12. Trial of Submission #2
She glanced back at him, and Imalroc bowed a little to hide his face just in time.
“I must admit,” she said slowly, “the madman I saw in Kirinoll would never be invited to Widran. But the battleboxer that stood so charmingly vigilant at your shoulder in the market with not a chain or shackle in sight… He might be worthy.”
Rerdas hid his nerves well. His voice held a trace of noble arrogance. “His previous handlers didn’t take the right approach.”
“It seems so. I do have a duty to protect the reputation of the box, of course. He must be up to Kiboan standards. Have you ever tested Imalroc in a trial of submission?”
A sharp sensation raked like a fingernail down Imalroc’s spine.
“No,” Rerdas said. He sounded almost as wary as Imalroc felt.
“No need to worry, Master Toriem. You’re thinking of the trials they use in Drida, all about violence and physical dominance.” She shivered theatrically. “Kibo has moved beyond such crude measures. The first part of our trial is merely a display of fighting skill. With practice weaponry only.”
“You want to see Imalroc fight? Now?”
Imalroc wanted him to ask what the second part of this trial was supposed to be.
“Damar would put him through his paces. Not a full fight, you understand, just a demonstration.”
There wasn’t a way around it if they wanted to take Widran’s onyx. Imalroc found himself standing in the center of the cleared floor, facing Damar with a wooden sword in hand.
Rerdas and Nolbrathe lounged on long, tufted couches a few strides away. Or rather, Nolbrathe lounged, and Rerdas perched on the edge of his like a bird ready to startle into flight.
Damar advanced, offering a tepid overhand. Imalroc neatly blocked the blow. From the corner of his eye, he saw Rerdas jolt as the swords crashed into each other. Damar tested him again, trying to sweep his knees. Imalroc skipped backwards, dodging.
Rerdas gripped his kneecaps tightly enough to whiten his knuckles. Imalroc was tempted to turn and reassure him it was alright; this wasn’t much of a test. Damar clearly was not—
The Kiboan dropped, sinking deep in his knees. His wooden sword swiped up and glanced off Imalroc’s ribs. Imalroc hissed and counterattacked, clipping Damar across the chest as he tried to rise.
That was going to be an ugly bruise, and it never should’ve happened. He’d been fucking distracted. Unacceptable.
He concentrated, backstepping to lure the fight to where grand pillars stood sentinel around the only clear floor in the room.
The Kiboan was better with the sword than he’d let on.
His parries were effective, his reach dangerous, and there was formidable power in each blow.
A blade-to-blade shoving contest with this one would be unpleasant.
Damar lunged, and Imalroc whipped back to avoid the sword without stepping fully out of reach.
Anchor his heel, block, block, snap forward onto the ball of his foot.
He slashed across Damar’s collarbone, jabbed into the joint of his wielding shoulder and—an unwise protective turn from his opponent.
Imalroc sprang. He caught Damar with a strike that would have sent his Draalish beauty gouging into his opponent’s spine.
Lucky for Damar, all he had was this toothpick.
“Disengage!” Lady Nolbrathe called. Damar’s sword dropped immediately.
Imalroc followed his example and let the practice blade fall from guard.
He glanced around the little arena again, with its unspoken edges.
The pillars might factor in tomorrow’s fight.
An opponent of Damar’s size could try to pin him against one.
And the floor would be a footwork problem once it was slippery with sweat or blood.
“How was he, Damar?” Lady Nolbrathe asked.
“He’s very good, my lady,” Damar said evenly. “Very quick. Testy, I’d say.”
Testy? Imalroc’s eyebrows twitched. The Kiboan ought to be grateful he’d held back.
Damar went on, “My one concern is that he’s not very theatrical.”
“His opponent will take care of that part, I imagine.” Nolbrathe smiled. “Let’s go on. Imalroc, please remove your tunic.”
That she addressed him directly was almost as startling as the command itself.
“To what purpose?” Rerdas asked sharply.
“I’d like to see the condition of his skin. Get a better sense of what costume design might suit.”
Imalroc nearly snorted aloud. Costumes. This place wasn’t about fighting. Speed and efficiency would not impress Nolbrathe.
He looked a little unwillingly to Rerdas, who gave him a hesitant nod.
At least taking off layers would feel better in the feverishly heated room.
He jerked the tunic over his head without ceremony, folded it speedily, and deposited it on an empty chair, despite Damar’s disapproving throat-clearing.
Wouldn’t want the nasty battleboxer scraps touching the place where illustrious patrons were meant to sit.
If Damar nicked him at all, he was going to take care to bleed on some of these cushions.
“Eternals.” Nolbrathe looked at him with disgusted fascination. “The scarring! Kirinoll is barbaric.”
“Yes,” muttered Rerdas. “This is a barbaric sport.”
Nolbrathe didn’t seem to be listening. She glanced at Damar. “We’ll have to cover some of that up, of course, but with the right story we can use it. He’s unearthly pale, too, with that hair. Snow… something with snow. Or ice.”
Imalroc plucked up the practice weapon again, moving fluidly through sword forms mostly so that he didn’t have to stand dumb and silent while the booker pretended to be appalled that years spent in battleboxing resulted in scars. She was either stupid, or lying and stupid.
“Another round, if you please,” Nolbrathe said, once she finished detailing the shit she wanted to put on Imalroc’s face to highlight his cheekbones or something, which he had no intention of permitting.
Damar complied, lumbering forward, and Imalroc quickly adjusted his stance.
But this time Nolbrathe interrupted constantly, sometimes calling “Disengage!” while he was mid-parry. It took him a beat to understand that she was testing his responsiveness. Imalroc practiced letting his arm drop like a puppet with a shorn string.
It went on, although it was less interesting once Nolbrathe admonished them to stop trying to really wallop each other.
He should be grateful to avoid the prospect of bruising the night before a proper battle, but he dearly wanted to send Damar toppling to the ground.
Something about the large Kiboan turned his stomach.
Every time Imalroc tried to draw the fight to the spotlighted center, Damar refused to follow him into it. In fact, he circled further and further away, forcing Imalroc to chase him almost to the edge of the ring.
Only then did the Kiboan really engage, a flurry of chops and jabs that sent him skittering back, back, another step back. He flung himself clear of the sword punching at his face. Behind him, he heard a sharp inhale.
Rerdas. They shouldn’t be fighting this close to the huntmaster.
Imalroc’s whirling counterattack pushed Damar away, but in retreating, the Kiboan angled himself too near to their small audience again. And his strikes were fucking erratic, some of them so wide it looked as if he wasn’t aiming for Imalroc at all.
Damar’s sword ruffled the air above Rerdas’s head, and the huntmaster let out a startled curse. He shoved backward on the chaise, scooting out of the way.
And that fucking Kiboan moved closer.
Damar chopped his wooden blade down, and Imalroc leapt to block it. The force of the ramming swords quaked up into Imalroc’s shoulder. Pain spasmed through one of his wrists—he’d gripped the hilt too tightly—but the threat was retreating. Imalroc held his position, and his sword in guard.
He had one foot braced on the ground, the other up on the chaise where he’d lunged. He was standing almost fully on top of Rerdas, who lay flattened against the cushions below.
“Well!” Nolbrathe sounded delighted. “He’s quite protective of you!” She snapped her fingers at Damar. “That’s enough.”
Sword still hovering high, Imalroc waited until Damar laid his weapon gently on the floor and stepped out of reach of it. Then he glanced back to see just how unnerved Rerdas was by the bizarre show.
Rerdas lay prone as if he’d been thrown back against the chaise. He gazed up with an expression that wasn’t anywhere in the vicinity of frightened. He looked directly into Imalroc’s face, green eyes wide, breathless and flushed and there for the taking.
Desire caught Imalroc low in the stomach like a blow he hadn’t seen coming.
Earthbound gods, it was a relief to know that even when Rerdas had seen some of the places where he was cracked and unhealed, he was not diminished in his huntmaster’s eyes.
Imalroc could still make Rerdas look like he was one command away from begging to be put to good use on his knees.
A quick skip-step and he was off the chaise, turning his back and making a wide circle to compose himself before he faced Nolbrathe again. He imitated Damar and deposited the sword carefully before her couch.
“He’s excellent,” she declared. “You’ve done a remarkable job with him.”
Rerdas sat up. “Remarkable,” he echoed distantly, blinking as if waking to find himself in a strange place.
“A toast, then, to your accomplishments!” Nolbrathe unstacked a set of four small cups across a tray at her elbow. She winked and waved an amphora in his direction. “And a reward for our faithful fighters.” The booker splashed something amber into the cups, filling each nearly to the brim.
Rerdas took a proffered glass, his eyebrows lifted. “For the battleboxers too?”
“They deserve a treat, don’t you think?” She extended one of the little glasses to Damar, who accepted it with a bow. “I’ll warn you, it’s not the finer stuff. Just something to toss back and mellow the blood for the next component.”
“Which is?” Rerdas hesitated with the glass raised.