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“I yield!”
Ser Brannan McDormick of Oban hissed the words through clenched teeth as a knee ground into his temple, pinning his skull against the cold stone of Allir Keep’s courtyard. The instant the surrender left his mouth, the pressure vanished. His assailant rose, merciful as a priest after confession.
Brannan’s arm hit the ground with a dull thud. Panic flared as he realized he couldn’t feel it, and worse, that he hadn’t noticed when it broke. In the fog of sweat, blood, and bruised pride, he’d charged headlong into his opponent.
And struck a brick wall.
“You aren’t ready.”
The voice came from above, reluctant, almost apologetic, as though the speaker hadn’t just dismantled him in front of half the keep. “You’re too stiff. You think far too long before you act. With habits like that, you’d be lucky to survive the first round.” Brannan bit down hard enough to taste blood. This was meant to be his triumph! The Duel of Spellswords was to be his ascent... and instead some Anirian thing had snapped his arm like kindling and now dared to lecture him.
He pushed himself upright with his good arm, once-golden hair matted with dirt and sweat, and glared at the man beside his employer. “You… you aren’t human,” he spat. “None of you Anirian freaks are.” The man smiled. A long scar tugged at the corner of his mouth, half-hidden beneath his beard. His pale blue eyes lit, not with anger, but with something like fond remembrance.
“Oh, believe me,” Henk said quietly, “I know.”
“Fuk’sakes, Henk,” came a groan beside him. “You could go a little easier on my boys, couldn’t you?”
Earland Redwood looked more dwarf than man: thick through the shoulders, round of face, a braided red beard reaching his navel. In truth, he was a conman, infamous in Alliria’s darker corners for schemes that promised renown with minimal effort.
They watched McDormick stagger toward the keep in search of a healer. His defeat earned little notice; the courtyard buzzed with sparring steel and shouted drills, every mind fixed on the coming Tournament of Tides and Duel of Spellswords.
Henk sighed. He’d grown less fickle about violence with purpose, but sport had never held his interest. Not to mention that what passed for competition here was… underwhelming.
That he was here at all, trading blows with starry-eyed neophytes, was owed solely to the broad-shouldered man at his side.
“You asked me to test their readiness, Earland,” Henk said, already turning away. “You never asked me to lie.”
“I asked you to keep them breathing and useful,” he shot back. Then, lowering his voice just enough to keep it between them, he added, “And I asked you to be here at all, didn’t I? After everything I didn’t say.”
Henk stopped.
Only for a moment, but it was enough.
“The idea of buying victories with hired muscle is foolish enough,” Henk continued cooly, “but wasting coin on men like McDormick makes it far worse.”
Earland scoffed, folding his arms. “You’re judging them by your freaky Dreadlord standards. Not everyone’s a walkin’ cavalry like you and your kind.”
Henk waved him off, armored hand dismissive as he headed for the inner city. “I’m stepping away. You want a champion? Bring me a better man.”
Earland’s protests faded behind him.
The tension in Henk’s shoulders lingered as he passed through the gate. He rolled his scarred jaw, already feeling the itch of old habits, and the call of quiet places, low voices, and something warm and familiar to drown out the noise in his head.
He'd return to deal with Earland soon enough; the man was bound to throw more bodies his way. His only fear was that he'd end up punching a hole in one of them. He needed a distraction.
And Alliria, mercifully, never lacked for distractions.
Samantha Black
Ser Brannan McDormick of Oban hissed the words through clenched teeth as a knee ground into his temple, pinning his skull against the cold stone of Allir Keep’s courtyard. The instant the surrender left his mouth, the pressure vanished. His assailant rose, merciful as a priest after confession.
Brannan’s arm hit the ground with a dull thud. Panic flared as he realized he couldn’t feel it, and worse, that he hadn’t noticed when it broke. In the fog of sweat, blood, and bruised pride, he’d charged headlong into his opponent.
And struck a brick wall.
“You aren’t ready.”
The voice came from above, reluctant, almost apologetic, as though the speaker hadn’t just dismantled him in front of half the keep. “You’re too stiff. You think far too long before you act. With habits like that, you’d be lucky to survive the first round.” Brannan bit down hard enough to taste blood. This was meant to be his triumph! The Duel of Spellswords was to be his ascent... and instead some Anirian thing had snapped his arm like kindling and now dared to lecture him.
He pushed himself upright with his good arm, once-golden hair matted with dirt and sweat, and glared at the man beside his employer. “You… you aren’t human,” he spat. “None of you Anirian freaks are.” The man smiled. A long scar tugged at the corner of his mouth, half-hidden beneath his beard. His pale blue eyes lit, not with anger, but with something like fond remembrance.
“Oh, believe me,” Henk said quietly, “I know.”
“Fuk’sakes, Henk,” came a groan beside him. “You could go a little easier on my boys, couldn’t you?”
Earland Redwood looked more dwarf than man: thick through the shoulders, round of face, a braided red beard reaching his navel. In truth, he was a conman, infamous in Alliria’s darker corners for schemes that promised renown with minimal effort.
They watched McDormick stagger toward the keep in search of a healer. His defeat earned little notice; the courtyard buzzed with sparring steel and shouted drills, every mind fixed on the coming Tournament of Tides and Duel of Spellswords.
Henk sighed. He’d grown less fickle about violence with purpose, but sport had never held his interest. Not to mention that what passed for competition here was… underwhelming.
That he was here at all, trading blows with starry-eyed neophytes, was owed solely to the broad-shouldered man at his side.
“You asked me to test their readiness, Earland,” Henk said, already turning away. “You never asked me to lie.”
“I asked you to keep them breathing and useful,” he shot back. Then, lowering his voice just enough to keep it between them, he added, “And I asked you to be here at all, didn’t I? After everything I didn’t say.”
Henk stopped.
Only for a moment, but it was enough.
“The idea of buying victories with hired muscle is foolish enough,” Henk continued cooly, “but wasting coin on men like McDormick makes it far worse.”
Earland scoffed, folding his arms. “You’re judging them by your freaky Dreadlord standards. Not everyone’s a walkin’ cavalry like you and your kind.”
Henk waved him off, armored hand dismissive as he headed for the inner city. “I’m stepping away. You want a champion? Bring me a better man.”
Earland’s protests faded behind him.
The tension in Henk’s shoulders lingered as he passed through the gate. He rolled his scarred jaw, already feeling the itch of old habits, and the call of quiet places, low voices, and something warm and familiar to drown out the noise in his head.
He'd return to deal with Earland soon enough; the man was bound to throw more bodies his way. His only fear was that he'd end up punching a hole in one of them. He needed a distraction.
And Alliria, mercifully, never lacked for distractions.
Samantha Black
