Rove
Bren’s Bridge, The Grasping Isle
[https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/876104022833127448/1064669443717861456/Brens_Bridge.png]
A cold void had taken over the entirety of his body. In the distance, he could barely hear Ayuen and Trïeste call out to him. He did pay it any heed though. Or more precisely, he couldn’t. The entirety of his focus was on the helmet face of the man standing before him, one of the relics of his past he had kept hidden for the longest of times. And one of those that he had hoped not to ever see again in this life nor the next.
Memories whizzed past before his mind’s eye. A castle, covered in snow, with a boy working in the stables. The boy being heckled by an older child but he tried to ignore those hurtful words...
Rove tried to stop the images from appearing, but they kept flooding in, as foreboding as waves before a tsunami.
The feeling of mouldy straw against his skin, the stench of horse shit permeating his nostrils. The icy cold nights where his breath would make dense clouds of vapour when it had barely left his mouth. And the laughter. The laughter and the beatings. His forsaken fucking half-brother and half-sister. Afterwards, the kid cried to his mother. A stern woman in brown and green, that blasted tree with a heart proudly displayed on her clothes. A normal mother would comfort her child, but not this monster. This mother ignored her child or worse, kicked the child out into the freezing night. He still heard her hooning and sarcastic laugh ringing in his ears from back then. It was all too much to bear. He had left it behind damn it! He ha-…
“ROVE, FUCKING GET IT TOGETHER!”
Ayuen’s voice? Did she ever talk like that? Wait. Ayuen, his client. He had a contract to fulfil. A pact was made, and didn’t he swear to uphold every such pact, every contract? Ayuen had gotten them out of trouble with this group once before, on the road to Herhor’s End. He couldn’t let that happen again. He had a bloody reputation to maintain. He was the Iron Herhor, blazes be damned!
With a roar, he raised a gloved fist, exerted every inch of his mental fortitude and punched himself firmly in the jaw. Pain shot through his bones as they creaked in protest, but Rove did not mind. Instead, he focussed on the pain to regain his wits. He finally saw clearly. Bren’s Bridge, five enemies in the front, five in the back, two mounted. Severely outnumbered, no chance.
His eyes focussed on the familiar confident face in front of him. However...
He wiped the blood off his jaw with a smirk.
“Such foul language for a poet, miss Ayuen. Language! I’m getting it together.”
Ayuen’s and Trïeste’s mouths were opened so wide you could probably fit a melon in there. Even his brother just stood there with a tilted head. He sighed deeply, focussing his gaze on the man. Time to do his job. Just in case, he unsheathed his bronze blade. Even if it wouldn’t do him much good against this many oponents, the weight and familiarity of the blade calmed him.
“So… Sorry for that. Didn’t count on seeing your wretched ugly mug ever again, Prado. Even the glimpse through the helmet was enough to make me seize up and want to vomit.”
The bridge was silent for a couple of seconds while everybody processed what the hell just happened. And then his brother just began laughing. A deep bouldering laughter that lasted a good few moments. When he finally stopped, Prado wiped the tears off his face.
“Well, you haven’t lost that razor tongue of yours. I was rather perturbed, you know. The patrol that came back reported you entirely froze up. Still had to punish the captain for not taking you in.”
The armoured scion of Tyheart shook his head. “After all these years, there are still members of the household that sympathize with you.”
“Rove…” Ayuen spoke up carefully. “What is he…”
“Rove?” Prado interjected harshly. “Is that what you go by these days, Navene? Have the common decency to go by your real name, blood be damned. Even though you’re a half-blood bastard, have that se-…”
“I see you haven’t lost the ability to try and shit-talk your way out of everything,” Rove dryly interjected. “Why don’t you cut to the chase, unsheathe that fancy little sword of yours and tell us why you’re here?”
Prado didn’t respond immediately, sighing and glaring at him while he indeed unsheathed his blade. His blade was forged out of steel just like his armour, gleaming in the light of the sun. This was going to be a problem. His bronze blade wouldn’t hold up in a prolonged fight.
“Well. I’m here for you. Mother’s contact is the one more concerned with the Pyrn woman, not us. We just want you.” The man’s helmed gaze shifted to Ayuen. “I have to apologize for the inconvenience, ma’am, but I need to take my brother into custody at all costs.”
“Oh? How about we deal with our business first, ‘dear’ brother of mine, before apologizing? Not planning to follow you quietly to my private execution.” An idea popped into Rove’s head. It was a gamble, but his brother was still nobility. Perhaps there was enough pride and honour to be found under that metal visage. Prado had always been the one with the dream of being a prince on a white horse.
“How about we have a duel? To celebrate the occasion. Your men are going to get hurt, so why not have a little game instead?”
“I was planning to take you up on that offer, yes.” Prado simply said. “Somewhere deep inside there was still hope that you would come quietly and forfeit your frankly ridiculous mission. By Gwianz’s kind gaze, brother, I could’ve put in a good word for you, made you a servant again.”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
With the scraping of steel on steel, Prado equipped the small buckler he carried. Rove’s eyes narrowed further when he saw his brother slowly get into a practised stance. This was going to get ugly.
“So, you agree to come of your own accord if I beat you here, correct?”
Rove let out a honing laugh, continuing to put on a stubborn façade.
“No, no, no. That’s not how you do it, Prado. You first have to tell me what happens if I beat you. Or would that be against your orders?”
“My orders are to bring you in,” Prado repeated, after which he raised a gloved hand and stroked his chin. “But fine. If you win, in light of the tearful reunion that awaits us back in Zavand, I’ll let miss Ayuen and the young miss go. I’ll even escort them north until Tinkersong before we leave. Acceptable?”
Seemed like this was the best he was going to get. He glared towards Prado and slowly nodded, dragging the gesture out as long as possible.
“Very well then. Agreed.”
Here went nothing. One chance, one fight, everything at stake. For the first time in years, he felt his heart pound in his throat at the beginning of a fight. Damnit… these days were turning out worse and worse.
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The soldiers and his companions were watching the fight commence on the bridge, with Trïeste and Ayuen sitting in the middle and the soldiers closing off the sides of the bridge, silently standing there.
Prado was standing in a low stance, buckler-arm outstretched towards him to maximize its area. Rove’s eyes scanned his posture for any faults, finding only slight ones. He would have to force a mistake. Dashing forward, his bronze blade shot forward. The first clash was heavy as a rain of sparks landed on the ground around them when swords collided. Following with an arcing blow, Rove slashed towards his brother’s shoulder, only to be blocked by his buckler. His bronze sword deflected harmlessly off the steel plating on his opponent's lower arm. Rove dashed backwards before Prado could retaliate, gracefully dancing outside of his enemy’s reach.
His opponent might be heavily armoured, but that also meant that he was significantly slower than him. If he only could find a gap in that damned defence of his, he could win this. Time and time again, his sword struck the armour, leaving only scratches on the plated metal. His blade was dulling, his time slowly ticking away with each blow of his blade that failed to penetrate.
The Herhor circled his opponent, determined to find a gap in his brother’s defences. There! A dip in the armoured man’s posture! Gritting his teeth, Rove advanced. He slashed towards Prado’s abdomen and arms. The other parried every blow with both sword and buckler. But Rove wasn’t planning on letting up on the pressure. His last blow started towards the shoulder once again, the feint changing into a blow to the legs. Prado was too slow to fully react. The man’s sword dipped, but couldn’t reach Rove's own. His blow connected to the man’s upper leg! Only to be stopped by something out of sight, a soft ringing noise reaching his ears. Chainmail. Steel chainmail most likely.
His opponent didn’t waste any time, buckler sailing towards his face. Rove let himself fall backwards, crouching into a roll before rising. Panting, he slowly steadied himself while his opponent carefully approached.
The Herhor took a more defensive stance, awaiting Prado’s next move. Eventually, there should be an opening. Nobody was perfect. Prado, noticing Rove going on the defensive, initiated a swing with his sword. Rove moved to block, the two swords colliding with a loud clang. Something streaked across his face, leaving a small gash. His sword… his sword began to chip and dent. A chip of the blade had gouged him. His blade was at its limit. His brother’s sword was still shimmering, seeminly unaffected at all by their clashes.
Rove let out a muttering stream of curses, cut short by a flurry of blows from his opponent. He jumped again, moving out of his opponent’s reach to avoid having to block too much. Couldn’t afford any more blows against that weapon or armour. His trusty weapon had a couple of blows left.
But he wasn’t going to give up. Even if Prado had his noble honour, Rove cursed that together with his old name. Time to fight dirty.
Crouching down, he scooped a handful of sand and threw it in his opponent’s visor. His aim was terrible though, hitting Prado’s shoulder armour instead. Bloody hell, this wasn’t his forté!
Letting out a barking laugh, Prado laid into him while he was recovering. The attack was fierce, and he had to block. Rove managed to keep his balance, albeit barely and staggered back to his feet. Prado’s last attack though managed to slip past his blade, the flat of it hitting his cheek. The iron taste of blood filled his mouth. However, the armoured warrior’s aim was slightly off, Rove seeing one eye blink rapidly. Some of the sand had hit. An advantage was looming. A chance.
Rove quickly spit out a crimson glob of saliva and blood and tried to circle again. Fueled by increasingly larger amounts of both hope and frustration, Rove swung faster and faster as he feigned attacks and struck quicker, trying to circumvent Prado’s block. Chips of his blade were flying, the length of bronze almost giving out. And then he finally managed to get a hit in. A blow on the side of the helm, dazed his brother. The Herhor quickly circled to the man’s back and delivered a kick to the back of his legs. With a deep groan, Prado fell to one knee. Rove wanted to lay his blade on the man’s neck, but a wild swing forced him to retreat.
Sweat dripped across his face, clotting his hair together. His hands began to become slippery, slowly losing grip on his battered blade. He probably didn’t have much time left. He had to finish this now.
Rove went in for the kill, blade low. Prado raised his buckler to meet his assault, standing defiantly against the Herhor’s prowess. Violently clashing his sword against his opponents, Rove tried to power through. But with a loud snap, the Herhor’s sword snapped in two, the top piece spinning away through the air. This wasn’t the end though. He had waited for this. While Prado thought the fight to be over, Rove used now shortened but still sharp bronze to circumvent the buckler, going for the other man’s throat at close range. But then a scream of alarm and fear from the side of the bridge drew his attention before he could make the kill. Instinctively, he separated from Prado and looked at the source of the noise. Two of Prado’s men were assaulting Ayuen and Trïeste, apparently not heading their commander’s orders.
What happened next was rather unreal. Rove and Prado looked at each other for a moment. And instead of smugness, he saw rage flare up in his brother’s eyes. Instead of continuing the duel, Prado started to rush towards the disobeying soldiers as they swung at Ayuen. Ayuen, as inept as she was in a melee, tried to block an incoming blow with her bow. The soldier’s weapon ripped through the wood, sending splinters everywhere. Before the soldier could deliver a follow-up blow however, Prado tackled the man to the ground. For a second, the thought of backstabbing his sibling flashed through his head. But his client and Trïeste were more important! This was their chance to get the hell out! One chance, one try, do or die. He saw Trïeste diving out of the way of another soldier’s strike and using the chaos to dash for the treeline, heading in the direction of their horses.
‘Clever girl’ he thought grimacing as he willed his legs to move. Rove charged towards Ayuen, arms spread out. In one motion, he swooped her up and jumped into the river. Ayuen let out a loud cry of surprise when he grabbed them, turning high-pitched when the two of them started falling toward’s the water’s surface. And then, all sounds were drowned in the roar of the current as they went under.
[https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/876104022833127448/1034751384626659358/Tyheart_Symbol.png]