Sweat rolled down Vanbrook’s face as he stared down the fourth challenger he’d faced in less than two hours. He slapped a wild saber strike aside with ease, stepping to the side and thrusting, which forced his opponent to step back and parry, losing his balance. None of the so-called challengers had been anything close to a challenge thus far. A quick follow-up strike slapped the dull blade into the side of the youthful duelist and a deafening buzz sounded, indicating Vanbrook had won the duel.

The teenager stomped his foot and growled, taking his helmet off and bowing slightly to Vanbrook. Fighting down a self-satisfied smirk, he removed his own helmet, revealing dark, eagle-like features and dark brown hair styled in military fashion yet clearly not maintained with military discipline. He smiled warmly at the frustrated young man, returning the bow.

“Not bad,” said Vanbrook, putting a hand on the youth’s shoulder as he walked him out of the ring. “You telegraph your moves more than you know, but I suspect that’s because you’re used to opponents who can’t read you as well as I do. Move your whole body as a unit and don’t overthink your next strike.”

The young man smiled at Vanbrook and nodded in appreciation as he walked off to the locker rooms. The kid really did have potential, though Vanbrook was already competing professionally at his age.

“Let’s hear it for Trivus!” shouted the announcer. “Standing up to the Rattl’r himself! Vanbrook of the Blue Griffon Fleet’s Talon Squad!”

The crowd cheered. Vanbrook gave the rest of Talon Squad, who had ringside seats to the affair, a grin and a nod. Raivyn sat with her arms crossed, her face inscrutable. Even though she was off duty, she still wore her straight black hair in a military bun, a few rogue locks falling over her brow. Small-framed as she was, she was one of the few people in the stadium Vanbrook wouldn’t like his chances against in a one-on-one fight, especially if she cut loose with her psychic abilities.

Reclan sat next to Raivyn, her feathery crimson crest raised high as she eagerly cheered on her life-long friend and chowed down on refreshments. She was eating some kind of roasted meat right off the bone, her sharp Dromean teeth making short work of the treat. Her nieces and nephews sat around her, a younger one trying to take a bit of her snack. She pulled the bone away from the troublemaker and smacked him on the head with it. The seven children were a lot to look after, but she had made a habit of bringing them to watch “Uncle Van” duel when she was in town.

D’Jarric’s glowing golden face wore the same enigmatic smile it always did, and his body was adorned with his ever-present silvery armor. Comfort was not an issue for the Solaran as his presence here was a physical manifestation of psychic energy, so he tended to wear his full set of armor at all times.

Doc Manford’s face was as unreadable as Raivyn’s, though in his case it was because the robot’s face simply didn’t move much beyond his artificial eyelids. As far as Vanbrook could tell, he was enjoying himself. He wasn’t reading a book instead of watching, which seemed like a good sign.

“Thank you all for coming out to tonight’s Naval Exhibition matches,” said the announcer in the booming, syrupy tones his career required of him. “We hope that the Rattl’r’s display has encouraged all you young folks to take a look at a career in the Navy!” The crowd cheered loudly enough that the announcer stopped for a moment.

“Alright,” he continued, “let’s hear it for our four contenders tonight!” Another cheer erupted.

“And now it’s time for our mysterious celebrity guest!” The crowd went dead silent.

“Folks, we have a really special surprise for you tonight. Rising from the swamps of Kraquia, he fought his way to the top of the heap! He’s a relentless deluge, he’s an unstoppable storm, he’s… ROOOOLLLIIIINNGG THUNDDDEEERRR!”

The crowd went wild, cheering at the top of their lungs as lights sprang to life, illuminating the doorway in which the massive Krauqian stood, arms lifted high to accept the applause. He was a warty, brown creature, about the same height as Vanbrook, though a disproportional part of that height came from his long legs. He was also much bigger around than Vanbrook, his thick trunk blending right into his massive frog-like head. The beard-like tendrils that hung from beneath his wide mouth were the only thing that denoted a true chin. He shouted towards the ceiling, letting out a deep, croaking bellow, then lowered his head to look Vanbrook in the eyes, raising the tip of his saber to point towards him.

Vanbrook smiled and slapped his shield with his saber to add to the din. He was certain he heard Drixen losing his mind behind him. Drixen and Kaihla, both fighter pilots with the Blue Griffon Fleet, had just returned from their honeymoon, and were sitting by Talon Squad. Drixen was a huge fan of Rolling Thunder. He hadn’t known for certain that he would be the celebrity guest. Vanbrook had known, of course, and had hinted to Drixen that he really ought to swing by the stadium if he could.

“Vanbrook the Rattl’r!” bellowed the massive toad-like creature. “It’s been too long… since I last put you in your place!”

“Last time we met I mopped this arena with your hide, Thunder!” replied Vanbrook. “And I plan to do the same tonight!”

“But tonight, I am not merely representing my own honor, but that of the Griffon Republic Marine Corps!”

Vanbrook’s eyebrow shot up and a smile spread across his face. He had not been made aware of that. He had been vaguely aware that his long-time friend and rival had joined the Corps, but hadn’t thought about it in connection with the match. The crowd erupted into a mixed chorus of cheers and jeers.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

A Marine band marched into the arena from behind Rolling Thunder, blasting out a hearty rendition of the GRMC anthem. A block of fans stood in the stands, unfurling a Marine banner. This was met with a fresh chorus of boos from the opposite side of the arena, where Talon Squad sat with a crowd of sailors and pilots from the Navy. Vanbrook snuck a peak at Drixen, smirking at the torn look on the pilot’s face. Who was he supposed to root for now?

“Then I’ll be doubly motivated to demonstrate what true swordsmanship looks like!” Vanbook said, pointing to the Krauquian with his blade.

Rolling Thunder ran, jumped, and executed a perfect flip, landing heavily in the ring, opposite Vanbrook. The canvas shook with the impact, but Vanbrook maintained a relaxed posture. The two fighters slammed their sword hands into their chests, their blades pointed upwards, and nodded. The familiar motion was the way the combatants let the announcer, and each other, know they were ready to begin their duel.

“Duelists,” the announcer shouted, “this will be a best of five match. First to three points wins. May providence shine on you both! Round one, begin!”

The banter had been bluster and show, but the fight itself was a true, unscripted athletic competition. Both fighters loved to put on a show for their fans, but they each fully intended to win, as well.

Rolling Thunder leapt, bringing a vicious overhead swing down on Vanbrook. It was a risky opening move, but it forced Vanbrook to react, jumping back to avoid the strike. He thrust out towards the Krauquian, but the duelist was deceptively nimble, bringing his strike around into a block with little effort.

The two circled one another. They more or less knew one another’s tactics by now, after years of training and performing together. Rolling Thunder would use his deadly combination of strength and flexibility, and Vanbrook would use his wits and hard-won skill. The thrusts and parries they exchanged were more about keeping the crowd entertained than they were about probing for weaknesses.

Thunder bellowed and charged, pressing his advantage. He used his bulk to try to press Vanbrook into a corner. Having none of it, Vanbrook slapped the Krauqian’s sword away with his shield, stepping into his space and jabbing with his saber. Thunder leapt to the side, brushing away the attack with his own shield. Vanbrook ducked to the side as he brought the deflected blade around in a tight arc. Thunder couldn’t block again as Vanbrook’s blade slipped under the shield, slamming into the Krauqian’s calf. The buzzer sounded. The Navy fans applauded and cheered, the Marines booed and shouted.

“Point!” shouted the announcer. “Back to your corners!”

The two fighters faced off and saluted again.

“Round two, begin!”

This time, Thunder let Vanbrook come to him. Vanbrook lunged, pointing straight for Thunder’s heart. Thunder slapped the attack away with his shield and countered with a stab of his own. Vanbrook managed to get his shield up in time, but was knocked off balance. Thunder kept up the attack, forcing Vanbrook to defend. Vanbrook did so admirably for some time, but finally he made a mistake and went after a thrust too aggressively, unable to bring his shield back when the thrust turned out to be a feint. Vanbrook swung his sword up to deflect the true attack, but the blade skimmed off his shoulder, the buzzer sounded again. This time the Navy booed and while the Marines cheered.

The next two rounds were similar, with Vanbrook scoring a point in the third, then Rolling Thunder in the fourth. Every point was hard-won and the two combatants were beginning to tire, Rolling Thunder more so. Vanbrook smiled as he faced off against Thunder. That was his true edge over his old rival- endurance. The two saluted one another again.

“Our combatants tied two and two, this will be the fifth and FINAL round!” shouted the announcer. “Final round, BEGIN!”

Vanbrook sauntered over towards his opponent, shield and saber held in a relaxed but ready position. He blocked the first few strikes with his shield, using as little energy as possible. He could already tell Thunder’s strikes were slower, though only by the thinnest margin.

He continued to allow his opponent to overdraw on his reserves, waiting for him to slip up. The truth was, though, Rolling Thunder was unlikely to make a mistake. Even though he had slowed down, his fundamentals were beyond reproach, and Vanbrook didn’t want to risk losing the match over the fact that his thrusts were fractions of a second slower. Ultimately, though, he would have to take a risk if he wanted to win.

He saw his opportunity when Rolling Thunder went to bring an overhead strike down on him again, following a successful block. Rather than deflecting with his shield, Vanbrook crossed his sword arm over and blocked the strike with his blade. He immediately stepped back, and Thunder’s expected shield bash failed to connect. If he had been any slower, he would have been knocked off balance and been at the Krauqian’s mercy, but as it was, he found himself standing beside Thunder and slapped a swift blade onto his back. The buzzer sounded, one last time.

Falling to his knees in despair, Rolling Thunder bellowed to the heavens. It was for the crowd, certainly, but Vanbrook knew a display like that could be rather cathartic for the duelist, as well. The Navy side of the arena cheered and the Marines booed, but Vanbrook and Rolling Thunder chuckled, the former lending a hand to help the latter off the canvas.

“Not bad, but I daresay you’re getting rusty,” said Vanbrook.

“Ah, not much swordplay in the Marines, Vanny,” said the Krauqian. “At least not during basic. But hey, we put on a good show, eh?”

Vanbrook nodded his agreement.

The announcer hopped into the ring, putting his arm around Vanbrook.

“Folks, I give you your champion, Vanbrook of the Blue Griffon Fleet’s Talon Squad!” The crowd cheered wildly. Even the Marines put aside their rivalries and applauded with abandon, Rolling Thunder leading them from in the ring. Vanbrook looked over at Talon Squad and smiled, pumping his fist. They were all on their feet and cheering. Even Doc looked like he’d accidentally had a little fun.

***

Far across the galaxy on the newly settled but still wild planet Hittania, a shadowy figure stalked the forests outside of Fort Bog Iron. He’d been watching the fort for the past couple months, looking for a way to infiltrate the airfield and get a ride off-world, as well as gather a bit of information if he could. His chance came when comms officer Yurlif made the fatal error of getting some fresh air all by himself.

Yurlif was admiring the scents, sights and sounds of the verdant Hittanian forests when two metal hands sprang from the undergrowth, pinning his arms to his side. The comms officer looked down in horror as the robot lifted him bodily from the ground. His metal body was covered in deep scratches, his skull-like faceplate was dented, and his chain beard was beginning to rust.

“A-admiral Grim?” asked the officer in shock. “You- you’re alive?”

“Good,” responded the pirate. “You know me, which I assume means you know to fear me. Now you’re going to answer some questions.”