Battleship versus Corsair

  In the long game of war, every piece has its purpose. Throughout the kingdoms, Knight Generals shape their lords’ defenses. Yet without their Knight Colonels, Captains, and Lieutenants to command the ranks directly on the field, what good would those plans do? Thus, even a footman, archer, corporal, or sergeant may become the indispensable man—given the right moment and the right training.

  And this does not even account for the efforts of our Empire’s Captain-of-Arms, Lord Captain Commander, and Master Bladesmaster, who serve at the Emperor’s own side. Should trouble march toward our lands, we will ensure it falls properly dead.

  — Imperial Martial Philosophy Overview, Imperial Archives, 605 I.C.

  The Wild One stepped into the arena clad in a mixture of forest greens and autumn yellows, a light chain coif draped over his tunic. He wore thin deerskin boots, and in his right hand carried a cloth-wrapped longsword. His long black hair was braided tightly behind his elegantly arched ears, and his face bore streaks of pigment—browns, ochres, and greys—made from tree barks and loam. With his painted visage and silent, measured gait, the elven warrior looked more wraith than man, a specter conjured from the depths of the wild.

  He strode forward with eyes locked on the larger figure approaching from across the sand.

  Though the arena floor sat a full fifty feet below the first row of seats, the elf’s keen ears caught more than one murmured remark about his savage appearance.

  Captain Ean Ogrebane entered the arena undaunted. His eyes met the elf’s as he walked, calm and unflinching. He had shaved that morning, but already a scruff of dark whiskers shadowed his cheeks and chin. He wore the formal uniform of the Captain-of-Arms of Jerrico: a white shirt beneath his sleeved chain-mail coif, and a sleeveless tunic marked with the royal stag wreathed in a ring of orange flame.

  His trousers were bright white, fastened with a black belt bearing a silver buckle, again the royal stag, this time encircled by gold flames, wrought in gleaming metal.

  In his massive hands, he carried a broadsword nearly as long as the elf was tall. Designed for two-handed combat, the blade was yet wielded by Ean with ease, whether in one hand or two, a testament to the captain's infamous strength.

  As the trumpets sounded twice, the two combatants turned and each bowed to the emperor’s balcony in a show of respect. They then pivoted and mirrored the gesture toward one another. A third trumpet blast signaled the start, and both began to advance with grim determination.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Ean struck first, launching into a staggering array of one-handed thrusts and slashes, each designed to unbalance, overwhelm, and batter the lighter elf into submission.

  But Portean was ready.

  He parried each blow with practiced grace, his footwork precise, his stance firm.

  Then, with a sudden shift, the Wild One turned the tide. His blade snapped forward in three rapid jabs aimed at the captain’s midsection. For a heartbeat, it seemed Ean’s bulk might slow him, but that illusion shattered as the larger man spun to the side, avoiding the first two strikes, then brought his broadsword down in a sweeping arc that collided with the elf’s blade with bone-shaking force.

  The clang of steel rang out across the arena.

  Portean’s sword flew from his grip, tumbling end over end before skidding to a stop nearly ten feet away.

  Without hesitation, the elf threw his smaller frame into Ean, grappling to keep the captain from reclaiming control. Fists flew, swift and relentless. Ean managed to dodge several, but not all—three landed squarely in his gut, each one driving the breath from his lungs. A final uppercut snapped his head back, nearly toppling the hulking man.

  Before Ean could recover, the Wild One flipped backward and dashed to retrieve his fallen weapon.

  The match raged on, both combatants giving one another a wide berth of respect and restraint. The silence in the enormous arena was staggering, an ocean of breath held in suspense. Every soul sat perched on the edge of their seat, watching the masters at work.

  Time passed. The duel grew fiercer with every exchange, until the arena floor became a whirlwind of fists, feet, and flashing blades.

  Portean moved with the same fluid grace as ever—composed, calculating, and terrifyingly fast. But the signs of strain began to show in Captain Ogrebane. His defenses slowed. It took all his skill to parry the ceaseless barrage from the ranger’s thinner blade. Sweat poured down his frame, glistening off his armor and pooling along his furrowed brow.

  Then, with a roar of pure fury, Ean swung his sword in a great arc around his head and brought it crashing down in a desperate attempt to break the ranger’s rhythm.

  The attack was mistimed.

  Portean struck instantly, ramming the hilt of his blade into the captain’s ribs, then spinning and slamming his free arm into the giant’s broad back. The combined force—and the momentum of Ean’s own blade—was too much to counter. Like a great battleship capsizing under its own weight, the captain stumbled forward, driven down by the weight of his sword.

  Portean’s blade cracked across his back once. Twice. A third time. In a true battle, the strikes would have cleaved spine from flesh.

  A thunderous roar erupted from the stands.

  Even the royal balcony rose to its feet, the emperor himself joining in the applause. Stomps echoed through the arena. Cheers, claps, and whistles rained down like hail.

  As the dust settled, the Wild One extended a hand to the fallen captain. Though the fire of frustration still burned in Ean’s eyes, he took the hand, pulled himself to his feet, and barked a great laugh. Then, with a grin, he slapped the elf firmly on the back in a gesture of hard-earned camaraderie.

  Portean’s banner was raised to a fresh wave of cheers, but the battle was forgotten. The two warriors now rested side by side near the edge of the arena, speaking like old friends—or like two boys who had fought and, in the end, found something to admire in the other.