Lunar Strings

3 - The Feast (part 2)

The elder had not signaled the commencement of battle, yet Ren was already in position, rebalancing his weight for his rear blade to execute the first twirl of the kraithe. His left eye twitched once. Twice. He was setting me up. He was going to switch to the ay'arnt at the last possible breath like the Sun warrior he knew himself to be. Of this, I was certain.

Somewhere in the assembling sea of spectators, my mavren stood beside his, hoping we would honor his name with an admirable display of learned skill, but we had already begun without the elder's acquiescence. Still, Ren was striking. I had to defend. I was unsure if retreating to the comfort of the faerwik evasion would be wise; it was not the proper return after all. Would such cowardly caution disappoint? Then again, were I to attempt the ay'ar náti and fail, would that have been an even greater disgrace?

I did not have long to ponder, so I took to chance.

My right-hand ūthran met Ren's in the air, and my other blade thrust along the inside of his, settling neatly into the gap between his arm and his abdomen. I had finally completed the ay'ar náti, the direct and brutal cut to the finish. Two breaths into the match, and I was already in the lead. Although, Ren did not take long to defend. He flicked his left wrist away from my hold and transitioned into the offensive kraithe as a form of defense.

I was too frustrated to experience a sense of awe.

We sparred for countless heartbeats, slipping from one progression to another, immaculately and without hesitation. My form, however, was significantly sharper, and Ren knew it. If he had any hope of winning this duel, he needed to make me raise my hand and utter the ancient word for "surrender."

Ay'oṃ.

As if sensing my thoughts, Ren inverted his grip on the hilt of his ūthran, lining the curve of the blades with the length of his forearms, and swung the angled blade toward me, utilizing all of his weight.

His blades were too low. Were these practice-ūthrans, then I could have aimed for his exposed throat, arms, or even his torso—but there was no safe way to do such a thing during a ceremonial display with sharpened tools! I would end him!

Blindly, my fingers followed suit, and I flipped my rear sword into a similar reverse grip, blocking one blow whilst my forward blade drove in. Speed was not on my side. I had to pull back to block another incoming strike.

Ren gave me no acceptable opening, his blades acting as shields while he advanced me. I reversed my grip on the second blade to compensate, fearing I would not be able to curb his blows—the upper-half of my blades could have given way and collapsed toward me. Thus, the unsharpened edge of my blade contoured to the length of my arms just like his, and I prayed to Rithika that I would have the strength to endure this absurd attack.

Our swords met, caught in a strange fusion of sword-and-bare-knuckle combat. It was madness. Taking advantage of the current of motion, I moved against the shift of his blade, having no time to enjoy the melodic shrieking of metal for it had slid and sliced my elbow. The wound was superficial, but that only meant it would cost me points instead of him.

I blocked a series of frontal assaults only to jump backward from a horizontal slash aimed for my stomach. Through my robes, I had felt the brush of wind the ūthran had displaced.

Ren was wearing me thin, pounding down with muscle, leaving no room for me to shift my weight and utilize my petite figure for speed. I had fallen into his trap. I had allowed him to transform my strength into my weakness . . . My slender physique.

I needed to get around him, flip my grip for more control, and strike!

But a sharp pain in my abdomen diverted focus.