The soldier was sending a messenger away, then put a hand to his face in contemplation. Nondescript armor, offering some protection while being easy to move around in. Perfect for a tactician who wanted to move swiftly to gain different vantages of an ongoing battle. Perhaps not perfect for protection, but that spoke to the confidence in their skill. A short sword hung at his left, as well as a buckler shield.

  Alone on the field. Back to his assassin. If there were a time to strike, it would be now. Royce’s slug deity slinked around as a ball of fire appeared in his hand. Aim and release.

  The ball of death lurched toward the man’s back, but he spun and batted it away with the buckler.

  Their eyes met.

  Of course, it wouldn’t be that easy.

  “A young mouse. You should have scurried off when you had the chance,” The tactician said blandly.

  Royce charged, his steel bared. The tactician caught Royce’s sword with his own. A middle-aged man without a single ounce of caring in his long features. Dead fish eyes probed for information.

  Royce raised his hand to the man’s face and willed a spray of flame to erupt, but the man easily dodged and kicked Royce in the stomach, sending him flying backward.

  Was there desperation in Royce’s features? Worry? Perhaps the exhilaration of battle found itself manifesting on his face. Good.

  The tactician, light on his feet, hopped back, creating more space, then swung his blade in the air. Royce instinctively brought his guard up. Something sharp slammed against his blade. The tactician clicked his tongue and swung again. This time Royce noticed the dust kicked up by the ability, and dodged under the slash.

  “Enough sense to block and dodge mouse,” The tactician had acid in his tone, but his eyes still held no interest. He was a man who had seen many a battle.

  “Wind,” Royce said.

  “So we’re both external and both summon elements. If you give me your name, mouse, I might do you the honor of remembering your death.”

  This was the time to draw him in. At any moment, the tactician could call for help or retreat. Royce had to present him with a reason to fight one-on-one. He displayed the crest of Welkia proudly. “I am Royce of the Welkia Royal Guard, son of the Lord Captain and member of the Band of the Promised One!”

  The tactician’s eyes finally glinted with interest as the man licked his lips. His stance changed to something more predatory, preparing to strike for the kill.

  Recognition is what every warrior seeks, and the head of one like him would give the tactician some reward and renown. Also that the man was looking down on Royce was a boon.

  Exactly what I was hoping for.

  The tactician lunged at Royce, and it was all he could do to keep from being cut to ribbons by the lashing winds that the enemy was producing.

  The gap in skill, in experience, was too great. Royce was pushed back, unable to defend himself from the thirst of the solider before him. He felt the desperation on his face as he fell back.

  “I don’t know why you’re here,” The tactician said through his lunges, “But I will take your head. Curse your inexperience and incompetence.”

  With each clash of blades, he could feel the length and width distorted as the tactician imbued the sword with wind. If only he were as skilled as the man before him, but even he was not much compared to the many warriors that were in Royce’s life. Still, he could not imbue the weapon as the man before him was able to.

  Cut to ribbons, blood streaked down Royce. He retreated in fear as the tactician chased him like a hound.

  Cold sweat ran down the back of Artowen’s neck. He felt the putrid sensation in his elbows and the strength well in his forearms. He stepped up to the recently alerted guards. They had enough time to turn on him with spear and sword, but they were no match as they fell in quick succession.

  “How dare you!” The woman howled as the last of her comrades fell.

  Artowen pointed the sword at her. “I challenge you, leader of these raiders.”

  She smirked. “And who do I have the honor of facing?”

  “Artowen the Promised One! The man who will become the Drawalda!”

  Mocking laughter, followed by a depreciating bow. “You face but a humble soldier by the name of Liza.”

  “You call yourself a soldier while you kill your fellow Drajin, innocents at that. A foul commander leading a band of traitors.”

  “I can tell your ego is inflated, o’Promised One. You do not see the need in our duties, nor the folly in the battle you are about to lose.”

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  “Ravenous Bardoo is eating its own tail. The peak of idiocy to justify your greed. My blade will be that of justice, cleaving through your despicable soul.”

  “Come then, prince of lies, for the Promised One is not but a nightmare woven by despicable witches.”

  Liza lunged at him with her longsword. Artowen attempted to parry, but the point slipped past, clipping his armor. If not for his swift movement and armor, the blade would have been plunged into his heart.

  He did not let this deter him as he closed for more strikes. A quick succession of blows, followed by Liza representing an opening. Where Artowen’s sword should have manifested victory, it instead conjured her blade parrying his, leaving him on the back foot.

  She did not let the opening go to waste.

  A low swing came from Artowen’s left that he aimed to parry, but once again her sword found its way around his guard. This time, the strike found purchase, scoring across Artowen’s ribs and spilling blood.

  Artowen grunted and attempted to retreat, but the viper pursued her prey. Each lash of her tongue licked new blood. A scrape on the face. A gouge on the arm. Every wound deeper than the last.

  That was when Artowen finally noticed.

  Blood lusted, Liza dived to finish her prey. This he blocked. Surprise soured her face. She swung for his neck.

  Again, he parried.

  Before she could reprise her attack, he riposted, slicing through thick armor with no effort and scoring a nick on her shoulder. He sought to continue his offensive, but she leapt back and took a new stance.

  “Not completely unskilled, I see,” Liza’s eyes narrowed.

  “Unfortunately for you, I encountered someone with the same kind of deity recently. Bending your weapon is an underhanded technique fitting for you.” I’ll have to thank Emerii for showing her skill against that bandit spear wielder. Now I can fight because of her.

  Liza snickered. “And that’s some brute strength you have there. With your internal touching strength and deity appearance, you are the spitting image of a Uxson.”

  Artowen bared his teeth. “Now that I know your trick, you’ll be defeated in a mere moment.”

  “Fool, you would have had an easy death if you let yourself fall to my simple maneuvers. Don’t think you’re the only one who learned something. Some skill resides deep in that thick skull, but with an over-reliance on brute strength.”

  Her longsword then went limp like a whip. She lashed all about herself in a grand display, then at the end coiled her blade like a drill.

  Artowen ignored his wounds, focused his deity, and prepared for combat.

  Liza rushed forward, her blade spinning. He tried to meet it with his own, but the torrent was too much even for his powerful counter. Artowen’s sword was brushed aside. He tried to dodge, but it was too late. The drill gouged the lower right of his body.

  Before he could counterattack or reposition, the sword was dragged from his body and became a whip with the sharpness and power of a sword. It was all Artowen could do to put up his guard. Too many lashes to count. Surviving the onslaught, he barely hung on to consciousness.

  The assault halted momentarily as she retracted her blade, then began to spin it in a circle. Gaining speed, gaining force. Artowen could do nothing as he tried to recover. Liza, satisfied with the buildup of her next attack, plunged forward with her circle of death. He blocked, but the force surged through him, her blade a spring that launched him crashing into a burning shed a distance away.

  Artowen lay among the fire, bleeding, tired, and barely holding on.

  No words.

  None were needed.

  A succession of clashes swifter than the sound that exuded from them. Twin scimitars rolling in steel waves of death; a single longsword parting the seas. Give and take. It was all the introduction they needed.

  Emerii had heard his name once during her week of spying, but it was not the thing that she needed engraved into her mind. It was the appearance of the three leaders, the one before her cutting an imposing figure.

  From his neck, a ghoulish face appeared; he had finally summoned his deity. She would have to take whatever the ability was openly, as his strikes were already enough to keep her full attention.

  They continued their intense clash.

  Suddenly, she was clipped on the arm. From her vision, that should have been an impossibility. A red flower bloomed on her arm, not unlike the field that blossomed that day in the ruins of dreams.

  Emerii pushed it from her mind and focused. The flurry of slashes grew fiercer.

  Another blow from her blind spot, this time to her thigh.

  She sought distance to figure out what was happening, but the skilled soldier closed on her at every moment.

  Cold sweat exuded from her neck. The lurching in her stomach made her stumble as consciousness faded, but she managed to stay aware, then shared his left eye. This created a wider field of vision, and she was finally able to see what was cutting her.

  She parried the two sweeping strikes of the dual scimitars, then dodged a third, spinning in the air and counterattacking, only for her strike to be blocked by a fourth blade.

  Those extra swords were ghostly, held by ethereal copies of the warrior’s arms and attached to his back. They swiftly disappeared.

  “A curious ability,” Emerii said, shocked by the quavering weakness in her voice. The fire around her created a nightmarish heat that haunted her memories. She struggled to keep the connection with her deity. Her head was burning.

  The warrior ground his scimitars together. “I knew you would not disappoint from our first contact. Come, there is no reason to end our dance.” The man rushed forward.

  Emerii gave a sad smile. A dance, huh? She stepped forward to meet the man whose face showed he was enraptured by the excitement of combat.

  Both sides began their solos, slowly increasing the intensity and volume until they combined into a duet of dance and song.

  Emerii could find no opening, the warrior’s normal blades difficult enough to work around, but the deity summoned blades guarded and attacked at every perfect moment. Her every cleave from the left was blocked by a real scimitar, and then a ghostly sword would swing and push her back, forcing her on the defensive.

  The warrior had dispensed with pretense, the conjured arms and swords constantly whirling with the real ones. It was by no means messy either, each slash showed precision and years of practice, years of combat.

  She was beginning to struggle, then sought to end it all in one move. The warrior overextended his real swords, then Emerii parried the third, leaving one to block. She stabbed, maneuvering her point around the length of his blade.

  A hair’s length from her victory.

  Two more blades crashed into her, biting into her armor like ravenous beasts. She managed to dodge back as the other ghostly blades sought to steal her life. The real scimitars slashed at her head, and all she managed was to block. The full power double strike slammed into her.

  Sent reeling, her world spun as she fell to her knees. Her deity’s ability was released, but that did not remove the nausea she was feeling.

  The warrior now stood with four ghostly arms. He barked a laugh, “This is the power of one of Bardoo’s greatest warriors! A satisfying battle girl. Tell me your name and I shall remember it. You will live on in the memory of the man who will soon become the strongest in Bardoo, then Dradris!”