9. Swordplay
Swordplay
Faren
Faren woke at dawn, his muscles stiff with cold.
As he stirred, is touch magic catalogued every stone beneath his bedroll.
Though he’d undergone survival training as a new recruit, he was unaccustomed to sleeping on the ground.
His collarbones ached; his hand prickled from a lack of blood flow, having been propped under his head all night; and his neck felt as if it were one abrupt swivel away from seizing.
While most touch magicians could increase their sensitivity at will—a common practice in the bedroom, but also a useful skill when detecting shifts in temperature or wind ahead of inclement weather—a rare few, including Faren, could also dull their senses.
It didn’t mean he could heal at will, but he could certainly fight through pain a lot better than the average knight and tolerate quite a bit of discomfort for the sake of his duty.
Last night had come with considerable discomfort, and now that he was awake, he used his magic to ease the worst of his soreness.
It’d been a while since Faren ventured outside the city, and in spite of the lack of proper bedding, the countryside awakened something in him.
He had grown up on a rural estate in Lothgaim, with frequent trips to the territory’s capital.
He was just as comfortable in ballrooms and cities as he was in the open pastureland and thin forests surrounding his childhood manor.
It’d been too long since he rode through wide-open spaces and slept under the stars just for fun, and as his muscles eased, he found that he was eager for the days ahead. The adventure laid out before him.
Faren sat up, rolled his neck, stretched his arms wide—relishing the pull in his pectorals—and glanced around.
They’d made camp beside a modest grove, where the crest of a hillock overlooked a shallow glen. Pale sunlight spilled over the opposite hillside, igniting the red and yellow leaves of the trees at Faren’s back. Fog clung to the slumped grasses, pooling in the shallow valley below.
Mariana stood in its basin, waist deep in a lake of fog, facing the rising sun.
She wore her customary black, a shadow in a field of golden mist. Her sword, held aloft, cut slow arcs through the haze, fog swirling in its steely wake.
Her breaths were measured, curling up into the clear sky.
Choreographing her own deadly solo dance, her movements were as elegant as a lady in a ballgown. For a while, Faren simply watched.
Yesterday’s attempts to needle Mariana with cheer had not gone according to plan.
The contempt with which she’d spoken about his Order had angered him—not because he was so easily riled, but because her conviction had been stronger than he’d expected; it was clear that she’d formed her opinions not from stereotypes but firsthand incidences.
Faren had drawn on the example of his Major—Oderin’s willingness to see nuance, even in members of the Valiant—and it was from that perspective that Faren had risen above his disdain to acknowledge her experience.
She’d taken the apology with all the suspicion of the Lord’s royal wine tester, but her company had become a bit more companionable after that.
Faren had fallen asleep unconcerned about waking up to more threats, instead mentally revisiting their barbed conversations, vaguely amused by her brutal wit.
Now, as he watched her move from pose to pose, alone in the breaking dawn, he found himself intrigued. Vexed, but intrigued.
Faren reached for the pair of scabbards beside his bedroll, removed his swords—Honor and Mercy—and made his way down the hill.
Their horses were grazing contentedly, their meandering footsteps and general rustling obfuscating Faren’s approach.
Mariana remained with her back to him, but she’d picked up speed, flowing through various postures with practiced precision.
Little moths fluttered out of the grass, disturbed by her steps as she advanced on an invisible foe.
Faren crept closer, holding his blades aloft, one in each hand. His breath shallowed as he waited for the perfect moment to lunge forward and surprise her. Closer, closer, he raised the weapon in his right hand and—
Mariana spun, meeting it crosswise, blocking his strike with a song of steel.
A laugh gusted out of him, and then they were fully engaged, fighting with a surge of fast swipes and blocks.
Faren brandished his twin shortswords, spinning them in a punishing rhythm that forced Mariana to retreat—but she was not deterred.
The moment Faren’s left hand wavered on Honor’s hilt, she struck, catching her blade on his cross guard and wrenching the sword from his grip.
It landed in the grass with a thud, and she spared no moment to advance, grinning and panting as she came at him, relentlessly striking his one remaining sword until finally, he lost his footing on the uneven ground and fell backward onto his ass.
Mariana leveled her sword at him, its tip a few lenient inches from his chin. “Good morning to you, too,” she said, eyes alight with mirth.
“Best two out of three?” Faren offered.
She removed her blade from its threatening position, nicking his chin playfully as she stepped back. “You’re on.”
Faren retrieved the sword he’d dropped and held both blades aloft. “Would you prefer I fight with one instead of two? To make it fair?”
Mariana smiled, mischief and challenge in her big dark eyes. Backlit by the sun, her black hair blazed red. “If you feel that you need two swords to fight me, then by all means.”
“Double the threat,” he taunted.
“Double the ego, more like,” she retorted.
Her insults might’ve been effective against the men she usually encountered, but Faren was neither hurt nor angered—he was amused.
Giving one sword a casual spin, he said, “Feel free to change your mind at any time.” He rolled his shoulders back, dropping his energy into a place of grounded focus, and prepared to recite the words that would begin their sparring session: Fate, Fortune, Death.
But Mariana was not a Mighty Knight. She simply began, lunging at Faren with a strike at his knee.
He evaded—barely—as her blade grazed the fabric of his trousers.
She did not pause or retreat. Her next move was just as quick, a swipe at his hip.
He had to angle Honor awkwardly to deflect her blade, but he used the momentum to make his own attack: a powerful swing at her shoulder.
She ducked easily, aiming her next swipe at his shins, but he retreated.
Though they’d been in brawls and shared jabs in the past, Faren had never properly sparred with Mariana, and as they traded blocks and blows, he watched her movements closely.
Faren had trained numerous groups of new recruits, shaping already-skilled sword fighters into truly Mighty warriors.
Much of his mentoring experience had involved looking for patterns, halting bad habits, and finding unique qualities that his trainees could exploit on their foes.
Mariana, however, was harder to read.
As he would expect from someone of her stature—her frame small and athletic—she used her size to her benefit.
She dipped low, dodged quickly, and kept close to Faren’s larger body to keep him from using the advantages of his superior strength and reach, instead forcing him to deflect at awkward angles that kept him weakened.
But where he would’ve trained someone of her height to mind her limitations, Mariana did not evade him in the manner he would expect.
She absorbed his hefty strikes with more fortitude than he anticipated and fought boldly when he would’ve suggested she back off.
This made it impossible to predict her next move.
But Faren had his own tricks. After absorbing a particularly relentless onslaught, Faren flourished his swords in tandem, forcing Mariana back.
Instead of ending the flashy move with both blades upright, he used the distraction to switch Honor to a backhand grip.
He used Mercy to force Mariana to block, then made a cross-hook motion with Honor that had his blade colliding with her breastplate.
A terrible metallic clatter rang out, announcing his victory.
When Mariana stepped back, her tawny skin was flushed. He couldn’t tell if she was panting or chuckling—maybe both.
“Mariana Bellkeep,” Faren drawled. “Are you having fun?”
With a growl, she came at him with renewed vigor, fighting close.
Faren had about a foot of height and sixty pounds of muscle on her, but she was fearless.
She rushed his personal space, turned her back to him, and stomped on the toe of his boot with her heel; when he instinctively bent forward, she elbowed him in the stomach.
Having not bothered to don his breastplate, a sharp pain radiated through his gut.
But other sensations hit his senses, too: the warmth of her shoulder blades brushing briefly against his chest, the ends of her hair tickling his face as she spun around, the puff of her breath as she faced him again.
He was too slow—too dizzied—to make his next move, and when their eyes met, he knew he’d lost before he felt the nudge of her sword’s point against his abdominals.
Her grin was slow, wicked. “I win.”
In front of his peers, the loss would’ve humbled him, but out here, Faren felt strangely exhilarated.
When was the last time he’d fought someone who dazzled him like this?
Warner, Lee, Shae—they all had their talents, but as of late, he had not felt challenged by them so much as he felt well-matched, their sparring sessions coming down more to stupid mistakes than quick thinking.
Had he and Mariana been in the training yard at Castle Might, he might’ve asked her to show him that move again.
But they were not at the castle, and they did not belong to the same Order. We might serve the same realm, but we are not on the same side, she’d snarled at him just yesterday. And yet, in swordplay, it felt as if they had something in common.
They were still positioned close, staring at each other. Mariana was the first to break the standoff. “We ought to get a move on,” she said. “Pointless missions wait for no one.”
She started up the hill, cutting a path through the tall grass.
Following on long legs, it didn’t take Faren long to catch up to her.
He held both his swords in one hand, reaching out with the other to graze her bare arm.
He meant only to get her attention, to ask about the logistics of their day, but when he made contact, the words died on his tongue, his touch magic eagerly cataloguing details he hadn’t meant to notice.
Her forearm was firm and corded with strength.
Thin scars marred her surprisingly soft skin, which was a little clammy from the exercise. And the way she tensed was visceral.
Before he had the chance to think about how aware his magic had become, Mariana jerked away, her expression stony. “Don’t touch me.”
Faren held up a palm, placating. “I only meant to get your attention.”
“I have ears,” she said tightly.
Faren wanted to point out that they’d touched numerous times.
Most recently, her elbow in his abs. But the intensity of her response gave Faren a sinking feeling, one he chose not to voice.
He could connect the clues. You think I was alone in my cell in the dungeon at Castle Might?
He’d hated her insinuation. Hated to think that justice could be dealt so cruelly.
It’d given rise to an odd sort of guilt in his gut, as if his association with Lord Haron made him complicit in her suffering.
His hand flexed at his side, his heightened magic still buzzing. He recalled past instances in which they’d touched. Most, she’d initiated. All, she’d seen coming—except this time.
A person didn’t become that edgy without good reason.
She wasn’t just a fierce knight, who’d studied tactics from the safe confines of a training yard, practicing on fake foes and rote drills as Faren had. She’d honed her abilities—her hard exterior—to survive.
“I just wanted to know,” Faren said, “when do you anticipate we’ll arrive in Yar-on-Gray?”
“We’ll get there when we get there.” She turned her back to him again, but her shoulders were rigid as she returned to camp.
“Any song requests for the road?” Faren called after her.
She didn’t reply, but he thought he could see her posture become a little less tense.