The crowd roars turn to laughs.
He recalls, Someone bet this weapon for her. Everything lavender’s for her! Where’s my crew? Why haven’t they sent me assistance? He abandons the sword and races for the exit.
The Dunderian scoops up the blade waving it above her head to the shouts of the crowd.
His crew would bet him a comparable weapon. The crowd chants, “Crackle, Crackle, Crackle!”
The woman’s name. They know her by name! That can’t be healthy. Reynard keeps up his pace for the door. They delay the arrival of obstacles so the betting increases among the proletariat. He realizes this as he hears the grind of the tile spinning open. A blue gladius shines on a pillar.
Beggars can’t be choosers. Anyone who thinks sword fighting with any style sword is the same has never held one. The two-foot-long, one-handed Romanesque weapon wields completely different than the two-handed, thirty-inch katana-style weapon he trained with for a year to use as if it were a part of his arm.
He blocks the swing of her cutlass with the gladius. She has more of a reach and has power behind her blows. Clearly trained in blade combat, she wields the weapon in a fashion to utilize the extra length to push Reynard back. He’ll have to endanger himself in a close quarter attack to disarm her.
Pillars of flame burst through five tiles surrounding them. The heat sends beads of sweat trickling down his forehead. The flames are distant enough not to completely cook them but from the crowd’s vantage point they appear to increase the danger—increasing the betting.
Unable to change hands despite his slick wet palm wielding, Reynard should drive her into a tower of flames, but instead he slides back on his feet. His boot disperses weight on the next tile.
A pillar propels upward so fast Reynard finds himself flung forward. His sword slides across the floor. Crackle, with no chivalric intent, pounces. The quick clean slice happens too fast for his nervous system to even note he has a gash on his left abdomen. Blood splashes on the arena floor. Warm liquid soaks his jumpsuit. It needs stiches or bacterium foam on the Dragon. He has a worse scar on his leg from a barbed-wire fence.
She has to move in close to execute next cut. The crowd loves it. Someone won a lot on a first-blood bet. Reynard focuses on her. She had to move within his arm’s reach to draw the cutlass across his skin. She deliberately didn’t provide a killing stroke. Reynard understands she purposely cut him to make him bleed. Crackle must have partners to bet. Scamming those arena gamblers.
Reynard loses any reservations about hitting a girl. She dances back after making her cut. He balls his fist completing a punch hard enough to brake her jaw.
Dunderians have a hard facial structure. A boxer’s fracture sets his arm ablaze with pain.
Even if his punch had little effect on her, it does send her off-balance allowing him the seconds he needs to retrieve the gladius.
Other options appear further down the arena field. Two platforms rise, one of blue and one of lavender. Reynard desires a sword he’s used most effectively, even though the Old Maestro explained to him a great warrior learns to master any weapon within his environment. A sword may not always be within reach. It can be taken away. He would raise the stump where his lower right arm was to illustrate that point.
Reynard wraps his fingers around the hilt. It’s not his sword, not his style—adapt.
Crackle smashes her blade into Reynard’s. He barely has time to block, parry before returning a thrust which she counters with ease. He has to adapt to the shorter length first. This weapon lacks the reach of his katana and forces him to change his natural stance and arm movements.
Wild slashes pour out of him. Crackle finds herself leaping back, but with a few seconds of study she slips her cutlass between the downward cuts and snips the fibers of Reynard’s arm sleeve.
The pinprick wakes him. No matter what the blade he trained under, it isn’t its length—it is the form. Let the sword become part of your arm, part of your body, become your soul. The Old Maestro’s words replay in his mind. Reynard blocks the cutlass on its next thrust, twists the gladius so it catches her sword. Her wrist bends at an uncomfortable angle weakening her grip, before he flings both weapons away. Reynard holds onto his hilt. The cutlass sails across the arena tumbling over the tiles.
They both sprint.
Reynard races for the exit.
Crackle for her blade.
She mistakenly assumed she would need it. Any other combatant would move to finish her off. The Osirian doesn’t play the game like any other, or he has an alternative plan to finish her. The longer they live, the greater the betting. His moment of reprieve may be simply to allow more bets to increase. If his companions are betting on him, then he wants to give them all chances to raise the pot.
Pieces of Reynard’s suit and skin break open. A millimeter closer and he would have had more than a few scratches from the wall of spikes shooting through the floor. He avoids the next tile and finds the canister on the blue pillar less inviting. Nothing in it is metal in the face. He spins on his heels to locate Crackle. She has been warned of the impending booby trap and leaps through the air with the grace of a cat and lands on the lavender platform before the walls of spikes shoot up around it.
She twists open the canister lid.
Reynard compels his legs to run. He reaches the door while she fidgets with a new toy. Highly compressed air blows him backward at the halfway point.
