The Silver Sparrow

A Fight of Giants

A breath taken. A blink. An opening for Za'in to move into position, sword flashing silver as it caught the glare of the sun—now already high in the sky and perfectly positioned behind him. His dark silhouette loomed over Aza'ir, one foot nailing his blade to the ground, the other pressing down on his chest, crushing his already depleted lungs. A two-handed grip on the hilt plunged the pointed tip down at his right eye—

—and buried itself in the sand where Aza'ir's head had been. Took off a portion of his ear instead as he turned in time to dodge the attack. He twisted, took the slim opening as Za'in worked at repositioning himself to pull the sword back out, hoisted up a leg and kicked the man in the torso, rolling away out of range the moment he felt the weight on his chest lifted.

It felt like slamming your foot into a fucking rock, and all it did was sending Za'in back half a step, now with his sword pulled free from the sand. A quick toss of the blade turned the hilt back into position in Za'in's right grip as Aza'ir peeled himself off the floor. Came smashing down before he could block it with his own, took a good bite into his left shoulder when he failed to completely clear the path.

Rage spilled out of him with the blood that dripped onto the sand, painting half his torso red on its way down. He took three steps back to regain his breaths and footing, grinding his teeth at the shoulder and the pride Za'in izr Husari had, once more, and after so many times, sunk his blade into.

For three decades now they'd been at it. Duels after duels at Dyal events, taking turns to be tattooed champion. Every year the fight had grown closer, more personal, more intense. Then, when simple games had turned into khagan warfare, Za'in still managed to stay one small step ahead of him. Small matters, some would say, petty feuds, others had commented. Perhaps, he'd thought, but they were both predators and leaders of men, and a score uneven for men like them had to be settled one way or another and before they died.

It would now be settled with death, and that day, in front of witnesses in the thousands. Feels like the Dyal all over again, Aza'ir thought, snarling as he went back into the fight.

***

His father was smiling. He was smiling in the middle of taking a blow, as he delivered one, when he was made to retreat. It matched the expression on the face of his opponent, Nazir realized, watching the two circle each other, reading and anticipating the other's next move with the carefulness and expertise of an apex predator on a hunt. The pacing of their footwork falling as one in near-perfect rhythm, like two dancers dancing to the same tune, each taking turns to lead and follow, sometimes both, it was difficult to tell.

It must have been like this back when they were still competing at the Dyal. The annual festival held in Citara for the very best of White Warriors from every khagan to compete against each other had been where they met. Contestants were chosen from the most frequent winners on Raviyani eleven months before the festival to compete in the games. The warrior who won the most points from all events would receive a tattoo marking them Dyal champions on his arm. The most wins by a single man on record were six. His father had been marked four times. Aza'ir had five, but only four of those had been acquired while his father still entered the games. It was said, at gatherings and campfires, that unless Za'in izr Husari had been among the contestants, winning didn't count much toward being the best warrior in the White Desert.

So when Za'in izr Husari had decided to retire from these events at the request of his wife, Aza'ir izr Zakai had also retired one year later, after his fifth victory. He had made it clear, that there was only one man he wanted to defeat, only one score he wanted to settle.

It was about to be decided now, the fifth Dyal for the two of them, fought here, outside of Citara with both their lives on the line and their entire khagans as the trophy. Nazir had never had a chance to see his father compete in the Dyal. But watching them now, he could understand why those who had would swear the energy and anticipation at the festival had never been quite the same after the two of them had retired. The men present on that plain would be talking about this forever, he realized, about how they had been there to witness the deciding match between Za'in izr Husari and Aza'ir izr Zakai.

They engaged again. Two giants, moving against each other in almost a blur, too fast, too closely matched in skills, both wearing white, both of similar height, built and age. It was almost impossible to tell them apart if one were to stand a little farther from the action. One could forget to breathe, watching them that day.

The footwork had been effortless, timed to perfection to bring them together and take them apart. Precise, powerful thrusts and strikes of their swords meeting one another in a flawless show of efficiency. Blows after decisive blows blocked just in time as though every move had been choreographed and practiced beforehand. Nazir remembered then, that they had been fighting each other all their lives. They knew each other's habits, strengths, and weaknesses, and knew them like the back of their hands, like their own.

But they weren't really perfect, those blocks that had seemed so effortless and efficient. Both were bleeding now, the white of their zikhs stained almost every inch with blood. Aza'ir's shoulder had a deep cut that made it increasingly difficult for him to move, while his father had only a few minor ones but in more places. Both men were panting heavily now, had been for some time from the exertion. It would be decided soon, not by the level of their swordsmanship, but by the strength and stamina left in them.

And then he saw it, just as everyone else did, the first sign of strength failing one of them. Under the scorching sun of the mid-morning, Aza'ir's legs gave out from under him, sending the man stumbling back a step as he stood waiting for his opponent's next move. Nazir knew, at that precise moment, that his father had won the day.

All eyes were on Za'in izr Husari then, watching him tighten the grip on his sword, raising it high in the air as he charged toward the kha'a of Kamara. None of them were paying attention to what one man was doing at that moment, but all of them would later swear, that they would never forget how an arrow, shot out of nowhere, had pierced Za'in izr Husari on his right thigh, throwing him off his feet mid-stride like a downed gazelle on a Raviyani hunt.

***