See him now, the last man, stripped down to his shirt and shivering in the cold wind. He tried to loosen the stiffness in his back, but it only produced a series of popping sounds that made him wince, so he stopped. He’d felt nervous before a fight before; everyone did, but the last few years, the creeping feeling had come earlier and stronger.

There was a time when he had reached the enemy lines before anyone else and nearly been hacked apart before the others had arrived, and he still hadn’t cared. Duels were different, though—too much silence as you held your frayed nerves, not that he’d fought many.

The crowd swelled, and it seemed that half the regiment was crowded into the parade ground. Excited chatter and the clink of coin came from the men of the company who crowded around Ruddle, followed by at least a dozen officers who left the older man ashen-faced.

“Problem, Rud?” Riot asked quietly.

“Only if you lose, Sarge,” the older man swallowed, his tone bleak. “They say Mercer’s handy with the blade. He’s been taking lessons.”

Mercer was moving fluidly through at least a dozen sword forms that Riot didn’t recognize. He seemed deadly efficient, even with the wooden sword, plus he was well fed, well rested, and wearing boots of supple, soft leather.

Riot's stomach growled; he hadn’t slept, and the twine around his shoes needed tightening. But he wouldn’t do it now and suffer the sneers of the officers.

“Good luck, Sarge,” came the calls from where the men stood.

Riot nodded and gave the battered wooden sword an experimental swipe before giving up. It was a sword; stab, block, and bludgeon were about the extent of what he could do with it. He’d always been so fast that he’d never needed much more.

“You will fight to three strikes. There will be no intent to kill or maim unless through misfortune,” Williams announced.

Riot thought of the ways he could make Mercer’s death look accidental. With a bit of effort, he could probably drive the wooden sword through the man's chest. But despite being pleasant, the image was followed by one of Riot hanging from his neck.

“I would make this quick, but I feel the lesson needs to be taught correctly,” Mercer said.

“What?” Riot answered.

But the young captain was already on him, stomping his front foot forward twice, his sword flickering out like a snake's tongue and his spare hand waving in the air behind him like a dancer.

Riot pulled up his sword in time to deflect the thrust, but the tip of Mercer's sword seemed to float past his guard and jab deep into his flank, just below the ribs.

“One strike to Captain Mercer!” Williams cried.

A gentile cheer came from the assembled officers while the rank and file groaned. Riot sucked in a painful breath through clenched teeth and stumbled backwards, the crippling pain in his liver bringing tears to his eyes.

“This is where your special treatment ends, Riot. No more pretending to be an officer. No more pandering from Riley or Williams. I unmask you for the fraud you are,” Mercer sneered, his words for Riot only.

Riot lunged forward, and Mercer sidestepped neatly. Expecting a follow-up attack, Riot threw himself to the side, hitting the hard floor and knocking all of the wind out of his lungs, only to look up and see that Mercer just stood at ease, watching him with a wide smile.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

There was laughter now, loudest from the officers, but also from the rank and file. Some of the sergeants in the other companies also thought Riot was too far above his station and he’d already bloodied his fists several times, adjusting their attitudes. Now they were here to see him fail.

"Up, Sergeant Riot, up! Or shall I have to fine you for a dirty uniform?” Mercer declared to roaring laughter.

Riot had barely gotten to his feet when Mercer was on him again. The young captain wasn’t fast, but he was fluid, linking together a chain of fine thrusts and lunges that kept Riot on the back foot, his desperate parries barely keeping him from being impaled.

Riot made a wild swing that managed to catch Mercer's lunge, and the two blades cracked together, locking at the hilt. Mercer’s face was inches from his own, and the sickly scent of the perfume he wore filled Riot's nostrils.

“My father killed stone-eyes you know, and my grandfather before him, I shall be honored to continue the family tradition,” Mercer hissed.

Mercer’s head twitched forward, and Riot instinctively yanked his head backwards and saw a look of confusion on Mercer's face as they broke apart.

Some of the nerves in Riot's gut untangled, and he almost laughed out loud. He thought Mercer was going to headbutt him but he’d likely never done that in his life. He’d likely never done a lot of things that were the first instinct of any tavern brawler.

Riot pressed him now, swinging the wooden sword overhand like a club. Mercer parried the swings almost effortlessly, a smile on his face, but Riot wasn’t trying to break through; he just needed to get closer.

The flat of Mercer’s sword clattered against Riot's head, sending blurred dark spots across his vision and making his ears ring. But the captain's cry of triumph was cut short as Riot stamped down on his instep, breaking his foot.

“You dog!” Mercer screeched, hopping backwards.

“Two strikes to Captain Mercer,” Williams declared, to equal cheers and groans from the crowd.

“You have no honor, animal!” Mercer spat.

Riot stalked forward. “Where Stokes and Argus died, there's no duels or rules. That’s where the real fighting’s done, and that’s where you are now, you bastard.”

Even with a broken foot, Mercer was dangerous, snarling as he attacked, the blade singing in his hands. The clatter as the wooden swords met echoed around the parade ground.

Riot held on grimly, blocking where he could, looking for an opening. He was tiring, but Mercer’s face wore a mixture of both pain and exhaustion.

“You’re tired, Mercer. Spoiled and weak,” Riot taunted.

Mercer overextended, and instead of swinging his sword, Riot stepped inside his guard and stood stock still, letting Mercer slam into him. It must have felt like running into a wall, and Mercer simply flopped backwards onto the floor. Riot hacked into his sword hand, and the captain dropped the blade, his fingers broken.

“One to Sergeant Riot!” Williams called.

Mercer cradled his useless hand and scooped up the wooden sword in his left, scrabbling to his feet and Riot pressed him, the regiment, officers, arcanists, and Wikkan fading from his vision. This wasn’t a duel, or a bar-fight, or a scrap in the gutter. It was a melee, the press of chaos and carnage in a battle where instinct and fury were the only things that had kept you alive. Mercer was a rich captain, a fat prize and Riot stalked him delivering a blow with so much force behind it that Mercer's own sword was smacked back into his nose, spattering blood on his mouth and chin.

“Two strikes to Sergeant Riot!” Williams' voice could barely be heard over the bloodthirsty roar of the rank and file and the collective outrage from the officers.

Mercer clutched at his face. “Nyou mbroke mby mnose!” he wailed.

In the melee, there was neither pity nor mercy. See the last man now, as he draws back his blade and thrusts it forward.

Mercer’s shriek of terror jerked Riot out of the blind rage just in time to pull the thrust, so that it thumped against Mercer's chest rather than punching a hole all the way through it.

“Three touches to Sergeant Riot!” Colonel Williams declared in a shrill voice as he hurried forward. “I think you have proven your point, sergeant,” he hissed, wrenching the wooden sword from Riot's unresisting hand.

Arcanist Riley hurried forward and shook Riot’s hand vigorously. “Well done, Sergeant; well done indeed. You’ve proven to be a man of action, eh? It’s high time I had some adventure, so I’ll be joining you and your men on the hunt!”