged, lifting his spear higher. He let out a battle cry as his boots carried him across the packed earth.

My eyes veered down, watching his legs rather than his spear or arms. He made it five paces, ten paces. His eyes widened as he bared his teeth in a snarl.

His back foot tilted to the right at the last second, showing me the trajectory his momentum would take—

And I twirled the opposite direction, keeping the haft of my spear tucked behind me. Sidestepping my brother easily, he thrust into nothingness with a fierce jab meant to impale me.

The back of my spear came out as I spun my weapon in a circle overhead and smacked the fortified wood against his arm.

I could have stuffed the pointy end through his ribs. I held off, because this was as much a spectacle as it was about proving a point.

The audience grunted.

Damon let out a cry of pain and frustration as his arm cracked from the hit, muscle bruised. He’d be feeling pins and needles all up his bicep and shoulder.

In a frenzy, Damon backpedaled. He brought his spear in front of him and jabbed again.

I smacked it aside with a wooden thud, making myself small—crouching to get out of his immediate vision.

Younger than me or not, he was still nearly a head taller than me. Physically my equal, if not stronger. He had a wiry build, which made him fast, yet I would always be quicker because I had better control over my body.

After parrying his jab, I riposted and lunged forward.

He darted aside like a snake, baring his teeth, grinding them hard enough for me to hear.

Our boots kicked up gravel and dirt. The scene became muddied, hard to see. The razor-edge silence from the crowd broke into open taunts, jeers, and hollers, as was traditional for a duel of this nature.

Our spears danced, locked in a melee closer than we should have been with these weapons.

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