Enri and Markus could tell that something was off as they approached the North Gate. For a start, a massive crowd had congregated there, talking excitably and milling about. The group of people was just dense enough to prevent them from seeing what had caused the disturbance, and they hesitated slightly, glancing at each other in confusion.
As they drew closer to the gate, the townsfolk closest to them looked around and spotted Enri, recognizing him from his many years living in Milagre. One man, a farmer in his early fifties, beckoned Enri to him, and the duo approached.
“What’s going on, Henrik?” Enri asked. He’d helped the man out on his farms many times as a child, and so remembered his name easily. The old man was known to be cranky and dismissive unless there was some sort of drama or intrigue he could get his bony little hands around.
Henrik smiled at him, the large gaps in his teeth more obvious than ever as he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the center of the crowd. “See for yourself, youngster!” He cackled to himself, clearly enjoying a joke that Enri did not understand. “I think it would interest you a bit.”
Raising an eyebrow at the gleeful look on the old man’s face, Enri moved to push through the crowd. The people he jostled past complained at first, but upon catching sight of his face and recognizing him as Henrik had done, they fell silent. Enri finally managed to shove through into the center, which was surprisingly clear, except for one person.
A young blond man, not quite twenty years old by his looks, sat cross-legged on the ground. He was fair-skinned and wore a long brown robe. A quick glance at the robe revealed that it was nearly identical to the one that Enri wore, with the same markings upon the shoulders. On his belt were a short sword, the hilt, and sheath inlaid with precious gems, and on the ground beside him was a traveling pack. There was no doubt in Enri’s mind that this stranger was also attempting to pass the Trials.
The blond boy noticed Enri enter and took in his weapons and brown robe as well. Enri saw the same light of scrutiny, then confirmation as the boy nodded to himself and stood. He spread his arms wide in a friendly gesture and bowed in a Nihon-Jan fashion that was at odds with his manner of speech, attire, and features.
“Greetings. I am Ehran Rainhall, third son of Lord Rainhall of Sheran, a fellow initiate of The Sanctuary.” his manner of speech was very florid, the manner in which the noble merchants of Tyrman had been known to speak.
“Enri Ciayol,” Enri replied in a crisp tone. He wasn’t sure what Ehran had planned, but he wasn’t about to be locked into mindless pleasantries while the stranger fluttered on to please his own sense of self-importance. His eyes flicked to the side, taking in a sergeant of the Town Guard standing nearby. “Why are you blocking the gate, preventing these people from passing through?”
Ehran’s smile widened at Enri’s heavily guarded tone. “I felt it was appropriate to gain your attention.”
Enri arched an eyebrow at that, feeling that he knew what was coming. “Well then, you’ve got my attention. What do you want?”
Ehran patted the hilt of his bejeweled sword. “Well, that should be obvious. I want to fight you.”
Enri considered his words. It wasn’t unheard of for initiates to track down and challenge other initiates. It was a way for some to strengthen themselves, to prove themselves worthy of The Sanctuary by proving better than their peers. Enri would be lying if he said he hadn’t expected this eventually, but he’d hoped to be well on his journey away from the city before it happened.
Ehran’s smile did not fade despite Enri’s long hesitation. He remained in the same spot, with his chest puffed out, exerting an air of bravado and confidence. The thought struck Enri that this young man from Sheran probably wanted to make a spectacle, hoping that Enri would refuse, and make him seem all the braver. Had Ehran done any amount of research, however, he would know that his quarry was not the kind to back down.
After several long moments, Enri turned to Markus. He wasn’t sure why, but he wanted to hear his companion’s opinion. Markus saw the questioning look on his face and shrugged diffidently. Whatever Enri chose, he cared less, the motion clearly said. So much for support and sympathy, Enri thought with a hidden snort of laughter. Finally, he turned to face Ehran, slipping off his pack and dropping it to the ground.
“Very well then, I accept,” Enri spoke clearly, his voice carrying even over the hushed whispers of the crowd around them.
There was a slight flicker of shock and surprise on Ehran’s face, confirming Enri’s thought that he was merely posturing. The surprise was quickly hidden by another wide smile as he replaced his mask of confidence. “Excellent! What shall the terms be?”
“As we are, first to surrender.” Normally, a simple trial duel like this went until the first strike, but Enri wanted to leave a lasting impression, in the hopes of deterring future challenges.
The sergeant that Enri had spotted lurking in the crowd now stepped forward, clearing his throat nervously. He’d stood by awkwardly, wondering if he should intercede, but he had been right to hold off. The Sanctuary had very special rules about The Trials, and one such rule was that there could be no interference in the conflict between two initiates, outside what was necessary to preserve innocent life. The sergeant made eye contact with both Ehran and Enri, making sure he had their attention before speaking.
“I will serve as a witness to the duel.” The two boys nodded their acceptance, and he began to usher the crowd back. Everyone surrounding the fighters retreated ten paces or so, leaving a clear space thirty feet across. Once space had been cleared, the sergeant nodded to the two combatants.
“Draw your weapons, and stand fast.” As the sergeant raised his left hand into the air, preparatory to signaling the start of the duel, the two youth drew the weapons from their sheaths and held them ready. Enri’s estoc slid free with the familiar expectant hiss of steel on leather, catching the last rays of light for the day, sparkling in a mesmerizing pattern. Ehran’s own short sword ringed free a fraction of a second later, the many gems on its hilt glinting and shining in the light. The crowd around them drew an excited breath as once, waiting for the call to begin.
“Begin!” The sergeant shouted, swinging his left hand down and jumping back to remain out of range. Enri had a strange sense of deja vu from his many sparring sessions within The Maravino and almost laughed to himself. How different his life now seemed, a mere two days apart.
Almost as if in slow motion, Ehran dashed forward, swinging his blade in a wide horizontal arc at Enri’s torso. The movement, while technically well-executed, lacked the balance and coordination that only came with hours of practice. Enri stepped back quickly, avoiding the tip of the short sword with ease. He swung his own estoc down in a flashing strike that Ehran only barely dodged, rolling to the side.
It was almost too easy. Enri dashed forward as Ehran sprang to his feet, jabbing out with the estoc, aiming for the center of his opponent’s body. The blond young man parried the jab desperately and swung forehand in retaliation. Enri, in turn, parried easily, his thinner and lighter blade flashing back and forth as he cut twice in return. He heard a clank as the estoc hit armor hidden beneath the brown robe, and Ehran dashed back, cursing in pain. The two strikes Enri had landed weren’t strong enough to pass through the chainmail concealed under Ehran’s robe, but they had still hurt.
The crowd gathered around them let out a ragged cheer in approval of Enri’s speed. Ehran’s strokes were powerful, to be sure, but they lacked grace, and the boy’s sense of balance was pitiful. By comparison, Enri seemed to flit back and forth, side to side, in an effortless dance, dominating his opponent with his superior speed and grace. Then the crowd fell silent again as Ehran lunged forward, snarling.
Ehran cut backhand and forehand freely, putting as much power into the strokes as he could. Enri remained calm as he advanced, parrying and stepping back to avoid the heavier blade. As Ehran pushed him closer to the crowd, Enri sidestepped one last blow, swinging his estoc to smack flat into the base of Ehran’s neck. The blond young man cried out in pain and shock as he was tumbled a few inches across the ground, coming to a stop at the feet of the people in the crowd.
“Feel free to surrender, if you like,” Enri said. His tone wasn’t mocking or derogatory, but almost kind. Compared to his fight with Shigeru, there wasn’t anything he could learn from this fight, and therefore he considered it to be no more than a waste of his time.
“After you,” Ehran growled, clambering laboriously to his feet. He leaped forward once more, swinging his short sword. Once more, there was a screeching of steel on steel as Enri parried the blade. This time, he lashed out with his right foot, kicking his opponent’s hip out. The leg buckled, and Ehran folded, falling to the dusty ground once more. Enri stood back, feeling it would be unsporting of him to move in while his opponent was down.
Ehran suddenly did something strange. He reached inside his robe and pulled out three small knives. Enri frowned as he saw them, because they were clearly marked with arcane runes, and looked deadly sharp. They were an odd weapon to use in a duel, as it was so hard to avoid seriously injuring your opponent. Ehran didn’t seem to consider this, but flicked his hand and sent the knives flying towards Enri.
As they were fairly slow projectiles, Enri was able to sidestep the first two, using his estoc to beat the third out of the air. As he knocked the knife aside, something strange happened. His estoc, an extremely light weapon, began to feel heavy in his hand. At first, it felt as though he were holding a heavy club instead of a light stabbing weapon, but the weight became worse by the moment. Within five seconds, the weight had become too much, and he was forced to drop the weapon.
Ehran stood, smiling as the estoc hit the tightly packed dirt path with a dull thud. He swung his shortsword back and forth lazily, his grin widening.
“So it’s true that you can’t use magic.” he sneered. “I didn’t believe it at first but guess it was true. That’s good.”
Enri felt a hot surge of anger build up inside of him as he finally understood. There had been some kind of enchantment on the throwing knives that forcibly disarmed him. He had a brief moment of misgiving at the confident air around Ehran, but it was quickly dispelled. He may have magic on his side, but his combat skills were still lacking, Enri thought. The fight was not yet lost. It had just changed terms.
As he expected, Ehran began to move forward again. He walked smoothly and with purpose, almost as if he were at his leisure. When he came within reach, he slashed with the short sword once more, and Enri jumped back. Ehran laughed.
“You can’t dodge forever. Eventually, you’ll have to surrender or be struck.” Ehran sneered as Enri continued to pace around him, keeping his eyes on the blade and biding his time.
His chance came as Ehran rushed forward one last time, the sword going up for another swing. Not paying attention to where he was going, Ehran had failed to notice the knife, resting where he’d thrown it before, jutting out of the ground. His foot caught the blade, and he stumbled slightly. It was only natural that he glance down to see what he’d tripped over, and he only took his eyes off of Enri for a few seconds. But a few seconds was all that Enri needed.
He dashed forward, his foot lashing out in a high stomp for Ehran’s sword arm. Surprised, the boy was too slow to react and the force of Enri’s stomp rendered his arm numb, forcing him to drop the sword. Continuing to move forward, Enri grabbed his opponent by the throat, and swung his leg down and around, sweeping Ehran’s legs out from under him. With a powerful shove, Enri slammed him down into the ground, hearing a grunt as the air was forced out of his lungs.
Ehran’s vision was blurred by pain, dust, and reflex tears, and he was too dazed to respond. He felt himself being rolled over and was vaguely aware of his arm being wrenched back painfully, and a knee slammed into his back, holding him firmly in place.
“Do you yield?” Enri asked coldly, maintaining pressure on the small of his back with his knee. Ehran gave no response except to screw his face up in rage and try to rise. Enri applied more pressure to his elbow, and Ehran gave up the movement with a cry of pain. He lay in the dust, breathing heavily, glancing up at Enri with barely contained fury.
“I… yield,” Ehran spoke haltingly as if the words caused him physical pain. Enri held him for a few more seconds, then released his grip and got off his downed opponent.
For a few seconds, Ehran didn’t move, but simply flopped onto his back and heaved in lungfuls of air. Then he scrambled back to his feet, eyeing Enri warily.
“Release the magic you put on my weapon, please,” Enri said calmly, brushing his robes clean.
Ehran hesitated before speaking. “I can’t remove it, even if I wanted to. But the effect is only temporary. You should be able to pick it up now.”
Enri eyed him suspiciously, then moved over to where his estoc lay in the dust. He closed his fingers around the grip and pulled. The weapon once again felt light as a feather in his hand, and he couldn’t sense any kind of tampering as he gave it a few experimental swings. Then he sheathed the weapon in one swift movement, and approached his defeated opponent, holding out his hand.
“It was an excellent match.” He said in a dull tone, not bothering to conceal his disbelief of the words. To the crowd around them, their handshake was friendly enough, and they sensed no ill intent. But as the eyes of the two young men locked, there was an unspoken message between them. Enri knew that he had beaten Ehran thoroughly, without any fear of retaliation. Ehran for his part was cowed, and he still had a certain amount of fury in him, but he knew it wouldn’t end well for him if he picked another fight.
“Yes, an excellent match indeed.” Ehran agreed through clenched teeth. Now the crowd around them erupted into applause, for both Enri and Ehran. Not many of them were surprised by the result, as they’d seen Enri grow up and train for five years as a soldier.
Enri turned towards the gate and walked through it, beckoning for Markus to follow. He wanted to stay and ask Ehran what he knew of The Sanctuary, in an attempt to glean information, but he also didn’t want to hang around the area and further disrupt things. He was sure that he’d sent a message with that fight, beating his opponent so thoroughly that the story would travel outside of Milagre, hopefully making his journey easier.
But Enri was still young, and he had yet to learn that being the strongest isn’t a blessing. It is a cursed light, drawing many towards it, each one seeking to take the title, each one stronger or more skilled than the last. Where he should have responded with compassion upon defeating Ehran, he had chosen dismissal and contempt, and he was unaware of exactly what kind of consequences were to come.
The crowd at the gate dispersed, none of the farmers or townsfolk paying much mind to the defeated young man standing in their midst. They moved around him, passing through the gate in search of food, drink, or their beds. Eventually, the dirt road in front of the gate was empty, save for the sergeant, two guards, and Ehran. The latter sheathed his sword, pulled the outer robe off, and threw it to the ground. Then he turned his back on it and strode angrily down the road.
Standing just inside the gate, a young man in dark blue robes and a voluminous hood of the same color leaned against the stout city wall. His eyes watched Enri as he strode down the main road, staying on the youth’s back even as he weaved through the noisy crowd beneath the evening sky.
“Interesting.” the stranger said. “Not the best or smartest start to a story, but definitely interesting.”
The young stranger pulled a small, leather-bound journal from his bag, and opened it to a blank page. To a casual observer, the man was merely making a note of something trivial, but in fact, he was recording the first part of a story that interested him greatly. He wrote a few short lines down, then snapped the book closed and returned it to his bag.
“Interesting,” he said again. He tapped his chin thoughtfully, then turned and walked down the main street himself. “Interesting.”
