literature

Chapter 1 Scene 2

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Chapter 1 - Scene 2
Torlen spit with a sneer and a groan of disgust.  He ignored the fact that the red liquid splashed halfway up the leg of the man to his left; instead turning back to the bar and cursing the bartender for the swill he had delivered.  “I come a month into this desert on the tales of Sandri wine and this is what I get?” slamming the cup down for emphasis “This is a children’s drink, no more than berry flavored water.”

The northerners rant was ended when he felt a heavy hand grasp his shoulder, turning him around.  There stood a very large Sandri man, and peering out from behind him was the man whom he had spit on.  Torlen appeared nervous as he scooped his coin purse from the bar top.

       “Although it seems I was a little hasty in wasting the water.  My apologies sir, please let me buy you a drink at a better establishment for the trouble.”  

       The tall man leaned in to fully obstruct the view.  “Put away your coin fool, you have spat upon a goldsmith.  There are ways to handle insult between the classes here.”

       “Oh yes I have heard, well I was unaware of his position but since I have pressing business and can’t spare the time in slavery I suppose your employer and I should step outside?” Making a show of difficulty, the thin northerner tried to move in compliance with his own statement but instead stayed put; due to the bigger man holding him in place shaking his head slowly.

       “I am Kraigas, Mr. Fushas’ retainer, you will fight me.  Or would you like to change your mind about your time here?”  The bar crowd had turned to watch the discussion and many broke into laughter at the threat.

       Biting his lip and raising one black eyebrow in apprehension, Torlen took stock of his situation.  Sighing heavily and brushing back a scraggly lock that had escaped his topknot, “I wish that it weren’t the case my friend but I really cannot be delayed.”

       The crowd had been simmering during the discussion, but it began to murmur as the fighters moved into the square, punctuated by the occasional whistle of those taking bets.  Shops had been closed for hours and the carts that remained in the open had their boards on, affording ample platforms for those in the rear to see the proceedings.  The light from the windows of the bar began to dim as bodies moved to obscure it.  The olive skinned warrior cut a small braid from his hair which entrapped a stone.  Turning the stone over and showing it to his opponent, one could see a crude sun glyph etched into its surface.

       “You are too kind Kraigas.” The northerner smiled and motioned to the center of the open space.  As the stone impacted the bare ground it began to glow a washed out blue color, filling the area with the light that a campfire would.  The men walked to opposite sides of that light.  As Torlen took his position, he turned his white jacket inside-out to show its black lining, also revealing it to be ripped and torn into strips.  Kraigas produced a scimitar with a flourish for the crowd, and when he turned back he saw that his adversary had drawn as well.  Confused for a moment, all he could see were basket hilts in Torlens hands.  It was only the salute that followed that allowed him to see the absurdly thin blades catch the light.  
     
       “Edra Ima mas, coutral metaris.  Thank you for this, steel and enlightenment.”

       Not giving the words of his opponent a second thought, the large local charged in with a war scream.  His opponent held his gaze until the final few steps, and then spun low leaving only flying tassels where his body was.  Torlen halted his momentum and crossed his swords behind his back just in case the scimitar came low in its follow through.  He was rewarded when the curved blade caught between his own steel as he braced; that very moment, his hip connected with the running adversary’s thigh, sending the tall man hurtling over to land on his back.

        A thin blade pierced the sand just as Kraigas rolled back to his feet, bringing a cheer from the crowd.  He whirled to face Torlen down, swinging his heavy blade in a quick pattern of upstrokes that both pushed the offensive energy against his wry opponent and kept his flanks protected with the wide flat of his weapon.  It was all Torlen could do, it seemed, to redirect the slashes away from his body in a series of quick parries.  Each time the blades met he could see his swords flexing from the weight.  All the while he danced and spun to keep his center mass hidden in a cloud of ribbon; then he saw moonlight glinting off a dozen armored forms behind the furious combatant.

        Many in the crowd noticed the sound of the approaching guardsmen as well and as their attention turned Kraigas battered through with a hilt slam into the darkly stubbled jaw of the northerner and glanced back to see what the commotion was.  He realized his mistake as one thin blade caught in the curved crosspiece of his scimitars hilt, sending it flying.  A pinprick of pain followed, as did a swooning rush of energy as his body began to panic – unable to bring a beat from his heart.

        Torlen push-kicked the body from his blade and it hit the ground while the scimitar was still skittering off into the crowd.  Looking around and seeing no easy way to escape as the locals began to call for mob justice, he laid his weapons neatly on the ground and awaited the approaching soldiers.

        “It seems I am to be enlightened further tonight.”
A continuation of scene 1, from the fighters perspective
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