Sword gripped in a hand with swelling knuckles, face stained with blood, the petitioner grinned and experimentally swung his sword again with all the same lack of grace and coordination he had through the fight.
“I don’t believe we are finished.” He said, staring Vilkas in the eye and attempting to knuckle away the blood that was staining his dark goatee. “These tests are supposed to be the best out of three… Right?”
Internally groaning, Vilkas did his absolute best in keeping his annoyance from his features. The petitioner was right. While technically none of the others who had made the previous attempts had bothered to try more than once, and accepted the outcome and the beating that came with it, this one seemed to be a glutton for punishment.
Five thousand years gave birth to all sorts of traditions, and for a group that prided itself on maintaining such things, and their collective honour, there were many things that Vilkas didn’t agree with. The ruling that all training, testing and practice bouts were to continue until one side admitted defeat, or one opponent achieved victory two out of three times was one of the oldest, and needed to be abided by.
"Fine." There was no denying his weariness, he had sparred three others already in the past hour and none had managed to win a single round against him. Obviously the skull of this individual was a lot thicker than the others, but it would be highly dishonourable not to extend the privilege of a second thrashing to this jumped up, ignorant, and foolhardy peasant.
Rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck he sighed again, not allowing the sigh to be audible to his opponent or any of the spectators. The worst part of all this was that Vilkas knew that the petitioner's desire to lose again, wasn’t the source of his annoyance. Normally he would’ve applauded such a drive, and willingness to continue on against a superior adversary, but the past weeks had left him feeling penned in. Trapped. Stuck within a city on edge and reeking of fear of another dragon coming to burn homes and slaughter families. Vilkas wanted to hunt. To roam free and let the wolf within him taste his prey, but with the Valtheim and southern passes unseasonably blocked by avalanches there was nowhere to go. Especially how winter’s imminent arrival meant that large portions of the Northern Holds would be difficult to travel.
Under the guise of giving his opponent some time to prepare, Vilkas readied himself, readjusting some of the straps of his armour while he allowed his mind to wander. Everything had changed with the dragon, and while he would never admit to fear, he knew that he was uneasy. The avalanches, the rolling, thunderous shout from the Throat of the World had been a summoning, an announcement, a proclamation of something that hadn’t occurred in Skyrim for hundreds of years.
Dovahkiin. Every Nordic child was raised on the stories of the greatest of Skyrim’s heroes, especially those of the Dragonborn gifted by the gods with the powers of the dragons of old and who ate the souls of the great lizards. Dragons had been extinct for thousands of years but the connotations of a dragon returning, the rumours of more appearing throughout Skyrim, and the shout that had occurred at the moment of the dragon’s defeat was not a coincidence. There were some that believed that the shout was calling for the return of the Dovahkiin to face off against their ancestral enemies, but Vilkas believed he knew better. If the stories and rumours were to be believed, one of Jarl Bulgruuf’s retinue had personally slain the dragon and was, in fact, a Dovahkiin of old. A legend was in the making, that was for certain. Otherwise the Greybeards, the holiest mystic-hermits living in isolation in their monastery at the Throat of the World’s peak wouldn’t have undone their centuries of isolation. Especially not with a shout that had destroyed roofs and broken buildings across Whiterun, and had been heard throughout Skyrim.
Yet, here he was, practically brawling with men and women who could barely tell which end of a sword to hold. It was almost unfair, but he wouldn’t slight his honour by doing anything less than his very best.
The growing amusement from the crowd was increasing as the petitioner tried his best to hold his sword with swollen knuckles, laughter echoing softly at the sight. But, just as Vilkas was about to commence the second bout, a voice echoed across the training yards.
"Hey Kaius! Since when are you left-handed?"
Among those watching, Vilkas' eyes focussed on the short brunette who had almost managed to breach his guard earlier, and the way that she was casually leaning back in her seat. For anyone else of lesser discipline and self control it would have been highly distracting, and several members of the crowd were more interested in her than the imminent defeat of the petitioner for a second time. There was something different here. The other petitioners and Companions were laughing and making jokes at the expense of the man facing Vilkas, but the young woman had called out to him directly.
They obviously knew each other, which was unusual. The young woman had a natural talent with a sword that was as impressive as her looks, but the man was about as dexterous and capable as a rock.
“How else am I supposed to improve?” Turning his attention back to Vilkas, the goateed petitioner gave the Companion a fierce smile before deftly juggling the sword from his left to his right hand. “If I don’t at least try, then I’ll never get better with it.”
Like all of the training weapons, the iron broadsword in the petitioner’s hand was less of a weapon and more of a hunk of raw iron hammered into the shape of a blade. It was the sort of weapon that a smith, especially a master like Eorland, could hammer out in an hour out of cast offs and useless metal. It was, however, perfectly suited for sparring without the risk of mortal injuries. Dull edged, impossible to sharpen, and yet strong and sturdy enough to remain intact through the worst kinds of abuse at the hands of amateurs, it was only a few degrees of separation away from a metal stick. Yet, before his eyes, Vilkas watched how his opponent grasped it as though it was a custom, skyforge-steel sword made specifically for him.
Farkas had been uneasy from the moment he laid eyes on this man, and now the wolf within Vilkas growled in warning at the changes swapping hands made on the way he carried himself. Broadsword now in his right hand, his stance subtly shifted, gaining a stronger, more secure footing, his weight lifting and where there had been clumsiness and ineptitude, was now a graceful, light footed adversary.
Something was wrong here, and it didn’t take a warrior with his years of experience to notice it, and become wary. Despite being the first person to have almost successfully gotten one over him in months, if not years, he had already forgotten her name. Sophie? Sypha? He had never been in the habit of remembering any of the new members as a lot of them had the habit of being killed in the first months, but there was something that niggled at his brain. Kaius… Where had he heard that name before?
Shrugging, he pushed the thought into the back of his mind. Whiterun was a city of over seventy thousand and it was impossible for any one man to know of all of those who called it home. By all the Gods, if the rumours of Whiterun being home to a dragonborn were true, then no one even knew what they looked like. Rumours being rumours though, given another week or two there would be tales of how the dovahkiin was twenty metres tall, rode dragons like they were horses, and shot lightning bolts from his arse.
Of all the people in the crowd there was one who reacted differently at the teasing words from the young woman. So focussed on what he intended to be a quick lesson of pain for his opponent, Vilkas entirely missed the way that Farkas had straightened and was no longer leaning against the training dummy. In fact, he entirely missed the way his brother was staring in recognition, and with actual concern on his face, as Vilkas and Kaius faced each other down for a second time.
"Alright. Let's get this over with."
The grin on Kaius's face grew larger at Vilkas’ words, lowering himself while readying his blade across his body and resting it lightly against his left vambrace. There was nothing to show of the man who Vilkas had just so effortlessly beaten, and Vilkas couldn't help but notice the wolf within him was instinctively raising its hackles.
If Vilkas didn’t know any better, he would have sworn that his opponent had been replaced with a doppleganger, swapped out by the gods in the moment between blinks. Obviously, his left hand was his non-dominant hand, but now, wielding the training sword in his right, all of the issues, problems and terrible techniques were gone. It was almost like watching a cart load of painted ceramic shards being poured on the ground and creating a mosaic.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
Kaius struck first, moving onto the offensive as he had previously but Vilkas was waiting for what he expected to be a strong, but ineffective opening blow. It was a similar technique to many of the others in the previous bout; a powerful, quick curving slice that twisted almost into a thrust and Vilkas countered it the same way. A flick of his wrist, the impact of metal on metal to deflect the strike, and a light step to counter, but in a split second of horror the blade twisted and snaked as though it was alive.
Before he had even realised what was happening he and Kaius had traded several blows, and Vilkas was moving very, very quickly. Instincts honed from years in the service of the Companions were allowing him to react and protect himself before his conscious mind had caught up with the realisation that this was not the same fight as before. The opening strike had been a feint, and he nearly fell for it, his shield and sword stopping the dulled edge of Kaius’s training sword only a centimetre away from the gorget protecting this throat, and it was quickly one of a dozen or more strikes that put him on the back foot.
Broadsword met sword and shield, clashing and striking with incredible blows and a hush fell hard over the courtyard as petitioner and Companion alike watched as the two fighters ceased holding anything back. Vilkas was one of the greatest members of the Companions, a prodigy, and equalled only by the likes of Farkas, Aela, Skjor and the other members of the Circle. From the ash-wastes of Morrowind, to the rocky heights of the eastern mountains of High Rock, Vilkas had hunted and slain everything that walked, crawled, swam or flew. Yet, faced with a man in recently purchased steel armour and wielding a crude training sword he was… struggling.
Somehow, it was almost as though Kaius's training sword was magnetically attracted to his vitals, the point and the edge weaving in and around his increasingly rapid counters, parries and blocks with his shield, and Vilkas found himself gritting his teeth in concentration. His skills were honed to a razor's edge, his hunter's instincts enhanced with the Circle’s ‘gift’ and his skill with the ‘Sword and Board’ as his brother called it, was unmatched. Kaius was almost making him out to be some young whelp still wet behind the ears.
The ringing of metal between them was suddenly, and abruptly drowned out by his sudden and powerful roar, as Vilkas shifted onto the offensive. Every vein was afire now, his blood running hot with the wolf and despite himself, Vilkas could feel himself smiling. It had been a while since he had been challenged and Kaius was certainly proving to be one. Blows were turned aside or parried by Vilkas’ blade and shield, while returning his own stabs, cuts and slices that rolled together into a swirl of violence. Kaius however, appeared just as adaptable and capable.
Without a shield, and reliant upon his slightly longer broadsword, he soon proved his agility and control as he not only ducked and weaved in and around Vilkas’ attacks, but relied heavily on his armoured forearms to deflect and parry blows. Each and every time that Vilkas managed to break past Kaius's flashing sword for a lunge or thrust it would be knocked aside, and on at least one occasion Kaius had managed to slap the flat edge of blade away with the palm of his left hand.
Ripostes and counterattacks flowed from parries and deflections, stabs and swings would roll into others and every observer was leaning forward in silent interest as they witnessed the two of them fight. Breaths would be caught and held, gasps of astonishment, or murmurs of appreciation of the displayed skill but there was no cheering or chanting. Each and every single person present was watching intently, seeing something that most had never witnessed before.
Vilkas was also experiencing and witnessing things he hadn’t. Kaius's skill with a blade was superb, but both of the men were sweating profusely now from the sustained effort, neither backing down a single centimetre while circling the training yard. Several times Vilkas would have sworn that his opponent had overextended or had left an opening for him to exploit, only to find that it had been a perfectly set ruse to draw him in. Other times, blows that he thought were set to be 'killing blows' had been nothing more than feints to force him into raising his shield just that little higher than normal, or to deflect it further away. Each time he did so, he would find himself hard pressed to keep the dulled edge of Kaius's training sword away from him.
The water of Kaius's movements was flowing down and around Vilkas’ rock of defence, every move graceful and transferring all the momentum and energy of each strike into the next. Such was his skill that he was able to harness the energy from Vilkas’ parries and deflections and feed it into the next strike without pause. Soon, the fight was transformed until it was a never ending assault of twirling strikes, flicking stabs and lightning quick ripostes that were soon joined with fists and feet.
Every part of Kaius's body was a weapon and Vilkas was suddenly very glad that he was wearing his wolf plate. If he hadn’t decided on showing what a member of the Circle could do in full armour it would have been very likely that he would be waking up the next day with a larger collection of bruises than normal. It allowed him to soak up the punishment, and allow him to use his slightly larger build and more heavily armoured body to absorb the impacts from Kaius's increasing rapid strikes of fists and feet. Blows were deflected or absorbed, punches and kicks were redirected to solid parts of his armour, but always his own sword was seeking a gap in Kaius's defence.
Neither fighter could keep up such a pace indefinitely, until Kaius managed to block a downward strike of Vilkas’ sword on a noticeably battered vambrace, rolling his arm in such a way that left Vilkas stunned for a fraction of a second too long. Kaius had practically managed to wrap his arm around Vilkas’ sword, twisting it aside and almost catching the naked blade in the palm of his gloved hand while opening Vilkas for a riposte. With all the speed of a bolt of magicka, Kaius's own sword plunged through the gap in Vilkas’ defence, flicking his wolfs-head gorget with a clink of metal on metal that had it been a centimetre higher would have resulted in a crushed windpipe.
Even with a training sword it was a mortal blow, one that had it been a real, sharpened sword would’ve taken Vilkas’ throat away in a spray of crimson. If it hadn’t been for his armour, and his opponents precision in purposefully not killing him, it might still have been one, especially if Kaius had been any less skilled than he was. In that tiny moment of realisation, Vilkas knew that had he made this mistake with Kaius in a real battle he would have found himself in Hircine's eternal hunting grounds before he realised he was already dead. Farkas had been absolutely right on how dangerous Kaius was. No one outside of the circle had accomplished such a feat in a one on one fight for a very, very long time.
As though he was reading his mind and seeing the fraction of a second’s hesitation, Kaius continued, dropping, continuing his spin, and throwing Vilkas onto his back in a clattering thud of metal. The tiniest of hints of weakness in his stance had been taken advantage of, and Kaius had managed to knock him down by kicking his legs out from under him, with all the effectiveness of a dwemer blade trap.
The ground slammed hard into his back, knocking the wind from his chest despite the protection of his armour and its layers of leather and chainmail. He had been downed, something that no one had managed to accomplish outside of the Circle and even then, not for months at least. The surprise hurt more than the impact or the wound to his pride, finding it slightly difficult to breathe from the impact but not for a moment releasing or relaxing his grip on his sword or shield. There was a pressure though, something heavy and weighted on his wrist and a metallic tapping against the metal protecting his throat.
Standing over him, blotting out the sun, Vilkas could see the enormous grin on Kaius's face. He was standing on Vilkas’ swordarm, his own sword tapping against the wolf-head gorget as a casual threat, and also the ultimate sign of who won this bout.
“It is definitely the best out of three for these… right?”
Silence had descended on Jorrvaskr and its training yards, and even from his position on his back Vilkas could see the astonished expressions of those who had witnessed the bout. It had been over in only a couple of minutes, but the intensity had been shocking even for some of the more veteran shield-brethren. No one was speaking, no one clapped or reacted beyond staring in amazement at the fight and its outcome. Only the young woman who had come with Kaius was reacting in any other way than shock, lightly clapping in a seemingly sarcastic manner before turning to collect her winnings from her bets made with those nearby.
A hand with swelling knuckles under leather glove appeared above Vilkas’ face, replacing the training blade hovering near his throat as Kaius leaned forward and offered him assistance to rise. For a moment his wounded pride fought with his winded body, before he reached up and accepted the assistance with his shield-arm.
“It’s been a few years since I had a fight like that.” Kaius said simply, his grin, the same cocksure grin he had been wearing through both bouts remaining on his face.
“It has been the same for me.” The truth came out and Vilkas spoke it without hesitation, looking at the way Kaius held himself, that was entirely at odds with his incompetent, uncoordinated mannerisms only a short time before. “I don’t think I have ever had anyone trick me that well before either.”
“I will take that as a compliment.” There was humour in Kaius's tone as he stepped away from Vilkas, and gave him a chance to steady himself. “All warfare is based on deception afterall.”
“And the best techniques are passed on by the survivors.” Vilkas replied, studying Kaius with a more practiced, suspicious eye as he returned the quote of Gaiden Shinji with another from the famed Redguard blademaster’s from the First Era.
“Are you fit for another bout? Or would you prefer to call it even, with one victory apiece?”
The lighthearted taunt, the grinning, confident smile on Kaius's face wasn’t mocking or teasing in the slightest, and Vilkas snorted in amusement.
“Traditions must be maintained, and honour demands nothing less.” He replied, moving over and standing at his starting position opposite Kaius, who gave a few experimental twirls of his training sword that had none of the sloppy technique from before. “I am ready when you are.”
Excitement now was building, and out of the corner of his eye he could see young woman, Sofia taking bets from a crowd of petitioners, and even other members of the companions including Aela. Vilkas didn’t want to know what the other member of the Circle was betting, but he had a suspicion that the shield-maiden wasn’t betting on him. There was however, someone else who caught his attention.
Out of everyone, only Farkas didn't seem shocked at the outcome as he leaned against the training dummy. All of the unease and tension had left the giant Companion, and he was watching as Vilkas gripped his sword and tested how secure his shield was on his arm in preparation of the third bout. Vilkas however found himself meeting his enormous brother’s gaze, seeing Farkas’ wolfish grin and the tap...tap...tap... of a finger against his nose.
Blood of Dragons Volume 5 - Trust your Nose
