The Duelist

The rays of a dying red sun flashed against the onrushing blade. The grey beards say the key to dueling lies in size, speed, reach, righteous fury, whatever the person in front of them pays them to say. Matteo knew better than any it was none of these and had an undefeated record on these sands to prove it.

He turned the wild strike away with a strong two-handed parry and stepped comfortably backwards towards the edge of the dueling pit, clearing space between himself and his brother Tomas. His brother may have been the elder, may have had a stone on Matteo and probably half a hand of height, yet he never defeated Matteo in a proper duel. It wasn’t that he was a poor fighter either–he’d won plenty of duels against the scions of lesser houses, and earned honors from the king on many blood soaked fields, as had Matteo, even if those once common victories were now often interspersed with strings of retreat. Tomas relied too much on those advantages. It was usually enough against lesser men.

But he did not understand the key to duels despite Matteo trying endlessly to educate him on the matter. Tomas grew ever more desperate in many things, as did many at court, and he never took time to reflect, to understand why it was always Matteo's blade under his guard and not the other way around. Matteo prided himself on his control, and rejected the advances put forth by the court interlopers; the ones who preached unnatural powers through adherence to their profane and arcane philosophies. They seemed to multiply like rabbits as their king’s fortunes crumbled under assaults within and without.

“Come now, Tomas. You’re better than that.”

Tomas set his jaw and lunged into the goaded attack—a tactic that never failed. There was a renewed furor in his strikes, and Matteo scowled for a moment in between a flurry of parries, left then right always keeping his practice sword in a center guard position. In the dying light, Matteo saw a fire unnaturally deep in Tomas’s eyes, almost as if it came from his very soul. But the duel was at hand and Matteo gave it no mind. His feet moved instinctively, first forward with his own counter attack, then backward, ensuring that Tomas’s blade remained well outside his guard.

Yes, the key to dueling wasn’t size nor speed nor any other verbose skill. It was simply space. The one who mastered the space, whether on the dueling ground or on the battlefield, earned victory time and time again–

Hmm

Matteo’s foot slipped ever so slightly. These things happened on the field and for years Matteo practiced his recoveries. It shouldn’t have been fatal; he should have been well beyond his brother’s reach.

Should have.

But Matteo’s perception of how things should be did not warm the dull steel practice blade against his neck.

“It seems I am better than that, Brother.”

Matteo grunted, and extended his leather guarded forearm, anger rising within that he fought to suppress with as much furor as he fought in the dueling pit. “You’ve been to the Acolytes I see. Were their rituals as invasive as the rumors say?”

His brother finished wiping sweat and grime from his brow. “Bah, you know better than to listen to ramblings in a tavern. It was as easy as falling asleep. You're a fool for not doing the same.”

“We do not know the cost of their magic,” Matteo said, withdrawing his unshaken hand as Tomas began to undo the straps of his own leather dueling guards.

“But we know the cost of defeat. Tell me Matteo, how many more burning farms can we suffer? How many sons must die as our foes crush us from north and south, east and west? The blade hangs over our necks. With us together, we can do more than defend ourselves. We can force them back, buy us time and space to breath. I can take you. Together we can say the words, drink the elixir. We can bring back the glory.”

Matteo took a few swings of his practice sword. Each time, his foot slipped just as it had, and he committed to further practice. There was honor in that commitment; it was the right way. Such a slip might mean his death, and there was so much of that surrounding their little speck on the map these days. Tomas might be correct, was correct in many regards, but there was so very little space between stewards and tyrants. So very little space…

And space was all that mattered.

Tomas extended his hand, “what say you?”

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A/N:

A little scene study. Working through some similar scenes in the WIP and decided you all deserved a slice of my insanity. If you've enjoyed this, please leave a like and an insight below. If you really enjoyed this, tips to fuel my coffee addiction are always appreciated. All formatting is designed for desktops. My best stories can be found below: