Unearth The Shadows

01

The wind sped up enough to bend dark, chin-long strands of hair to Heron's brown face. Brigadier Jallon stepped into the redcircle, his arms tucked behind his back. His uniform was spotless and ironed at all edges. Jallon stared at one fighter, then another with a grin of thin lips pulled taut up to hard cheekbones and said the dreadful words. "By the respect of the rules of the redcircle, shall the best win."

The brigadier hadn't abandoned the redcircle yet, and Mainor already had the full length of his sword stretched like a wing. Behind him, the sky was darkening further with overcast clouds.

Heron took a defensive stance and the fighters rotated slowly. With cautious steps. Mainor watched Heron like an eagle ready to strike. Heron kept a tight grip on his sword- lifted at the height of his waist- to shoot forward at Mainor's first attack.

Pretty sure all could predict how the match would end: Heron sprawled on the ground. And Mainor, as usual, keeping an act of fair play and honor. As though good manners made it easier to digest defeat.

It occurred to Heron that he could yield. But before he could consider it seriously, Mainor swung his weapon. The blade cleaved the air and finished with a hard hit at Heron's side.

Although Heron managed a clean sidestep, Mainor had his attack carefully planned, cutting Heron's duck short with a kick to his thigh. The sudden flurry of hits forced Heron into a straining series of parries that came about increasingly sloppier until hardwood whacked him. At his legs, arms, and shoulder.

As murmurs erupted, Heron realized he was cornered between the imminent attacks and the wall of the audience behind him. Bumping into the line of soldiers, he staggered to the center of the redcircle as soon as he found room between two strikes. He exhaled.

A wave of chuckles rumbled in the crowd. And a consensus seemed to spread: The Monarch had produced an heir with two left hands.

If they were not using wooden swords, Heron already would have lost chunks of flesh from his legs. All without having landed a single blow. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his weapon, a flush eating at his skin, dreading where hardwood would hit next.

"You're losing focus, Brother," Mainor warned, turning his thumb at himself. "I'm your target. You are not supposed to be this weak."

It took everything in him not to spit out the words stuck in his throat. He failed, in the end: "You are not my brother, putrid bastard." And regretted it.

The briskness of Mainor's attack was disconcerting. One moment he had his finger still pointed at himself, another, his boots had trampled the empty grass between them. Suddenly, he stood an arm-length from Heron, swinging towards his face, fast as if propelled by the rising wind. Heron deflected the thrust, only realizing the trap he'd fallen into when two rampant kicks almost bent him into a crawl.

The pain spoke for him. "I surrender," Heron gasped out, limping away.

"You don't!" Master Salmior shouted from the crowd.

For less than a second, even Mainor hesitated. When he whacked again - targeting Heron's ribs, then his ankles- Heron lost his footing. The pain made him doubtful his gambeson was still intact.

In his confusion, Heron didn't trace the sweep kick that sent him sprawling belly-first onto the ground, weakening the grip on his sword. He tasted dirt on his mouth, sensing Mainor striding closer. He panicked. He was already down. Mainor wasn't supposed to- Mainor struck. With such strength, his weapon dug a hole into the ground.

"Enough," Jallon bellowed, finally.

Heron stared at Mainor's weapon. Standing upright and stiff, less than a finger away from his hand. The sunk tip cornered by grass, lightly swung back and forth by the wind. Heron was trembling, that sword was too close to his hand, just a finger to the right and...