Chapter 11- The Razors edge

We stand with our feet planted in the sand, the heat rises off of it in blazing waves. The noon sunlight seeming to gather the days warmth before radiating it towards me. Sweat beads on Quentins Brow as Devin and the heavy muscled knight face off against us. I can practically see the steam rising from our breath and it occurs to me that the longer we stand here the duller our wits will become, the heat is already wearing us thin. Our opponents exchange glances and I can see that they are thinking the same. Devin strikes first, dipping out from behind his partner and lunging towards him with a short sword. He is careful to position himself on the side of Quentin that is furthest from me and he smiles when my companion catches his blade.

I smile back, watching as the uncertainty takes hold. Doubt clouds his expression and he hesitates the blade wobbling in his grip. When his partner charges in, his footwork poised to strike, I meet his strike and use the momentum to divert myself. I step back and to the side, pushing off the Big mans strike and driving my elbow into Devons back. He lets out a huff of air and crumples, snaking out and scratching a line down Quentins arm, just as his own catches the kid. Quentin swears his amber eyes flashing as we pivot to face the big northerner that is now barrelling towards us like a runaway carriage. We push forwards together and it all I can to to avoid the swipe he sends our way. I dodge to the side, ready to dart in and strike as Quentin draws his attention. Instead he meets Quentins blade and feints, pushing him back and turning just as I reach towards him. His gauntleted fist grazes over my cheek and I feel the sting of it breaking skin.

I slide on the sand, my feet almost going out from under me as my momentum continues past him. I ready myself for a boot to the back of the head, for a kick in the ass or the tip of a blades point buried in my skin as punishment for my failure. The image of my teacher pops into my mind, his dusty grey eyes gazing down at me in judgement. Instead the announcer's voice cuts through the white noise. "It's a win for the kid and the Northman!" Calls the Crier, the crows breaking into a mix of shouts and cheers.

The world blurs with heat and I stand to face the big blue eyed northerner. I bow and he returns the gesture, turning to pick Devin up from where he is laying despondently in the sand. He dusts the boy off and sets him on his feet as if it were nothing. I don't hear what he says to the lad, I only see the smile bloom on the kids face. The big man wears a grin as he thumps Devin on the back with one large hand.

The display leaves me with a complicated feeling, like a snake has coiled it's way around my heart and slowly started squeezing. When I step from the sand it is with careful, measured movements. I can feel a gaze as it burrows to my back and when I step back up onto the stand I meet his clear eyed gaze. The duke Verdean looks back at me passively for a moment, studying me before turning back and scratching letters onto his ledger with a swooping scrawl. I can feel the dread as it slowly seeps into me, my face already numb with it. All the contestants have remained in the seats thus far, waiting for the next announcement to be made and as I sit down I can feel my stomach flip.

"You did good." Quentin tells me as he takes his seat next to me. "That northman is bloody experienced, he's a far better combatant that I thought he was. In truth, he is much better at fighting than I am." Then man admits begrudgingly. " I would have loved to have the opportunity to train with him. I can't bring myself to reply so I just stare forwards, gazing at the Duke and flipping through scenarios. Maybe he will want me as a scribe? maybe I can find some other way to be useful to him.... but not one that gets me close enough to make a difference.

It takes less than a quarter hour for the Crier to begin announcing those who passed the second phase. I wait restlessness as name after name is called, tapping my fingers on my seat and glowering at the sun. When my name is called, I jolt upright looking over at Quentin; his name echoing through the arena after mine. When the crier stopped several men shouted in confusion and frustration. "Where's my name! I won didn't I!"screamed one lout who had cheap shotted his opponent and then ground his face into the sand.

When the duke stood and drew himself up the man turned around to face him, freezing when he caught the ice in his gaze.

"Those who have earned my approval have done so because of HOW they fought. I want fighters, soldiers not tavern brawlers." He shifted his gaze, letting it fall over the crowd of perspective recruits before him.

"Are there any further objections?" he asked, shuffling the papers in his hands before standing, a silence stretching out as far as the eye could see.

"Good." He replied. "Those who have been selected will be here tomorrow. For the sake of our audience, the time will be 2 bells after dawn,"