Of Singing Blades

  “Humans, here? I wonder what they hope to accomplish?”

  “Quiet, Delieanah, do you not know who they are?”

  “I do not, should I be impressed?”

  “That is the Heir Apparent of the Obsidian Throne, Ivan Darius Ozewrath and his guard. If you cannot show proper respect, at least do not disgrace us. The Council invited him to train with us as a gesture of camaraderie.”

  — conversation between Swiftfalcon Ranger Delieanah Ib’ianote and Swiftfalchon Ranger Ellren Oa’runue, 217 I.C.

  Portean stood clad once more in his familiar garb of forest greens and autumn yellows. War paint striped his face as it had before, and his dark hair was tightly braided. In his right hand, he carried a slim longsword, still wrapped in cloth.

  He stared straight ahead, unwavering—his gaze locking with the same cold intensity as the knight across from him.

  Biaun Greyblood remained in his black attire, a living shadow coiled in restrained fury. His trimmed mustache and cropped beard framed a grim scowl, and his gray eyes fixed on the elf like a predator sizing up its prey. There was no sign of the great claymore he had wielded earlier. For this match, he carried a lighter longsword in his left hand—its blade raised in a formal, silent challenge.

  Portean answered without a word, lifting his own blade in kind.

  Then, in perfect unison, the two warriors broke into a trot—closing the distance, blades rising, the crowd holding its collective breath as the final duel of the day began.

  They met at a dead run.

  Steel whispered through the air—but neither man found purchase. In a flash of motion too fast for the untrained eye, they flew past each other, blades singing, untouched.

  Both stopped, turned sharply, and charged again—this time with no intention of disengaging.

  Their swords clashed with a metallic cry, sparks flashing as they pressed the attack. In moments, each was little more than a blur, movement flowing into movement, feints layered atop real strikes, the precision of masters on full display.

  Portean scored first.

  His blade glanced Biaun’s aside, and his free hand snapped forward like a viper, landing a solid blow to the knight’s cheek.

  But Biaun didn’t flinch. He advanced without pause, undeterred, and soon returned the favor—his gauntleted knuckles tapping sharply against the elf’s brow.

  The match continued in relentless rhythm, with one combatant pressing the attack only to come up empty as the other slipped free and countered with an equally vicious strike.

  Sweat dripped from their faces, gleaming in the arena light—their expressions tight, calculating, and feral.

  Fatigue clawed at their limbs, but each pushed beyond his limits, launching renewed assaults at the slightest sign of weakness.

  When their duel had lasted longer than any other that day, the crowd began to murmur, the rising tide of voices thick with anticipation.

  A victor seemed close—tangible—yet still, neither warrior gave way.

  Biaun swung wide, aiming to catch the elf in the side a heartbeat after Portean’s blade had sliced past him—but the ranger’s sword snapped back in an instant, deflecting the attack and driving straight toward the knight’s chest.

  With a grunt, Biaun threw himself aside, barely avoiding the blow. He countered again—what felt like the thousandth time—and a grim realization took root: he was losing, no matter how fiercely he fought.

  In a final attempt to off-balance the elusive warrior, Biaun launched a flurry of thrusts and swept low with his leg, hoping to trip him.

  But Portean danced back effortlessly, unfazed. Then, like a striking serpent, he came forward with a sharp swing aimed at the knight’s head. Biaun rolled, the blade missing him by inches, and sprang back to his feet, facing the ranger once more.

  Above, in the stands, whispers surged like wildfire through the crowd. The skill on display was breathtaking—flawless, almost otherworldly. And even more shocking still… it appeared Lord Greyblood had finally met his match.

  The reputation of the elven rangers had long been the stuff of myth—but few had believed it. Now, stirred by disbelief and rising awe, the crowd began to rally.

  They chanted a single name: Greyblood.

  Louder. Louder still.

  As if to will their legend to rise.

  The two warriors circled, eyes locked, reading each other’s breath, their footing, the angle of a twitch. Then, without warning, they collided once more—energy returned to them in a surge of will.

  Portean was stunned by the speed and power of this human. Biaun was nearly as fast as he was—faster than any ranger Portean had ever known in the Crystal-Mist.

  Had the knight’s skill fallen even a shade below his own, this match would have ended long ago. But every strike Portean launched met Biaun’s blade—deflected, redirected, denied.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Yet now… he felt the knight’s reserves beginning to fade.

  Desperation was setting in. And desperation led to mistakes.

  With a burst of speed, Portean pressed the advantage, unleashing a flurry of lightning-quick strikes to the midsection. Biaun parried each—but the effort cost him. His footing faltered, breath catching in his chest.

  The elf began to circle, closing in for the final blow.

  But then—something changed.

  A grin tugged at the corners of the knight’s rugged face, and the slender longsword in his left hand crossed confidently to his right.

  In that instant, Portean understood.

  The knight had never truly been desperate. He’d been waiting.

  And then the smile vanished.

  What followed came faster than thought. Biaun exploded forward with terrifying speed, his strikes impossibly precise. A flurry of thrusts staggered the elf—then a bone-rattling hook dropped him to the arena floor.

  The knight stepped back, letting the ranger recover, circling like a predator savoring the hunt.

  Portean sprang to his feet and redoubled his assault, hoping that relentless movement might wear down the burly human. He led with a feint, then unleashed a storm of slashes—fierce, harrowing cuts he’d never dare use in a friendly match.

  The flurry drove Biaun back a step, but the grin lingering on the knight’s face told Portean all he needed to know: this opponent would not be cowed by ferocity.

  Another savage combination followed—and met with disaster.

  Biaun countered cleanly, forcing the elf to retreat as the knight’s slender blade came within a breath of piercing his chest. Without hesitation, the human pressed forward, turning defense into relentless pursuit. Portean danced back, foot over foot, only now realizing his best efforts were not enough.

  His breath came in ragged gasps.

  Biaun’s, by contrast, was slow. Steady. Controlled.

  The knight had found his second wind—and Portean was running out of time.

  Sensing the ranger’s end, the knight surged forward, pressing hard and forcing Portean to overextend.

  The error was slight—but Biaun was ready.

  Their blades clashed, and in that same breath, the knight stepped in, driving an elbow into the elf’s jaw. The blow staggered the agile ranger.

  Biaun spun, sweeping the elf’s feet from under him. His blade sang through the air and stopped at Portean’s chest—precise, unshaking.

  For a heartbeat, all was still.

  Then the elf realized he was seated on the arena floor, staring up at the outstretched hand of the man who had bested him.

  Above, the crowd erupted—thunder rolling across the amphitheater like storm winds sweeping the endless green of the Crystal-Mist Forest.

  They were cheering.

  Not just for Biaun.

  But for him, too.

  Biaun’s banner was raised high—but the ranger’s standard flew just beneath it, proud and undiminished.

  The elf took the offered hand, gripping it firmly, though he leaned heavily on the knight now that the rush of adrenaline had ebbed.

  His legs trembled beneath him. The duel had been the greatest match of his life—his finest performance, and still he had lost.

  He was humbled.

  As they stepped apart, Portean turned and bowed low—so low his head nearly touched the ground.

  “I will never again doubt that you are the greatest swordsman on the continent, Master Bladesmaster. Please… accept my heartfelt apology for the arrogance I showed you earlier.”

  Biaun smiled softly and placed a steadying hand on the ranger’s shoulder, then guided the thin elf toward the edge of the arena.

  “And you, good sir, have earned the right to such arrogance,” the knight replied. “I have never faced an opponent of your worth… and I pray I never must again.”

  They reached the outer wall of the arena—the cold, black stone of the Obsidian Palace cool against their backs as they sat, side by side, resting in silence while the crowd’s cheers faded to a distant thunder.

  Ean stood at the edge of the arena, arms crossed, watching the match unfold with steadily mounting irritation.

  Blast that knight, he thought, fer bein’ too proud to use his true sword hand.

  He, and only a handful of others who’d survived the Dark Wars alongside Biaun, knew the truth: the famed Bladesmaster was right-handed.

  Well—him, and maybe the poor sods who’d served under Biaun in the war’s last bloody stretch. But Ean doubted any of them had time, in all that carnage, to notice which hand their commander used to carve through the enemy.

  The fact was, in all his tournament appearances, Biaun had never needed to use his right hand to win the prize.

  And now, watching the ranger give him all he could handle, Ean nearly snorted aloud at the thought of Biaun losing this match out of sheer stubborn pride.

  But just as the old captain began to concede the fight to Portean, he saw it—the subtle shift as the knight switched the slender blade from left to right.

  A wicked grin crept across Ean’s rough, stubbled face.

  There it is.

  As if on cue, Biaun’s movements sharpened—faster, tighter, and more lethal than before. The ranger held up well against this deadlier incarnation, but it was only a matter of time.

  Within minutes, Portean was on the ground and Biaun was offering him a hand.

  Ean huffed under his breath, already beginning to trot across the arena toward them.

  “Took ye a good spell longer than it should ‘ave, ye stubborn mule.”

  “Hail, mighty warriors! And may I be the first ta congratulate ye both on a fine match—made finer only by the sight o’ yer two pretty faces,” the large captain bellowed, stomping across the arena toward the exhausted pair slumped against the obsidian wall.

  “By the pale moon Else,” he went on, “I haven’t seen a fight that vicious since I told Ove she were puttin’ on a pound here and there.”

  At that, both elf and knight turned to each other with weary eyes, then back at the grinning brute before them—only to collapse into uncontrollable laughter.

  Ean nodded, seemingly proud of the reaction, but then his gaze shifted. He glanced one way, then the other, rubbing the back of his neck with a ginger touch.

  “Come ta think of it,” he muttered, more cautiously now, “that scrap o’ hers was hands-down more vicious than anything the two o’ ye could hope ta produce.”

  He shook his head, exhaled heavily, and slid down the wall beside them.

  “Maker help me,” he grumbled under his breath. “Hope she didn’t hear that.”

  When the excitement of the crowd had finally begun to ebb and the combatants were once more ushered into the arena, Emperor Ozewrath rose to his feet and addressed the masses.

  “People of the Empire,” he began, his voice clear and resonant, “I thank you for joining us in this year’s grand competition. The Festival of New Spring is once again upon us, and I bid you all to cherish and celebrate this precious time.”

  He paused, then gestured toward Biaun, who now stood uneasily atop a small pedestal in the center of the arena.

  “But before you go, there is one among us who deserves your deepest respect and lasting gratitude.”

  A hush fell as all eyes turned to the knight below.

  “Lord Greyblood,” the emperor continued, “I am proud to call you both champion and friend. Your unwavering loyalty to the Empire will never be forgotten.”

  A tremendous cheer erupted from the crowd. The emperor waited patiently, a small smile on his lips, until the roar softened enough for him to continue.

  “Once again, you have prevailed,” he said. “You stand as a shining example of excellence and honor for all our people.”

  His gaze lingered on the warrior below.

  “It will be my privilege tonight to present you with your reward.”

  The crowd surged into applause once more, and the trumpets blared triumphantly above the din, calling for a final moment of order.

  “My thanks go out to all who competed today. As tradition demands, you are all cordially invited to the evening’s celebrations. May the Empire and her people ever thrive.”

  With that, the emperor offered a final wave, and with his family and guests close behind, descended the grand stair and departed the arena floor.