Steel on steel has a particular ringing sound that I was already getting sick of back then. These days I can’t even hear it without getting angry, and an angry Hero is something few people like being in the presence of.

  If there was one benefit to the crowd it was that I could hardly hear the sounds of my blade hitting my opponent’s, on the other hand it did me little good in staving off his attack. Every moment I gave a few more inches. The difference of skill between us wasn’t big; if either of us could have our abilities assessed in arm-lengths, mere fingers separated them.

  But it was enough.

  A losing fight wasn’t something I was unaccustomed to anymore, that was one of the few benefits of spending months constantly near death. The edge of my life being on the line might have helped here, more than hurt. That extra focus and speed would’ve come in handy. For him, too, mind. But my thoughts were idling, scattering. I needed to concentrate.

  Somehow, I found myself doing so even as I went over the past few days. As if my consciousness had split apart and diverted half of itself to the physical task of duelling and defence while directing the other to my idle ruminations.

  Parry, thrust, feint, parry, parry, parry, retreat, more fucking parrying. Shit, I’d lost the offensive. For the first time in a long time I was being forced to fall back from my opponent.

  I wasn’t hungover anymore, and the aches of my day had subsided without my even realising it, but here was a man well beyond my equal. I was being pushed closer to the edge of the ring and if I stepped out it would be considered a touch on his benefit. He knew it too, we had maybe two paces before that came, so I panicked and lunged.

  Luck was on my side and showing its favouritism clearly, my opponent was a hair too slow and had my blunted blade scrape along his side as he smacked it away. The touch was sighted, declared in my favour, and we split back apart to our respective corners. I moved as I waited, loosening my joints, preparing myself for another bout.

  He’d surprised me the first time, and though he was better the difference was not as great as I might have feared. I needed to just focus and—

  The next bout began and he was charging with an aggression he’d not shown before, it matched mine well. If we’d been exchanging blows by the second before then they were coming by the eyeblink now, blurring metal bars whipping between us and clattering with every deflection. I was actually holding my ground, finding the man somewhat worse on holding an attack than he was on pressing it forwards, and enjoyed my heightened performance as we shuffled around the fencing ground, driving each other one way and the other.

  Obviously, the crowd loved it. I gathered both of us had shown similarly dominant performances in previous bouts, and seeing us equal one another now was setting the spectators almost to frenzy.

  Come to think of it, it pushed me almost to frenzy too. I felt somehow untethered from my body, detached, like I was watching my own bout from some vantage place high above it. I barely even noticed when my enemy’s sword came down on the back of my hand and his touch was declared.

  We were tied, now. Not good. I’d lost my lead and he seemed far more confident than after the first round. We were back at it shortly, and he scored another touch that brought him just one away from winning. I managed to even things again at the start of our next exchange.

  Both of us sitting at two, we were looking for the final round.

  Neither he nor I was eager as we approached now, caution settling over not only the ring, but the wider stadium at large. Everyone seemed to be falling into some kind of stupor, as if the spectators were absorbing the tension of the fighters and forced into mirroring our thoughts.

  If they were fully mirroring our thoughts, of course, they’d have all looked a great deal stupider. There really are few things in this world as empty as the skull of a high level fencer, and me and my opponent were proving that fact beyond any doubt as our focus deepened.

  My feet moved without any input from the brain attached to them, simply seating themselves wherever was best and doing so without a moment’s delay each second. My arm was tired, but steady and strong as a bar of iron, and though I caught myself breathing heavily I kept the air cycling consistently through my lungs with only the barest thought. At times in the past, I’d thought myself in some kind of combat trance. Now I knew better. This was real focus, the world resting on a knife’s edge, and I wouldn’t overbalance it just yet.

  Nor, it seemed, would my opponent.

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  I stared at every inch of him simultaneously while we fought, barely daring to blink as steel flew and flashed, listened to the sound of impacting swords come so fast they all seemed to form a single continuous note. Then the mistake came, a small thing, subtle, crucial. Fingers slipped, an opening widened, and a blow landed. The match was won.

  Gasping, I felt all the strength drain out of me at once as I was declared the winner. The grin that spread across my face came unbidden, but it was nice to feel one not borne from terror for a change.

  My name was echoing out all over again, and as I walked—more stumbled, really, as the exhaustion suddenly piled onto me—back to to the stands, I saw Gruin and Devyne standing and grinning with the rest.

  Gruin, in particular, seemed pleased. Pleased enough that I knew it couldn’t possibly be over something as petty as my performance alone. Sure enough when I reached him, he had a sizable bag of coins which he had not before.

  “Not a bad fight,” he grunted, trying and failing to seem as grumpy as usual, “even if it was done with those piddly little tickle-sticks you humans like to use so much.”

  Right, anything under ten pounds was a toy so far as Grynkori weapons were concerned.

  This time, we didn’t go out and get drunk. This was despite the fact that I suggested it as subtly as I could manage, and then suggested it rather less subtly several more times. In the end, Gruin realised something was off and glared up at me.

  “What the bloody fuck are you so insistant on getting pissed up for?” he demanded, looking as intimidating as any man could when his head came only up to the bottom of my chest. Having seen him fight before, that was just plenty on my account. I kept myself calm while answering, barely.

  “I went to see the Thaumaturge today,” I replied.

  That immediately intensified Gruin’s anger, and I saw, much to my chagrin, that Devyne seemed to be taking note of the fact, and responded only by backing away from the two of us quick as he could. I still hadn’t forgotten that little shit freezing up and letting Gruin and I fight that pub brawl without aid, seemed that would be a pattern of his behaviour.

  But there wasn’t chance to worry about that now, not while I was being glared at by the most violent creature within several dozen miles.

  “I’m going to be very angry when you finish telling me what happened, aren’t I?” Gruin asked, with, I had to admit, quite a remarkable touch of calm to his voice. It wasn’t reassuring, I knew perfectly well he could be frigidly calm and volcanically wrathful at the same time with no contradiction at all. If anything the states complimented one another in him.

  Eventually I swallowed my cowardice, easily the biggest thing to ever pass my lips, and told him. I told him about the Thaumaturge, the meeting, and how I’d been strong-armed into accepting an apprenticeship. As I might have predicted, Gruin was rather upset. He let me know this fact by thumping me in the belly as soon as I was done talking.

  Being struck in the guts by an arm as heavy as most men’s legs is not the worst blow I’d taken, but it was still far from anything I’d gotten accustomed to. I folded over and started retching on the ground, heart pounding in my ears and limbs weak.

  “What the fuck were you thinking!?” Gruin roared, while I just lay there groaning and convulsing, trying to hold my dinner in. Yesterday’s dinner, as it happened, I hadn’t eaten in a while and that lapse was rather reassuring now. What little vomit I did squirt out was mostly liquefied bile.

  “I…Had…no…choice…” I fought for every word as I blinked up at him through teary eyes, unable to see his face and far from a skilled appraiser of Grynkori expressions even when my vision wasn’t sheeted in distortive tears. From his voice, though, I could feel the anger mounting rather than receding, as if he were some great elemental storm needing time and space to properly work his way up to the fullest extremes.

  He had both now.

  “Oi, what’s going on here?” I looked to the source of the new voice and found a guard approaching, which, contrary to what you might think, was far from a reassuring sight. I didn’t want any sort of law enforcement to get involved here, simply because if Gruin escalated things into a killing fight it would be my name recorded down next to his in the margins.

  “We’re fine,” I spat, trying to swallow the stomach acid scorching my tongue and straighten myself up against the protests of groaning muscles, “just getting a bit excited with our celebrations.”

  “Celebration…” the man seemed confused for a moment, then I saw his face light up with recognition, “oh bloody fuck, you’re Kyvaine!?”

  Being recognised in such a way, let alone by a guard, and inspiring such obvious awe was far from a usual experience for me.

  I got over my disquiet quickly enough, and forced a smile. “Please keep your voice down, sir, I’m trying to avoid being swarmed by spectators, you understand?”

  As was so often the case, it seemed I’d chosen the right thing to say, because the man’s face lit up in understanding and he was nodding fast.

  “Right, of course,” he said with a smile, “is…everything alright here?”

  It was a far more positive interaction than I’d grown used to having with guards, and quite a nice change. I didn’t let myself get too distracted by that fact though, a friendly guard could still cause problems if he asked the wrong questions. Particularly when Gruin was eternally one syllable away from removing someone’s head with his hammer.

  “All fine here, as I said we were just celebrating a bit, got out of hand,” I shot a glare at Gruin that wasn’t entirely for show, “my friend here seems to forget how bloody big his arms are, or how to moderate his voice.”

  For a second I was worried that Gruin would destroy my efforts at smoothing things over by throwing himself into another fit of rage, but, by some miracle, he remained quiet. The guard seemed to calm somewhat, and it was Devyne speaking up that furthered that.

  “I must ask your forgiveness, my good man,” the noble added, “we’ll try to be quieter from hereon out.”

  Apparently recognising he was in the presence of aristocracy, the guard quickly stiffened up further and started taking his leave.

  “No issues at all, sir,” he hastily added, then departed with another nod and a smile.

  Leaving me essentially alone with Gruin once more.

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