Swordmaster

Era of Folly

Never again, Leandyr decided. The next time he jumped into the Serpent's Strait, he'd have a proper plan of how to get back. Of course he could've done better than sleeping on the deck of a trade ship, but he'd been too tired to walk further than Sestar's docks.

It didn't help that as soon as his head hit his own pillow, Ridivan pulled him out of bed to spar. Even the sun hadn't gotten up yet, but he couldn't deny the throne's heir anything. Ridivan was one of the few who tolerated him on a daily basis.

So there they were, in an open quadrangle at the heart of the castle, engaged in a dance of sweat and steel that was mutely lit by the first traces of dawn. Enver had joined them shortly after they started, but had chosen to pore over documents than pick up a sword and join them. He commandeered one of the stone benches that lined the quadrangle and filled it up with tombs and scrolls.

Ridivan was all passion and focus as he swung his claymore in wide arcs. With every clash, their swords sang a chorus of steel. The power of each attack rippled up Leandyr's arm, sending tiny vibrations through his bones. But he was only half interested in their sparring session.

His mind was stuck in the past – the night before specifically. A Hiroh lives, who would've thought. The demise of the Hiroh clan was no secret in the realm of Magika, but how it came about was a complete mystery. Like a summer storm, they were simply here one moment and gone the next.

Leandyr poised his sword to parry the next attack, but it never came. He lowered his blade, planting the tip into the ashen dirt.

Ridivan was hunched over and panting like a parched animal. Streams of sweat trailed down his face to stain the dry earth at his feet. "You could at least look like your trying," he said, pushing his black curls from his face.

Leandyr breathed a laugh. "And what good would that do you? I'm here to help you not coddle your pride." He rolled his neck, feeling a small pang of pain from sleeping on hard wood.

"He has a point, Van," Enver called from the benches.

Ridivan shot him a mock glare. "You're supposed to be on my side. And his smugness isn't helping anything."

"But seeing how practiced the Swordmaster is makes you want to get better does it not?" Enver arched a brow, a small smile playing on his lips.

Leandyr grinned when Ridivan failed to come up with a response. "Well?"

"Oh shut up, the both of you!" Ridivan pointed the tip of his claymore at Leandyr, the blade glinting in the first traces of the dawn. "Again."

He me made no move to raise his own blade, but inclined his head in a nod. "Tell you what, if you can land a single blow on me, I'll buy first round at The Tarry tonight. I'll even give you the first move without raising my blade."

Ridivan didn't give his ascent, and launched straight into an attack, his blade cutting through the air fast as a streak of lightning.

Time seemed to slow around Leandyr as he gauged the height of the sword. Neck high... It could cut his head off cleanly if he allowed it. His death would be quick, painless. Pure. The blade beckoned to him like a silver-tongued mistress, whispering promises of the sweet reprieve of death.

Moving ever closer...

It was too late for him to dodge the attack, he realized. Duck and he would lose his hair and good bit of his scalp. Jump back and his throat would be sliced open.

A flicker of panic crossed Ridivan's features, his eyes widening. But his attack was all passion and fury – too much momentum and too little restraint. There was no stopping it.

Leandyr's last resort was to raised his forearm and let the blade crash into his bracer. The screech of the clash rang in his ears like the toll of a bell. The metal plates of his bracer bent under the pressure, and the distinct sound of bones snapping mixed with the song of steel. His arm was knocked out of the way, and the blade bit into the side of his neck, but not deep enough to do any serious damage. He was thrown to the ground and skidded a few feet across the quadrangle.

Ridivan's blade fell from his hands, making a clamor that sounded louder than it should have. There was only a beat of silence before he dashed to Leandyr's side. "By Shifah's grace, Leandyr!"

The pain hadn't hit him yet, but his heart was thumping fast and hard in his chest, and warm blood trickled along his neck.

Enver's quills and brushes pattered on the ground as he shot to his feet, eyes bulging and mouth agape. He came to his magician's side, and a flash later, he was a cape of blood red on Ridivan's back.

"Why didn't you block my attack?" Ridivan asked, pressing his marked hand against Leandyr's wound. "By the goddess, I could've killed you."

Leandyr grunted as he pushed himself to sitting position with his good hand. The bracer on his other was dented beneath his wrist and his hand sat at an awkward angle. "Apologies, it was... a temporary lapse in judgment."

"Temporary lapse, my foot. I've never landed a glancing blow on you." He winced at Leandyr's broken arm. "Let me help you with that."

The pain finally settled in when the bracer was removed. The arm was broken just below the wrist and was already taking on a purple colour. If it weren't for the bracer, the damage would've been much worse. Leandyr gritted his teeth as Ridivan set it back into place and chanted a healing spell.

"I can't heal it all the way, but you should be fine by tomorrow. Try not to use it." From there he sealed up the cut on Leandyr's neck and frowned at the blood on his hands. "What's going on with you, man?"

"Nothing, I told you it was a—"

"Oh don't give me that piss poor excuse!" Ridivan snapped. "I damn near lopped your head off! Do you need to—"

Leandyr's glare cut him off. "Don't say it." The air seemed to heat and crackle between them.

"Do you need to be serviced?" When he got no response, Ridivan threw his hands up. "I don't understand you. It's almost as though you hate being a cape."

Leandyr scowled and pushed to his feet, cradling his injured arm close to his chest. His sword laid a few feet away, the polished blade winking at him in the morning light.

"By Shifah, that what it is, isn't it?" Ridivan continued. "But why? Without capes, magicians would be nothing."

His blood boiled as he wheeled on his friend, cutting the air with his good hand. "No, it is the capes who are nothing without magicians. You use the spells, you bend the elements to your will. We just sit on your backs so we don't die from our own damn magic. Tell me, how is that fair?"

Doubt flickered in Ridivan's eyes and he touched the clasp that held his cape together. "Enver says it's more than that. Your view of the relationship between magicians and capes is too shallow. And you'd know that – no you will know that when you find a magician of your own. You're more than a tool."

Leandyr turned away and plucked his long sword from the ground. He thought of the many days he'd trained, through the brutal chills of winter and the blistering heats of summer. All to be where he was today. On his own. Without a magician.

"You're right, Ridivan. I am more than a tool, but it's only because I made myself so." He scoffed. "But what good is it if I still need a magician to stay alive? If it makes Enver happy to spend the rest of his days being your accessory then good for him."

His equilibrium was lost as Ridivan spun him and slammed him against the nearest wall. The air left his lungs in a rush, and his bones rattled with the impact, sending fresh waves of pain through his injured arm. He managed to keep hold of his sword but wasn't inclined to use it.

"How. Dare. You." His stormy gaze burned into Leandyr, but there's something else beneath the ire. Sadness? Disappointment? "Enver means more than that to me. You know he does. Be as disgusted with yourself as you like, but don't project your self-hate on the rest of us."

"Go ahead," Leandyr growled in return. "Hit me. Beat me senseless!"

Ridivan's muscles tensed, like he was going to do it, and his eyes held a deadly glint sharp enough to cut stone. The air between them became thick with tension and unhushed fury.

Leandyr fully expected his friend to strike him, and he deserved it, but it never came. He slid down the wall and watched Ridivan stalk out of the quadrangle, with Enver billowing in his wake.

As the implications of what nearly happened settled into his mind, he found himself wishing that Ridivan had beaten him. Senseless. Until he was naught but a broken, bloodied mess.

I almost let my best friend kill me...

Knowing Ridivan, he would've blamed himself, his recklessness and lack of restraint. It would've left an irreparable scar of guilt and shame on his soul. They grown up together, learned together, triumphed together and failed together.

And Enver had been nothing but kind to him since the day they met.

Leandyr thumped his head against the wall, suddenly feeling cold and alone in the dawning sun.

I've turned into a monster.