suggest. The only people I truly trusted resided a few days ride north in a self-sufficient community based on a division of labor and devotion to scholarship. Turning back to the duke, I nodded, “He’s fine.”
With a return nod in my direction, the duke said formally, loud enough for his witness to hear, “Should you win, I will give you the chance to try to earn your colors, and if I win, you will drop this nonsense and go home.”
“Agreed,” I answered with equal formality.
The duke continued, “Fight to yield? I don’t think either of us is willing to die for this.”
I shrugged, “Fine by me.”
“Good.” He lowered his voice, “Last chance to back out.”
“No way.”
With a look indicating he had doubts with regard to my sanity, Duke Daevarren told me solemnly, “Very well, then, draw your blade.” He put his words to action, drawing his own.
I removed my dark blade, which was several times older than I, from its embroidered sheath, which I tossed over by the fence at the edge of the practice yard. My foster-mother had never told me the story of my weapon, and I wasn’t entirely sure she knew it herself. She had taught me how to use it, despite swearing that she was no noble. When I was younger, I’d concocted a romantic tale of how she’d learned swordsmanship from a warrior she’d fallen in love with during the rebellion. The fabricated tale involved much self-sacrifice and last-minute saving of lives. She’d evasively denied any such story but had also refused to replace it with the truth. If I won this duel, I would owe it to the basic training she’d given me. Returning to the center, I faced my opponent and stood at the ready. Once the duke had taken a similar stance, the witness called, “Begin!”
Duke Daevarren seemed unwilling to attack, apparently wanting me to make the first move. I obliged, sending my blade in a lazy arc at his side like I’d been taught. As I’d expected, the duke blocked it easily. I hadn’t intended it to hit him. I just wanted to get his measure. He didn’t return the attack—probably afraid he would hurt me.
At my second swing, the duke leaned back and slapped my blade aside with his own. Allowing my arm to be redirected, I cut in toward his knees, but his sword met mine instead. Picking up the pace, I swung toward his head, and he blocked me. Back to his side, but his blade was already there. Starting another cut toward his legs, I changed direction mid-swing and brought my sword straight up before it reached his block, ripping a straight line up the front of his shirt from naval to neck. To avoid damage to more than his tunic, he had to jump back, giving me a small measure of satisfaction.
Despite my minor victory, it had become clear to me that Duke Daevarren was the better swordsman. I was winded and straining to keep up the pace, and he hadn’t even broken a sweat. His superior ability was made even clearer when he finally counterattacked. Before I had time to react, his blade flashed around mine, metal shrieked, and I watched my sword sail out of my hand to land in the dirt behind my opponent.
Instead of pressing his tremendous advantage, the duke leveled his sword in my direction and asked formally, “Do you yield?”
I hesitated. Yield and I would lose—the duel, my dream, myself. Yield and he would be right. I would become exactly what he had claimed me to be—not capable. I could not allow him to win. Too much was at stake. “Absolutely not.” I punctuated my words by snapping a kick into the duke’s side, causing the air to whoosh out of him as I danced back out of range before he could react.
He jerked to the side with the force of my blow and wheezed, “Are you crazy?” before taking a cautious step back.
Setting my jaw in determination, I told him, “I have yet to be placed in a position where I am compelled to yield, therefore I will not.”
With a disbelieving shake of his head, the duke attacked. I gave ground to avoid being sliced to ribbons as his blade flashed in my direction. I had barely been able to hold my own before when he hadn’t been attacking and I still had a weapon, now it was near impossible. If I was going to win this, it would have to be done quickly.
In desperation, I stepped forward, inside the duke’s guard, as he stabbed at my midsection. As his blade slid past, I grabbed his wrist and twisted it. Snaking my arm underneath his and narrowly avoiding shaving a few inches of skin off of both of us, I pushed his arm toward him, forcing him to turn away from me or risk removing his shoulder from its socket. This motion allowed me to lock his sword arm behind his back with my left hand wrapped around it, and pluck his sword hilt from his unresisting grasp with my right. Shifting my grip, I reached around the duke and placed his own blade against his throat, asking, “Do you yield?”
Without only a moment’s hesitation, Duke Daevarren growled in helpless frustration, “Yes.”
Releasing him, I returned his blade, noting something akin to respect in his eyes, and went to fetch my own. While I was gone, the witness joined the duke, clapping him on the back. I could hear him say enthusiastically, “He’s excellent, Daevarren, I don’t know why you made him challenge you to a duel.”
My mouth nearly dropped open when his words reached me. How could the duke not have told the gentleman why we were fighting? “Excuse me,” I interrupted. If he hadn’t figured it out for himself by the pitch of my voice or seeing me up close, and if the duke wasn’t going to correct him, I would provide the necessary enlightenment. “Perhaps I should introduce myself. My name is Tyna, and I’m no ‘he.’”
Eyes widening with surprise, the witness studied me for a moment before turning on the duke, “She? How could you let a woman talk you into this? Let her think of aspiring toward joining the Legion? Absolutely not.”
“Hey!” I was forced to interrupt again since no one else seemed willing to acknowledge my existence or stick up for me. “How dare you insult me!” My hands curled into fists, causing the bracelet to tighten around my wrist, as I struggled against my temper, “You give my skills praise one minute and revoke it the next after discovering that I am a woman. I don’t care if you’re the king himself, if you continue to insult me, I’ll challenge you to a duel next!”
“Tyna.” The duke prevented me from continuing by informing me gently in a low voice, “He is the king.” By way of explanation, he added, “I needed a witness whose word would be beyond reproach.”
Unrepentant, I bowed as was proper and said imperiously, “I will not apologize, your majesty. You insult me by your words, and you insult yourself if you do not honor the terms you witnessed.”
“If you send her away now, you force me to go back on my word,” Duke Daevarren put in mildly. Mine wasn’t the only honor at stake. “Besides, she’s already proven that she can fight,” he added with a grudging respect in his voice that gave me a fierce feeling of satisfaction, “We could at least give her a chance. That doesn’t mean she’ll make it,” he pointed out.
The king turned toward the duke and gave him a searching look before telling him reluctantly, “You’ve made waves before, Daevarren. Many will be unhappy about this one too.”
The duke’s expression remained bland, but his eyes sparkled dangerously, which made me think that he was looking forward to shaking things up again, “They’ll get over it.”
“Does that mean…?” I asked, wanting one of them to say it aloud.
The king nodded, and the duke told me with an almost-smile curving against the sides of his mouth, “Absolutely.”
About the Author:
Beth Powers writes science fiction and fantasy stories. Her work has appeared in Plasma Frequency, Outposts of Beyond, Trysts of Fate, and Shelter of Daylight. When she’s not writing, Powers studies long, rambling novels from nineteenth-century America in an effort to add a PhD to her collection of degrees. She divides her spare time between reading science fiction and fantasy, practicing Tang Soo Do, and knitting an odd assortment of scarves. Powers lives in Ohio with her cats, Murphy and Roscoe, who, like most cats, tend to walk across keyboards, steal pens, and look absolutely adorable—especially when they are getting into
trouble. Visit her on the web at www.bethpowers.com.
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