home

search

No Good Deed

  The following weeks were a haze of constant drills and sparring matches, broken only by brief respite.

  During these moments, the man I had come to call Left would imbibe heavily of spirits before returning to the ring, reeking and swaying slightly. Despite the advantage, I often struggled to last more than three clashes before my weapon would clatter uselessly to the floor.

  If I had learned anything over the weeks of training, it was that I was not a natural athlete. My ineptitude was exacerbated by the sheer volume of skills to learn. In Draan, war was an art, and those who waged it, artists.

  The planet Cascadia was dominated by several city-states, most of them ruled over by god-kings: powerful beings that dominated their domain with fists of iron and minds of mercury. These god-kings constantly waged war for supremacy over the planet—the borders of city-states shifted perpetually.

  As a result, combat continuously evolved, becoming increasingly sophisticated with each cycle of the moons.

  Hathal-Ra, a fighting form styled after striking serpents, was the perfect counter to Sharan-Tor, a sweeping fighting style designed to mirror the beating wings of a toran-ral. On and on it went, form after form, all with precise strengths, weaknesses and counters.

  I often wondered which was worse, the aching migraine following all the theory, or a swift blow to the head from Left. I surmised the head trauma delivered a brief reprieve of blissful unconsciousness.

  Week after week of remedial studies during the day, and relentless bouts during the evenings.

  Sleep came with more and more difficulty since Lucan, his accusing green eyes haunting me every time I closed my eyes. As such, I was glad of the distraction; I was less glad of the aching pain as I slumped back into bed in the early hours of the morning.

  Despite my best efforts, I'd come no closer to landing a single blow upon Left. Our bouts grew in length and ferocity, with at least several exchanges before my blade clattered to the ground, followed by a vicious blow—returning the favour still felt painfully out of reach.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  In my sixth month of training—body battered and hands hardened to callous—I saw my chance: every night during our time together, Left came to fetch me from my room, striding ahead in silence. Yet on nights when it rained or a harsh chill pervaded the air, he marched with a slight hitch in his left knee—an injury from an old battle, perhaps?

  Our duel commenced as they always did: the clash of wood-on-wood for several seconds before clatter and thwack. Usually, I would take a few moments to get my bearings before continuing. This time, I instantly scooped up the blade and rushed the attack.

  Thultam, the toron-ral's ambush, was a style designed to surprise your foe. Left preached caution in its use, as the moves that comprised it were powerful, but painfully obvious to counter. Best left to finish a fight quickly on a crippled or stunned opponent.

  My uncharacteristic aggression caught Left by surprise and he hurried to raise his blade to block an overhead slash.

  I darted left, changing to a backhand cut, targeting his right shoulder. He raised the blade swiftly, his left leg braced behind him to take the force of the impact as it coursed down his arm. Left grunted in surprise, and I heard a subtle crack as his leg gave way beneath him. I twisted my wrist at the end of the movement, ready to follow up with an uppercut to Left's exposed chin—the same side he was missing his eye, and was blind to attack.

  As the blade soared towards its target—my first victory—I hesitated.

  Once again, I felt the painful stirrings of guilt as I prepared to injure Left. Gruff and untalkative, reeking of whiskey as he was, he was still my only real friend in this place.

  Lucan's piercing eyes flashed through my mind again.

  I wrenched up on the attack. It sailed harmlessly to the side.

  I don't know what I expected as I looked down at Left's surprised face—it was not the fist that catapulted towards my nose, the bridge exploding on impact.

  Gold flashed before my eyes as I staggered, dazed by the blow.

  "Fool!" he hissed, leaping onto me even as I fell. His clenched fists followed. "Give no quarter," he snarled, his words matching the rhythm of each strike.

  In that moment, I was struck with an odd sense of clarity over how different this man was to my father. Where the God-King would rant and rave, lecturing on divinity and the meaning behind it, Left let his actions dictate the lesson. Each thud, followed by a burst of pain, was a lesson that this world did not tolerate mercy.

  As the thought dawned, darkness followed, and I slipped happily into unconsciousness, blissfully free of Lucan's condemning eyes and Left's raining blows.

  mercy is weakness.

  Chapter 5: The Climb.

  New chapter drops tomorrow around 5PM AEST! (Give or take, depending on working hours.)

Recommended Popular Novels