He glanced down at the reflection of stars off the blade that warped down into the fuller. Thank the gods he'd had the forethought to hide his things in the woods prior to their escape attempt.
"I believe it is my turn," Nertín said from behind Feren.
Feren lifted an eyebrow. Nertín had been absent from the last mornings of sparring. Feren had yet to see how skilled he was. He had learned over the last several days that while swordplay was not entirely new to the Voerr, only a select few of them were trained to the point of proficiency. The Kiaris and the seekers among them, which included males like Teeknan and Varkner. While they had not necessarily been referred to as the Royal Guard, that felt like the most appropriate comparison. Nertín had told him that out of the entire realm, less than two hundred voerr had been trained in the art of warfare.
Unfortunately, Teeknan and Varkner were not present this morning. Feren had planned to use them to demonstrate certain maneuvers.
So, instead, he nodded to Nertín, lifting his blade in the prepared stance that he attempted to engrain into these males.
Nertín mirrored his stance, a proper — and sharpened — sword in his hands.
"Would you like to make rules?" Feren asked out of courtesy, raising his blade to the center of his body. "Best we decide on those before handing out blades."
"Don't kill me," Nertín said, his sword flying directly at Feren's hip – he had to rush to catch the metal with his own, sending a wrist-jarring ring up his arm. "And I won't kill you."
The words had only been loud enough for Feren to hear between the wind assaulting their ears and the distance between them and the others, who were still rummaging through the weapons. Feren's jaw clenched as he looked into the voerr's deep amethyst eyes.
A spark flashed in Nertín's eyes just before he flicked his own wrists and quickly stepped away, disengaging their blades with a hiss of metal on metal.
With a lunge, Nertín whipped away his blade and twisted, throwing the sword over one shoulder to swing around for Feren's midsection. The silver-haired one attempted to parry, but Nertín's blade glanced off the block and Nertín shoved his fist, hilt-first, directly into Feren's diaphragm. He grunted as the air was forced out of him on impact.
Feren remained upright, eyes glinting with anger; he refused to double over in pain. What in the hell was that?
Heat drove deep into his core and spread across his back with wings of invisible flame. Nertín had already backed away two paces, watching his opponent keenly like a hawk waiting for their prey. Waiting for Feren to take in that desperate gasp of air that his diaphragm refused to allow in.
Before he could breathe again, Feren leapt toward Nertín. His sword pushed through an attempt at a block, feigned left, and drove toward the exposed shoulder so quickly that Nertín had to step back in order to catch the blade before it split his collar in two. With an elbow he swung at Feren's throat, narrowly missing his windpipe by a hair as Feren ducked backwards, then twisted with an arcing swing around Nertín to let his sword fly toward a hamstring.
Nertín was too fast. He caught Feren's blade, pinning it down along with his arm, and planted his feet between Feren's, attempting to trip him.
Feren smiled at the snow as he felt Nertín's knee between his. With his left arm he hooked Nertín's waist just before he fell – and while Nertín's back landed in the snow, Feren knelt above him.
That little victory did not last long. With a graceful somersault Nertín was back on his feet and again slashed his blade toward Feren. Though he remained kneeling, finally – finally able to take in a much-needed breath, Feren was able to slam his blade into his opponent's and redirect the tip, sending the singing metal over his shoulder in a smooth glide until their blades met hilt-to-hilt. He dared a glance up to Nertín and smirked.
Chapter Nineteen: Firican Threat
Start from the beginning
