He would prefer not to fight faced with either outcome.
Hollering from the crowd competed for his attention; bellows of encouragement to his opponent, cries for them to do something beyond dance around each other. He blocked them out. If they only knew. But he couldn’t let that happen. Not yet.
Giving a roar that could’ve deafened a bear, his opponent rushed into his range. She swept her sword upwards, knocking aside his pitiful block.
Darshan gave ground, almost slamming into the sturdy railing hemming them in. He darted to the side and just missed clipping another rail before escaping into the centre of the arena. Exactly how had she herded him into a corner whilst keeping him none the wiser?
He shook his head. Sloppy. As much as he would’ve preferred otherwise, a change of tactics was clearly in order.
Daring to loosen his grip on the two-handed hilt, he focused on stirring up the air. Such magic was a difficult task to accomplish at the best of times. It always started small, the wisp of a current drifting from the lazy sweep of his fingers. He had to follow the puff of air out, force more of his magic into the breeze.
All whilst keeping a wary eye on his opponent.
He let the breeze roam the arena, sweeping wide to encompass the crowd in a vague circle as it gained intensity. Not too obvious. He backed up a little more, drawing his opponent with him, as the wind hurtled towards him. There was a patch of earth trampled bare by previous contestants. Was it enough? Only one way to tell.
With his back to the oncoming wind, he let the full strength of the gust drift low and sweep up. The wind whipped dust all around them, bombarding his back.
His opponent lowered her head. Had she been affected as he’d hoped? Hard to tell with her eyes in shadow. He’d just have to risk it.
Darshan lunged, aiming low. Collecting a leg might—
Pain lanced across his side. His breath whooshed out his lungs. The world flashed red.
He dropped to his knees, bent over and gasping. More air. The scarf inhibited him too much. He grabbed the edge, prepared to tear the fabric from his face. No. It was one blow. He still had a chance. Revealing himself now would ruin everything.
“One point to blue.”
Darshan barely heard the call. He clutched at his side. Sharp pain dug into his chest with each breath, forcing him to breathe shallowly. Had he cracked a rib or—? Yes. His magic buzzed, steadily working to mend the injury, the drain more than bruised flesh or bone would warrant.
“Red?” their mediator barked, exasperation thick on his tongue. How long had the man been calling for a response?
Darshan lifted his head sluggishly. The world was slightly fuzzier now, his tears sapping the blurs of even more detail. He rubbed a hand across his face, clearing his vision as best as he could. Blindly, he faced the direction of the voice.
“Are you fit to compete?”
Breathing deep and wincing as a twinge hit his side, Darshan nodded. It’s just the first strike. He hadn’t given Hamish hope and risked throwing the whole contest into turmoil to bow out now. How could I have been so foolish? He should’ve waited, perhaps tried a second time, before reacting. Now he needed to win the next two rounds or—
Focus, you twit. Clambering back onto his feet, he marched into the middle of the arena and waited for the cry to begin the second bout of their duel. If he didn’t train his full attention on his opponent, then he would be walking out of this arena defeated. And exposed. He couldn’t let that come to pass.
His opponent, seemingly emboldened by her victory, hopped impatiently from one foot to the other. After dealing such a blow, she likely thought him easy pickings. She would’ve been right had he not his magic to lean on.
Darshan levelled what he hoped was a menacing glare at her. No mistakes. His healing magic still passively tingled through his body, not quite done with mending his ribs. Redirecting the energy to bolster the strength in his limbs took some concentrating, but far less than an initial summoning. He’d but a short window to use it.
“Second bout,” the cry came. “Victory or even mark. Begin!”
He raced across the space between them. His sword snapped up, smacking the woman’s blade aside before she could mount a proper defence, then down.
She scuttled backwards like a disturbed crab, barely missing incurring the same injury she had inflicted on him. Her left arm jumped, her grip loosening on the sword hilt. Was she used to fighting with a shield?
He feinted. Again, her elbow lifted that smidgen too high. And again, his sword swiped at her. Too wide. Even as he swung, he knew he had misjudged his aim. Too late to check himself. All he could hope for now was that she didn’t—
His opponent let out a roar of pain.
She doubled over, the sword falling forgotten from her hands. He couldn’t see anything wrong with them, but she cradled her hand nevertheless. Like Darshan, she wore gloves fashioned from simple brown leather. Meagre protection against a sword blade. Even a blunt one.
Had he broken her hand? The woman’s howling certainly suggested something more serious than a bruised knuckle.
He had learnt from yesterday’s duels that suffering a broken limb, even on the first blow, meant an instant loss. It wouldn’t have been so back home, where such injuries could be healed in mere moments, but the Tirglasians seemed adamant that their spellsters stay beyond the reach of other folk. Even when it would’ve made life easier for them to have skilled healers nearby.
“One point to red,” a voice bellowed over the woman’s screams. “Someone check to see if her opponent’s still fit to compete.”
Two figures vaulted the railing and strode their way.
His opponent’s hiccupping cries of pain abruptly shifted into one of rage. “That was a lucky shot!”
