Hermera
The 3rd of Skirophorion
The Year 4631 in the Era of Mortals
Arche led the procession of elves up to the ridgeline of a nearby hill as storm clouds gathered overhead. The steep incline was quite a hike, but the attention of every Dawnwood elf was now set keenly against him. He did his best to keep any sign of exertion from his face. He had no idea what an honor-duel was, but from the serious looks Lyssa and Cypress gave, it was a big deal. Odds were good it was a fight to the death given a cool name with hundreds of years of blood behind it. Actually, as he considered it, it probably wasn’t even to the death. Elves were weird about that sort of thing. Arche wasn’t an elf, though. Would that mean Figoritolos would try to kill him? Considering what he’d tried to do to Theodorous, it was more than likely.
When they reached the ridge, Lyssa took his hand and led him to the side, away from the attentive ears of the other elves. Once alone, she spoke to him in a low voice.
“Are you sure about this?”
“I don’t know what this ceremony is, but I’m pretty sure this was the right move, yes.”
She made a slight conceding gesture with her hand.
“An honor-duel is rare,” she said. “It will be presided over by Lord Cypress and myself.”
“That can’t be all of it.”
“It isn’t. If you lose, you will gain the Broken Honor Trait.”
“Sounds bad. What’s that do?”
“You lose everything, Arche. All experience you’ve ever earned. All skills and spells. You lose your Profession, your Trade, your Traits. Anything and everything you have ever earned will be taken from you. You will start over with nothing but Broken Honor.”
Arche’s throat went dry.
“It would be kinder just to kill me.”
“Elves do not kill elves,” Lyssa said. “But that does not mean we are kind. You made an Oath to the vampire without knowing this?”
Arche chided himself quietly. “I’m guessing the same thing happens if I break my Oath to her?”
“Indeed. Was protecting her part of the Oath you swore?”
“No. I’m bound by choice, not by Oath.”
Lyssa let out a sigh of relief. “That, at least, is good. Prepare yourself in the best way you know how. Figoritolos is a Journeyman swordsman. He will push toward twin blades as the weapon of choice. He is, however, a terrible wrestler.”
Arche nodded. “Thanks.”
Lyssa lowered her eyes.
“Thank you for what you did. What you are still doing.”
“What are friends for?” He gave her his cheekiest smile, then peered over the edge of the hill.
If he or the elf fell off the narrow ridge, they wouldn’t stop until they hit the bottom, some sixty feet down. It was a perilous place to hold a duel. One that favored elven agility and balance.
Far below, Arche saw a small crowd pouring through the palisade gate, looking up at them. Someone inside, probably one of the guards, must have noticed them climbing the hill instead of continuing out to the flatter grassland of the valley. Curiosity bred a crowd and it seemed half of Myriatos was going to bear witness. Arche wondered if Tess was down there, watching. Wondered what she’d think of it.
A finger tapped the back of his head. He turned and saw Lyssa gesturing toward Lord Cypress and Figoritolos, who had stepped forward. The elf’s wounds had been healed, tended to while Arche was distracted. He nodded to himself. With everything on the line, it didn’t make sense to let someone fight an honor-duel while injured.
At Lyssa’s silent prodding, he walked toward them with her at his side. They stopped a few paces away. Lord Cypress was the first to speak.
“An honor-duel has been issued. Do both parties accept?”
A notification flashed in the corner of Arche’s vision, but he ignored it.
“Yes,” both he and Figoritolos answered.
The notification opened automatically.
Arche Enyalius of Myriatos and Figoritolos of Dawnwood have agreed to an Honor-Duel.
The following terms are set:
Weapons —
Degree —
“Arche, as the challenged, you will answer first. What weapons would you like the honor-duel to be fought with?”
“Fists.”
“Figoritolos?”
“Kopides.”
A coin appeared inside the notification, silver like an obol, bearing crossed swords on one side and crossed fists on the other. It flipped, seeming to come closer to him before landing back down amongst the text. The swords stared back at him.
“The duel will be fought with kopides,” Lyssa said. “Figoritolos, to what degree will the fight take place?”
“First blood.”
Arche felt a sudden chill and had to fight to suppress a shiver.
“Arche?”
“Submission.”
The coin shifted, now depicting a splash of blood across one side and a prone silhouette on the other. The coin was tossed and landed, silhouette up.
“The duel will be fought until one side submits,” Cypress said.
Figoritolos’s eyes narrowed, but there was a thin, cruel smile on his lips. Arche had never fought with two swords. He didn’t even have two swords, a fact he informed Lyssa of as she guided him back to their initial places. She produced her own and pressed them into his hands.
“Submission was a wise choice, but you will have to be clever. He will be fast and ruthless, hoping to wear you down to nothing through debilitating injury. He can be goaded into wanting a humiliating victory rather than a quick one, however, which may give you opportunity.”
“Are there rules?” Arche asked. “Could I try a psychic attack? What happens if I kill him?”
Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.
Lyssa bared her teeth.
“No!” she hissed. “Weapons must be equivalent or less. If you are disarmed, you may keep fighting, but you cannot draw a new weapon. Without a blade, you may use a fist, but to use your mind-weapon would be to forfeit all honor. Killing him would break your honor as well. The duel must be won fairly. No skills other than your fighting. No maneuvers. No magic.”
“Got to beat him fair. Makes sense.”
“Good. Now remove all armor and magical items.”
“Fuck. I didn’t think about that.”
Grumbling to himself, he unequipped his Emerald Ghost cloak, his mantikhoras armor, and his Ruby Ring of Lesser Life which granted a measly, but welcome, plus five to Endurance and Fortitude. He couldn’t remember the last time he had taken the ring off, but the tan-line around his right pinkie finger said that it had been far too long. As an afterthought, he also removed his shirt, now matching Figoritolos in only wearing pants and boots. No sense in ruining a perfectly good shirt and no sense in presenting a perfectly horrible target when blades were going to be introduced. To lose all of one’s experience, levels, skills, and everything else was bad enough. To lose one’s balls in the same fight would be a step too far.
“Good luck,” Lyssa said, her voice bearing the slightest tremble.
The duel notification disappeared, replaced by a timer counting down from ten.
Arche stared at his opponent. Figoritolos had ambushed him outside the Necropolis of Pygmaia. The elf in front of him had threatened his life and the lives of his team. The pompous shit had almost killed Theodorous barely a week before and had snuck around him to try to kill Aima. He was a menace, a bully, and a downright pain in Arche’s ass.
5…
Figoritolos gave his swords an excited twirl, grinning all the while. Arche’s lips twisted into a snarl. He didn’t need to Scrutinize the elf to know that his own Health and Stamina were far superior. That meant, however, that speed and dexterity were on the elf’s side. If he was anywhere near as fast as Lyssa, it would take everything he had just to hold him off. One look at the elf’s face, however, and Arche didn’t want to just hold him off.
He wanted blood.
3…
2…
1…
FIGHT!
Lightning crashed overhead and the heavens opened, drenching the valley in rain. Arche felt out the swords in his hands. They were of equal weight and size, but he’d never learned how to fight with two swords at once. The thought alone nearly threw him off balance, so he brought his left hand close to his chest, like a shield, and held the other before him.
Figoritolos prowled forward with the grace of a large hunting cat, a sneering grin plastered across his face. He loved every moment of this and Arche understood why. The elf couldn’t conceive of a world in which he would not win. This was the ultimate redemption, in his eyes. A way to prove elven superiority over humans.
The hairs on the nape of Arche’s neck stood on end. He didn’t have a lot of experience fighting single opponents. Most of the fights he’d been in were either battles or brawls. A duel was different, especially with a swordsman four ranks his senior.
Fig’s first questing strike came from below. It was quick, aimed toward his hip. Arche danced back, using the sword in his left hand to block and almost lost his footing in the process. Fig didn’t press the attack. Instead, he created distance, watching Arche. Sizing him up.
Twice more, Fig lunged in, driving Arche back along the ridge. The elf’s strikes grew faster, more forceful. Arche breathed deeply, exerting all his focus on defense. Still, the elf’s superior skill showed its measure as they slammed into each other. The first wound came to Arche’s left forearm. It was a shallow cut but it burned hot. A distraction.
The next cut was more dangerous. A thin, curved line that stretched from his sternum to the floating ribs of his right side. It, too, was shallow. Fig didn’t need to be goaded into making the duel about humiliation. The elf was going to bleed him into submission from a thousand cuts unless Arche did something to stop him.
Fig’s glee was in full bloom. He danced back and forward along the ridgeline, never misplacing a step despite the pouring rain, never misjudging a distance. The onslaught drove Arche farther and farther back along the ridge. He was too slow to mount a counterattack. If Fig was close enough to strike, then all of Arche’s focus had to be on defense. Even still, it wasn’t enough.
Blood soaked through his fingers, stained the handles of Lyssa’s kopides. A small gash above his eye nearly blinded him, forcing him to constantly disengage and wipe it clean. The whole time, Fig’s manic smile never faded.
“Is this the best Myriatos has to offer?” Fig taunted. “I expected more.”
Arche said nothing, focusing entirely on stopping the elf’s blade from carving more of his flesh.
“Is this the best of humanity?”
Arche’s right leg gave out and he dropped to one knee, a ragged tear in his pants filled with blood. He tried to stand, but Fig was in front of him, slashing downward. Arche raised his swords to block, but the blood and the rain had made them slippery. Fig knocked them from his grasp like he was a child and they skittered down the cliff.
Arche looked up into Fig’s leering smile. He stared down the elf’s twin blades and willed his face to betray no fear. There would be pain before the end.
“Submit, human. Submit to me.”
“No.”
Arche felt the steel grate against his bones as Fig stabbed him. The kopis ripped through his right shoulder, the tip shattering as it collided with his scapula. That pain paled in comparison to the sword that entered his gut. Ice and fire coexisted in him, serving only to combine his agony into a fit beyond words. He opened his mouth to scream for all he was worth, but nothing came out. All the breath had been driven from him and he had none left.
“Submit.”
Arche staggered to his feet, lurching away from Fig. His hands found the hilts of the weapons. He locked eyes with Lyssa, who stared on in abject horror. The tattoo around her hand pulsed with light but she was frozen. Unable to move, unable to help. To save him would damn them all.
“Submit!” Figoritolos screamed.
Arche ripped the blades free and threw them over the edge of the ravine. The pain of it brought him back down to his knees.
“You fool,” Fig snarled. “That accomplishes nothing. You will submit to me.”
Arche closed his eyes. He was beaten. Outmatched, outclassed, outmaneuvered. He wasn’t strong enough to win. He couldn’t stand. He could barely breathe. Figoritolos had driven him to nothingness. Arche couldn’t win the fight, he didn’t know how.
“Submit to me!”
A fist sailed toward his face. He registered it with idle detachment. At the last moment, he let his head droop to the side. Then, summoning the last dregs of his strength, he surged to his feet and grabbed ahold of the elf. He threw his arms around Fig’s head and brought him into a clinch.
Arche couldn’t win the fight – but Alex could.
“Get off of me, you animal!” Fig shouted. “This isn’t how honor-duels are fought!”
Alex grabbed ahold of one of Fig’s ears and torqued it. Hard. The elf let out a screech far louder and higher than he had ever heard. It was eye-watering in its intensity. Fig wriggled out of Alex’s grip and fell back, clutching at the side of his head. Alex looked down at his hand and saw Fig’s ear held between his fingers.
He stared at it for a moment, then brought his eyes back to Fig’s writhing form. Alex staggered forward and fell on top of the elf. He brought his fist down against Fig’s sharp cheekbone. Green blood welled and joined red in the rain, creating a sickly yellow-brown sludge. Alex brought his fist down again and again. When Fig opened his mouth to howl in pain, Alex’s other hand was there, shoving the ear inside.
“Choke on your honor.”
There were no more thoughts of dueling or rules. No thoughts even of survival. He just wanted this one elf to feel as much pain as he had caused. Fig’s horrified screams were muffled by his own bloodied ear sliding down his throat. He stuck his hand into Alex’s wounded side. Alex gasped and fell to the side, the breath driven out of him again, giving Fig enough time to scramble away.
Fury took him. He grabbed at Fig’s leg as the elf tried to create distance. On the second grab, he caught hold of the fabric of the elf’s pants. Then, his superior strength showed its first merit as he hauled Fig toward him, clambering atop the elf’s back. Alex wrapped his arm around Fig’s throat and applied as much pressure as he could.
Fig went wild. He thrashed and bucked. He tried to bite Alex, but when that bore no results, he reached his hands up and gouged at Alex’s eyes. Alex bit back as a hand wandered close, feeling bone snap between his teeth as one of the elf’s hands now bore only three digits instead of the usual four. A gurgled cry rose from the elf and he jerked in an unexpected direction. Alex felt the world spin around him as both he and Fig fell into open air, down the hillside.
After the first solid bounce, they were torn from one another and sent flying in different directions. On the second bounce, Alex felt his left arm snap and go cold. The third impact was not so much a bounce as a thud. He struck the bottom of the hill and sank into the mud. Darkness crept at the corners of his vision. The howls of Figoritolos sounded behind him like the shrill horror of a screaming horse.
Thought was difficult. Breathing was harder.
Who was he, again? Did it matter?
Barely remembering why, he rose. Cold and empty, more mud than man, but his eyes burned hot as he caught sight of Figoritolos. The elf had seen him as well, and the screams grew in pitch as he stumbled closer.
Something was wrong with his legs. They weren’t bending properly, but they were good enough to reach the elf. That was all he cared about. Fig said something but he couldn’t make it out. It was lost to the roaring in his ears. Pain, so much pain. The elf had caused it and would suffer it in turn.
He would make sure of it.
Something flashed in his vision, but it wasn’t important, a distraction. He waved a hand at it, trying to move it out of his way, but it refused to budge. Someone grabbed hold of him, pulling him backward. He struggled against the hands, but they were too strong for him and he was too tired, too weak, too wounded. He was pulled to the ground. A hand touched his face. He saw a pair of beautiful, brown eyes.
Then he saw nothing.