Two foes, hating each other for nought more than sport, toed the battle lines. Amethyst eyes never cared to meet the copper of her enemy but from across the two meters, and the lifetime of experiences, that stood between them; they awaited as one, for the final battle cry.
Her plan began before the fighting had even commenced. This woman, the Silken Smile, was a duellist by her very nature. Her face; unreadable. Her form; impeccable. She stood both rigid and loose. Both at ease and coiled to pounce.
Her borrowed blade seemed a little bulkier than she was used to, yet she wielded it expertly. It was a dainty little thing, with a spiralling cupped hilt and a slightly curved grip. A tool meant for flourishing and stabbing, with very little power to its slash and cut.
It seemed foolish, a sword meant for the thrust would never work against the significantly longer spear Ash carried. Though Ash couldn’t help but notice that her foe seemed utterly disinterested in her spear, while utterly enraptured by her gauntlet.
“Warriors!” The magical voice boomed over the vast crowds. “Begin.”
There was no rush, no charge. Both seemed to take the same caution, the same hesitance. This silken woman was not going to go down easily and Ash’s only obvious advantage was her superior range. Charging in would nullify that in an instant.
The Sparrow-Knight brought her spear high, the back of the shaft coming past her head while the tip pointed low and forth. It was a spear-fishing stance, meant for precision, small movements and quick thrusts.
Ash took the first tentative step. She coiled low to the ground and held her weight on her front foot as she approached. It was only as she drew near that the Smile finally moved. First, she took a deep and flourishing bow, before she sprang into action.
She dashed towards Ash with an impossible grace, both feet nearly lifting entirely from the ground. Her blade spiralled, its point circling as it tore towards Ash’s throat. Ash moved to parry the blow but, in a flash, the Smile’s boot rounded against the spear. Ash barely managed to keep it in hand, but she was forced to drop it as the blade inched towards her face. The spear fell to her left while Ash dove to the right, but it was almost too late. The blade clipped against her leather mask and took a chunk to remember her by.
Ashtik rolled backwards and sprung up to her feet. She coiled on her right foot as she drew it behind her and held her gauntleted left hand out towards her foe.
The Smile grew teeth as she twirled back and slashed her blade out again. Ash dodged back and then to the side. Once or twice, she even managed to swat the blade away with her steel-skinned hand, though it felt all too risky each time.
A voice in her mind criticized her opponent. It was Amell, he mocked her extravagant movements and excessive flourishes. He teased her for twirling and spinning in a manner more fit for a late-night dancer than a killer. She took a deep breath and formed a plan of attack.
The Smile stood in the way of her spear, and would likely hold the angle for as long as she could. Luckily, it fell to the southeast while the sun shone from the west. Ash rolled on one hand to put the late-day sun to her back in hopes of blinding her foe. It worked well enough. The woman scrunched up her nose from beneath her open-faced helm as she squinted the glare away.
“Feel free to yield. It would be a shame to ruin such a pretty face,” the Smile taunted.
“Funny. I was just about to say the exact same thing,” Ash replied.
“Oh, so you can say more than one word.”
“Sure,” Ash mocked. “Come on, get on with it. Lest you’re too scared of an unarmed woman?”
“Scared? Never,” the Smile scoffed. “I would simply rather not waste the energy required of beating you.”
“And here I thought bullshit bravado was a male affliction. You should just stick to looking pretty; you haven’t the gall for violence.”
“Awfully bold for the little girl who was too scared to so much as speak earlier.”
“Nah, I just didn’t want to confuse you. I know you ditsy gingers tend to struggle with big words.”
“Ditsy ginger? Do I look like a ginger?”
“I mean, bitch you ain’t a purple. Now hit me or kiss me, just shut the fuck up.”
“Very well, pigeon. Have at it,” the Smile snarled as she struck. The bait was easier than she had expected. Ash twisted on her right heel and pushed away the thrusting blade with her left hand while her right sought a grip on the Smile’s finely armoured chest. Once she secured a hold, she pushed herself into her enemy, and her enemy into her. She wrapped her left hand around the flailing blade and sundered it from the Smile’s grasp.
The two women tumbled to the ground in a grasping, striking bundle of breathy curses and blatant attempts at biting. The objective remained the same as before, draw blood. Ash realised that her foe had something of an advantage in that regard. Her clawlike nails struck out for Ash’s face, but when she couldn’t get her hands around Ash’s mask, she tried instead to tear away at Ash’s armour. First, she struggled against the straps of her vambrace but Ash denied her any chance to tear it off.
The white-haired huntress managed to roll atop the auburn fencer. In a contest of strength, there was no contest at all. Ash pinned the woman’s left hand down beneath her outstretched boot and her right beneath her knee.
“Yield?” Ash offered. “Or do I get to cut that pretty face? I mean, ‘have to’ cut that pretty face.”
“Fuck you,” the Smile spat.
Ash pulled back her right hand and cocked it for a punch. “Just yield,” she whispered.
“Not going to use your gauntlet?” The Smile asked with a strangely unreadable expression. She struggled beneath Ash and nearly managed to roll her off until Ash wrapped her left hand around her throat and held her still. The warm metal dug into her soft flesh and left each of her breaths laboured and difficult.
“Just yield,” Ash repeated with an almost compassionate tone.
“No,” she grinned. “Make me bleed, Champion.”
“Champion?” Ash gasped. That she knew, and that she hid so, was a more powerful blow than any she had suffered since the fight had begun. The strange shock of it threw her balance, and the Smile seized her chance to escape. She brought her boot to Ash’s chest and pushed her away with all the might she could muster before dashing away to the nearest weapon. It wasn’t her little toothpick, but Ash’s spear.
Once sense caught her, Ash did the same. She slid away and caught the thin rapier as she went.
The crowd erupted the competition returned to the battlefield. She had all but forgotten they were there, but suddenly became very aware of them now that her Championship was known.
The Smile held her spear like an amateur. Ash was glad no mirror was present to hand her the same accusation. She did her best to mimic the stance that her auburn-haired foe had held. She slid her right foot forward with the matching hand held out and the blade pointed high.
The Smile held her spear by her hip, her left hand used for leverage and her right used for power. Her left was too far forward, it denied her the range advantage, while her right was too rigid. She would have no way to properly manipulate the tip as they fought.
Ash shone a cheeky grin from beneath her mask and called out, “Wanna swap?”
“By all means, you first,” the Smile grinned back.
“Ladies first.”
“What would that make you?”
“A rough northern lass. No elegant lady.”
The Smile let a far from lady-like cackle escape her, but quickly masked it with a cough. She looked at Ash again with a veiled smirk. “Well, lassie,” she called in a false vaguely Maester Veil-ish accent, “Toss out the blade, and I’ll toss out your spear.”
“Toss the spear? You’ll probably aim for my head,” Ash scoffed.
“How dare you,” she gasped, feigning indignation. “I was going to aim for your heart!”
“How about you stick it in the ground, and I’ll do the same thing?” Ash offered.
“Sure,” the Smile snorted in the same way Ash had.
Ash made the first offer. She plunged the tip of the blade just barely into the seam between stone floor tiles before releasing the blade.
“What could be stopping me from rushing at you now?” The Smile asked.
“You wanna know who’d win in a fair fight. You wanna be able to claim you beat a Champion.”
She clearly considered for a moment. Her gaze fixed to Ash’s gauntlet as her face slowly filled with the lust for glory. Her smirk grew all the greater and she plunged the spear deep into the seams. It sank much deeper than Ash’s sword, so deeply in fact that it might take a severe effort to pull it free. An effort that would take a small framed woman, like the Smile, much too long. Possibly long enough to cross the distance with a blade in hand.
Ash bowed her head as she said, “You’re here for a fair fight. It seems I was right in saying you lack the gall for combat.”
Ash tore the blade from the ground with such speed that the tip snapped and shattered into a jagged edge. She ran with the swiftness of the torai, and the raging charge of the rhino. She stormed, her blade coiled, like an army of one towards the Smile as she tried in vain to free the spear.
A single, all too gentle, slash brought an end to the battle. A bead of delicate blood rolled over her sharp cheekbone and stained over the pink of her blusher.
“Fuck,” the Smile grunted. “Fuck!” She rushed around to lay eyes on the victor of the bout. Pure, undiluted wrath filled her cheeks and quivering lips. “What the fuck was that?”
“You wanted a fair fight,” Ash said meekly. “I wanted to win.”
The confidence of battle-blood drained away as the crowd unsettled and began to roar. The warrior who had bantered with her foe so effortlessly fell back into the darkness, while Ashtik stood under the beaming magical arena lights.
“You’re no fucking Champion,” the Smile, if she could still claim the name under such a sour expression, spat out at Ash. “Didn’t even have the grace to use your God-power. Am I truly so pathetic in your eyes?”
“My what?”
“Fuck you,” the Smile repeated with raw bile oozing from her tongue. She granted Ash no further notice, and made away for the fighter's section.
“Wait!” Ash called out. She did, if for a brief moment, though she didn’t turn to face Ash. “How did you know I was a Champion?”
The Smile turned back to Ash with pure hatred in her eyes. She tore a hole in the tan leather of her thigh pad and revealed what lay beneath.
An olive tree sprouted across the surface of her skin as a pair of lovers held cups beneath flowing streams of purple wine. It moved and animated across her skin in the same impossible way Ash’s own little sparrow did.
“You’re a Champion?” Ash realised.
“Fuck you,” she simply spat again.
And then she was gone, and Ash was left to the ravages of the endless crowd. It seemed they were as displeased with her as the Smile had been.
“The winner, by... ‘natural’ victory, is the Sparrow-Knight!” The magic voice finally declared with all too little enthusiasm.
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The crowd erupted in boos and jeers yet again as Ash made her way down from the stone stage. She found Amell surrounded by aspiring blade masters as he seemed to be giving them each tips and advice for their upcoming bouts. They all seemed earnestly and utterly wrapped up in his wisdom, and hung on every last word he graced to impart upon them.
“... And so, you do not swing, but slash! Unless you’re facing me, then you run,” he finished. The lads, some no older than sixteen, all broke out into applause while some politely chuckled at some unheard jest. He turned from his adoring followers and just caught sight of Ash as she neared with her head held low.
“Spinny!” He bellowed. “Oh, ah. Excuse me, gents. Best of luck!”
The lumbering giant squoze through the encircling listeners and caught up to Ash. “A brilliant fight!” He beamed.
“Tell that to the crowd,” Ash grumbled.
“A BRILLIANT FIGHT!” He shouted out to the roaring spectators. Naturally, none paid him any mind as the next bout had already begun, but it made Ash chuckle a little. “But earnestly, you were brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. A warrior, not a tourneyman. You battled in the mind and won, that is a nobler victory than any bloody slugfest.”
“Thanks, Amell,” Ash said, though she wasn’t sure she believed him.
“Now look, your next fight is coming. What’s your plan?” He encouraged.
“My plan?” Ash snorted. “I’m out of my depth here, Amell. I’m probably going to forfeit next round.”
“Absolutely not,” Amell declared. He drew his sword and held it in an offensive stance as he kicked a spare spear over to her. “Losing is one thing, but to give up? Nonsense!”
“It's not that big of a deal,” Ash sighed. “It’s just a little tourney.”
“No. It’s you giving up because you don’t think you’re good enough."
“I’m not.”
“You’re in the semi-finals.”
“Because I used dirty tricks and basically cheated. Not because I’m better.”
“Victory means you are better, the route to victory is irrelevant. You think every war is won by men in honourable combat? No! They’re won through cunning and trickery. By fighting the enemy where there is no enemy. By breaking the enemy without ever shedding blood. These people are fighting to overcome, you are simply winning. Keep that up. Win the battle first, then start the fight.”
“That sounds very deep,” Ash sighed. “But what am I actually supposed to do?”
Amell swivelled his head around until he found a well-built man wading through the crowd. “Him there, do you see?” He pointed to him.
“Yes.”
“Describe him.”
“He’s tall, well built. His armour has a sigil, so he must be a nobleman. No sleeves, either trying to show off his arms or hails from somewhere too hot for full armour. Ebony skin, so he’s probably eastern. He’s got his hair in long jata and a fair few scars across his face and body. I’d guess he’s a second son to some desert lord, looking for glory in battle,” Ash summarised.
“That’s good, but look closer. His right arm, a slashing scar across his elbow. He’ll be weak on that side. His hair is long and easy to get a hold of during a grapple and he isn’t acclimated to such a humid nation so his stamina will suffer. Your style of avoidance and distance keeping will serve you well against him, so long as you can keep the pressure on his right side,” Amell reviewed. He looked away from Ash again as he scoured the crowd for another appropriate target. He finally found one after another moment or so.
“That’s my next foe. Describe him,” he smirked.
“He’s... large,” Ash realised. “Maybe as large as you.”
“A clash of the titans. I expect the event organisers to be quite pleased with this match-up. But he is in fact, larger than I.”
“Not by height, but he’s certainly more muscular. No offence,” Ash awkwardly chuckled.
“Not at all, now go ahead. Review him,” he smiled.
“As I said, he’s strong. I’ve seen bulls with less rippling muscle. He’s going to hit hard, and he’s using a blunt weapon. Looks like some kind of mace?”
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“A Morningstar,” he explained.
“Right. That’ll shatter your armour, so you’ll have to be quick with your dodges. Your sword is longer, though. Maybe you should keep some distance and hope for some careful cuts. Oh, he isn’t wearing a helmet! Whenever I cut my forehead, I bleed enough to serve a vampris birthday party. Slash his forehead and you win, right?” Ash reviewed.
“That rule no longer applies, I'm afraid. It’s no longer first blood, but first to yield. It seems folk weren’t too pleased with your utilisation of the rules,” he chuckled with a strange pride.
“Okay, but the blood should still blind him. It’ll give you a chance to get in close,” Ash finished.
“That’s really good,” Amell said. “Everything you said was right, but you missed one thing.”
She looked the warrior over again. The veins in his arms seemed as though they were battling to burst. Like a splinter would spring a gushing leak, a fountain of unceasing blood. He was a man of raw meat and muscle, but she couldn’t see any great flaw like Amell apparently could.
“His muscle, which you believe to be his great advantage, is actually what will lose him this fight.”
“How so?”
“Muscles like those are earned one way, and one way only; by picking heavy things up and putting them back down again. They are muscles of show, not muscles of work and war. He will hit hard, but very slowly and his heart will have to work triple time to keep enough blood flowing. His stamina will last three strikes before he is left panting and sweating on the floor.”
“Three strikes? That’s all?”
“I’ll make it a bet, three strikes before he’s panting and heaving. Five before I win.”
“Deal. Loser buys the drinks.”
“Very well,” Amell said with a cruelly cocky smirk. He looked out to his future foe for a moment before he noticed Ash hadn’t looked away from him. He matched her gaze and half expected her to wilt away as their eyes met, but she looked to gain confidence as they joined.
“What?” He uncomfortably chuckled.
“I’m... describing you,” Ash said as she seemingly scanned over each crease and wrinkle on his face.
“Oh, I’ve got to hear this,” he beamed.
“You’re grey, and old. Like a wolf, the older they are; the stronger their bite, but the quicker they tire. I’d offer you a battle of at- atrac- ato-... What’s the word?”
“Attrition?” He offered.
“Aye!” She smirked. “I’d keep far away and jab at the joints in your armour. Eventually, either they’d buckle and trap the limb, or you’d buckle and give in.”
“Ha! Well, let us see. Make it to the finale, and we can test your theory.”
It looked like the old man had something else to say, but he lost the chance when the announcement rang out, “And a yielded victory for the Matarn Matron! Next up, the fight of the night! The titanic panic! The... Fucking big one! Ladies and gentlemen, my personal sweetheart – and the man I wish to marry my daughter off to – The Kovayeshi Commander!”
“Not a clown anymore?” Ash teased.
“No, I miss it,” he chuckled.
He gave her a final nod as he climbed the metal stairs up to the great stone stage. He was not so graceful as to hide his thorough enjoyment of the limelight. He basked in the adoration, his face cracking smile beamed through his shadowed helm as he held his arms high and slowly strolled to his starting line.
“And, not to discount, our very own beastly bull! The Forgeland fighter! The vascular vandal! Ladies and gents, please give it up for; THE MAKO!”
The crowd was in ecstasy. The promise of the colliding mountains brought an orgasmic frenzy upon them all. Waves of drooling drunkards singing songs of beautiful battle. Half called for Amell; the others raved for his blood. All were in agreement; it was going to be the true finale, regardless of whoever either victor had to fight in the final round.
Amell drew his steel and planted it in the stone as a salute to his foe. The other man returned the respect by bowing his head as he pounded his steel-clad chest.
“Fighters, warriors, heroes...! Begin!”
----------------------------------------
The Mako charged headlong. He granted Amell no affection as he swung his spiked twohanded mace. He bore it with both hands and swung with his whole body in a strike so powerful it shattered the winds ahead of it. An actual shockwave rippled through the stadium as he lashed out.
All it took was a slight backstep, and the attack was null. It floated lazily past Amell’s head and ended up taking the warrior full circle with its momentum. Amell could have ended it there - with the Mako’s back turned - but for some reason, he allowed the Mako another strike.
She realised quickly why he hadn’t ended it. The bet. If he won after one strike, there would be no way to prove he was right.
The Mako struck out again, this time heaving the massive Morningstar overhead and crashing it down on Amell. The old man simply placed the edge of his blade to the handle of the mace and let it ride down its length.
The cracking of stone rang through the whole stadium as the mace landed and shattered a massive section. Enough dust and debris flooded the stage to completely cover the two men’s feet. It might have covered up to anyone else’s shins, but this was not so petty a calibre of man.
Amell said something then, but he was too far out to hear. No doubt it was something more cutting than his blade’s edge, by the reaction of his foe. A part of Ash hoped he would swing a surprise strike and clip Amell’s helm, that she might be the victor in their little bet at the least.
The Mako did strike, but it was neither so sudden nor so subtle as she had quietly hoped for. It flew for Amell’s ankle, but the old man just did a strangely little hop. It was the most agile she had ever seen him, though the act clearly stripped him of some tier of pride. She could even see the dust around him unsettle a little too frantically. He must have been panting. So much effort in one little jump.
“Finish him, Colin!” Ash cheered, making sure to use his false identity.
The Mako stood tall as he could, while Amell seemed to slouch a little. He wasn’t coiled, but hunched. He was an older man, Ash wondered if his age could have caught him by surprise.
Mako moved forward, heaving his chest as he hefted his mace. Any doubts about Amell’s condition were put to rest in the instant between the Mako’s swing, and the Mako falling to the ground.
It was almost too fast to see, but Ash just about caught it. Amell had gripped the blade of his sword and shattered the pommel against Mako’s forehead. A torrent of blood gushed out in an instant and the warrior collapsed down like a demolished building.
Amell kicked the mace away, but Mako still reached out for it. She realised he couldn’t see, that the blood had blinded him exactly as Ash had said. He rolled away, not really even knowing where he was in the ring. Eventually, he managed to rise to his feet while Amell stood and watched on from a few paces away.
She could see Amell whistle a tune, but she couldn’t quite hear it over the crowd. It drew Mako’s attention and he charged again, hoping to land a tackle against Amell.
“Cease the combat!” The magical voice ordered. “And a shocking victory by disqualification for... The Kovayeshi Commander!”
Mako tried to look around through the sheen of blood. Eventually, Amell offered his fallen foe a cloth with which he wiped away the blood and realised that Amell had stepped out of his way and allowed him to charge directly out of the combat area.
The crowds roared his name. The stadium shook for his victory and trembled beneath his might. It was a day of legend-making. A day of tale-telling. A day all in attendance would remember... at least until the morrow’s hangover disabused them of the night’s affairs.
The victor took his proud promenade back to his young companion. The smugness in his saunter, the wink that shone through his helm, the cocky wave as he drew near. She knew he was about to be utterly insufferable, yet she couldn’t help but grin as he took his exaggerated steps down the stage with his arms flailing at his side with each swaying movement.
“Your armour, let me help you,” Ash offered. He seemed confused but she ignored him. She tousled with some strap at his back and made it seem like she was tightening it.
“I believe I counted three strikes,” he grinned as he slid his helm into his hands.
“I didn’t see him panting,” Ash protested.
“I was too excited to try out your tip. I suppose I forgot to give him a chance to show his weary ways. Yet the bet is still mine!”
She had some protest in mind. An undeniable argument, sure to see him off in shame, but alas it was not to be. As her lips parted to offer the remark, the voice that rang out wasn’t her own; but that of the magical announcer.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” it called out in a much more sombre voice than seemed typical. “Due to an undisclosed violation in the rules, under article twelve – section eight: No enchanted or otherwise magically enhanced equipment may be brought into battle. Including; weapons, armour, accessories, etc. For this violation, the Desert Prince is no longer permitted to take part in our competition. We apologise for this regrettable...”
The Desert Prince. It must have been the warrior that Ash had been matched up against. She had no idea what part of him could have been magically enchanted, and she didn’t understand why such a well-made warrior would need to cheat in the first place. Then her eyes drifted to her gauntlet, and a sense of irony overtook her. She stroked a finger along the claw that had won her first round, and the surface scuffs from where she had swatted away the Smile’s blade.
“Well,” Amell awkwardly laughed. He certainly noticed her fidgeting with steel hand but made no mention of it. Instead, he scratched the back of his head and said, “I guess it's just you and me then.”
“Is it?”
“Aye, the finale. Best of luck Spinny. May the best man win... or, you know.”
----------------------------------------
It was not fun. It was not a game. It was her first mountain; it was a chance to prove herself beyond a shadow of a doubt. If she could beat him, she could beat anyone. All she had done, all the scraps and battles won, prepared her for this.
Amell had been right earlier; Ash fought in the mind and only when she had deceived some advantage would she do battle.
The old knight took up an aggressor's stance. He remembered what she had said – that a battle of attrition would be her victory – so he would deny her the opportunity. He would charge, he would expect to catch her off guard, and he would fail.
“Fighters!” The announcer called for the last time. Ash fell to one knee, as though to fasten her boot. “Begin!”
Amell charged while Ash yet knelt. He barrelled closer, his blade shimmered in the dusklight and the whole world fell silent.
She focused on every breath as it unsettled the thick layer of dust beneath her. She listened to every step as it echoed through the lonely hordes. Her left hand brushed against the ground. It was so sensitive. She could feel every vibration, every disturbance. She could feel the chainmail rattle beneath his plate armour. The little chunks of stone scatter and roll across the surface as he kicked them up.
She took some in hand – a pile of dust and stones – and readied to strike. All she needed was for Amell to take one... more... step.
She sprung out; her spear thrust low. So low it hit the ground instead of him. He had to drag his foot back mid-step to avoid the spear plunging into it. It took him off balance, and she took the chance to jump atop of him and smash the dust into the air holes of his great helm.
He spluttered and coughed until he managed to get a grip of Ash. He grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and threw her away with the same effort it would take to toss a baby kitten rather than a grown woman.
He tore off his helmet and spat out the dust and rocks. Ash wasn’t so kind as to let him catch his breath. She pounced again while he was still keeled over and gasping for air. She couldn’t make any use of her spear in such close quarters, so she drew the dirk from her boot and tried to draw some cuts. Amell managed to get his hand to her wrist and stopped the attack, though she persisted with her free arm and even her boots.
“What happened to attrition?” He laughed through the flurry of punches.
“I lied,” Ash grunted. “Your biggest weakness isn’t your age. It’s that you trusted me.”
Ash kicked her boot down hard into a strap at his back. The same strap she had severely loosened after his last fight. It came completely open and with it, came the entire back of his cuiras.
“You sneaky...” He used the hand he had kept a hold of to throw her again, this time with the intent of sending her out of bounds. She managed to drag her spear along the ground and catch herself just short of the line.
“Now... I keep my distance,” she smirked.
“You did that right after my fight?” Amell realised. He tried to reach over his shoulder to feel the missing armour piece. Ash didn’t reply, but her vicious grin should have been confirmation enough.
“Well, not much use in this then,” he groaned gladly as he stripped the rest of his chest plate. It seemed a strange decision. Each fighter had been allowed one personal effect. Ash had her gauntlet, and he had his chest plates. Besides, the front of his armour provided much more protection than the back and was still safely secured. There seemed no reason to shed it.
He stretched out to his full height, having shed what must have been forty kilos of steel by the world-shattering crunch it created as it bricked upon the ground. She hadn’t realised how well-built he truly was without his armour or his cloak to hide himself.
Where his breastplate had been round and thick, he was shockingly slim and harsh-edged. For a man undoubtedly as deep into his cups as Amell Fielder, there was no trace of a drinker’s gut. Though he wasn’t so cut and vascular as his last opponent had been, he was certainly much closer than she had realised.
He rotated his shoulder as if he was trying to find the exact position and combination to unlock it. Then he started stretching his legs out as though preparing for a cross-country run.
“Shall we?” He offered at last.
“If you can keep up,” she smirked.
He slashed his blade through the open air, then he brought it to a high guard and started slowly moving towards her.
Once in range, she thrust out at his chest but diverted the strike as his blade came careening through the air in an attempt to shatter the spear. He moved at thrice the speed he had in his armour. He slashed again, and Ash ducked beneath by a matter of inches, but he was far from done. He circled the blade around yet again and slashed from high with a strike so fast it cracked the sound barrier, and so strong it pushed a rush of air out ten meters ahead.
“You tryna kill me?” Ash panted as she just barely sidestepped the slash. His answer came with a decapitating blow which forced her to fall flat on her ass, or risk a little more than a bad haircut.
“I’m trying to win,” he grunted as he hefted yet another powerful slash at her.
It wasn’t like the other brutish types she had faced. He did not sacrifice speed for power. He struck faster than the Smile had done, and harder than even the bandit giant she had faced all those weeks ago.
He did not lack for grace, nor precision; power, nor ferocity. He would answer each of her petty strikes with a faster, harder counterattack. Every time she dared poke her spear more than arm's length away, he snapped at it like a beast to meat. He would have enjoyed nothing more than to cut her spear in half, and if he managed; the battle would truly be over.
Her range advantage was marginal – a few inches at most – but it was all she had. He allowed her no time to focus, to plan. Everything she did was done through instinct and reflex. Each parry felt more like luck than talent. Each dodge felt more and more pathetic. Each strike he so effortlessly deflected grew more and more grating.
He did not sweat. He did not pant. He did not falter. The man was a beast of war. A king of combat. A killer, a true Champion. That was why her goden had sent him. Something to aspire to. A hollow man without a family or a cause. A vessel of violence, wrapped in a suit of steel skin; designed more so to contain him than protect. This... slashing, torrenting, horror was her destiny and she could not keep up.
He was everything she had to be; everything she didn’t want to be; everything her goden planned for her. It was not the attacks that drew her ire. It was not the sustained injuries that garnered her wrath. It was the destiny of it all. The fate that permeated everything and everyone around her.
As she bubbled and stewed, she noticed him slow. He did not look tired, but the battle pace became laxer. His strikes did not land as hard. His blows were not so impossible to parry, nor was he so quick to slash her spear away.
In fact, everything seemed to slow. The crowds danced and sang his name in an unnatural tempo. The sweat dripped from her brow as though it were so thick as honey.
Then she noticed the scorches across the stones. The long crackling burns that stretched so far as the stands and all seemed to follow back to her.
The purple and black lightning that sprung forth like wicked, writhing tentacles. Creatures of abscess will, searching out for some invisible dark conduit. One tendril jolted out and shattered like a wave against Amell’s blade. Another seared his cheek as it tore past.
He did not let up. He struck again, though now he did so on his backfoot. She managed to push him further and further back. It felt good to be in control of the battle. To be faster, stronger, than him. She sent her spear at him time and again, but even as quick as she was, he was just a better fighter. His blade always seemed to be in the right place to catch hers, even as he retreated all the way back to his discarded chest plates.
“HARDER!” He ordered and she gladly obliged. She struck, again and again and again. Eventually, she struck so quickly that the force of her push snapped her spear in half before it could even strike his blade. She spat and threw it away, throwing out a left hook after a right hook.
“FASTER!” He ordered again. He returned to the offensive now that she was unarmed. It did not matter. She had gone beyond him. The slash seemed to travel at a snail's pace. She stepped aside and punched clean through the blade. It crumbled like ash. She watched the steel ripple like a wave, her reflection catching at the apex, before it shattered a thousand times like a broken pane of glass.
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It was time to finish the fight. One final strike. All of her anger, all of her fear, all of her anxiety, all into her left hand. She saw Evara burning in a forest. She saw her father collapse and seize as the cancer gripped him. She heard the words from her mother, that she didn’t love her. She heard the admittance that she hadn’t dared tell anyone; that she wasn’t the chosen one. That she was just a stupid fucking mistake.
It all gathered in her gauntlet, though the name was no longer fitting. She watched as black ink spread along her arm and wrapped itself along her bicep. She watched the oily black metal spread and consume even more of her. Watched as it took away more of Ashtik and replaced her with the Champion.
She screamed as an amethyst tear fell and the punch froze the world around her. It moved so fast that the raw lightning that dogged its back struggled to keep up. She could do nothing but watch as it sailed through the air and clashed with unmitigated power against... steel?
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The chest plate cracked and caved completely. The damage was not so much in the punch, as it was in the blowback. Shards of lightning followed the rush of wind. They circled the ruptured chest plate and whipped out behind it.
“Good,” a distant voice whispered. Ash tried to see him, but for some reason, the whole world had started to spin against her. She couldn’t tell if Amell was a meter from her, or back in Maester Veil. She pulled her hands high, ready to carry on the bout, but try as you might; gravity is not a foe you can punch through. Down, down, down she went, and dreams of victory were all she held claim to.
“Good work, Spinny.”