Guile shrugged his shoulders again, irritated despite himself. Standing like a statue all day while nobles circled like dogs, seeing who could mark the post last. It was enough to drive a man to drink!

  And wasn’t that a fine idea? None of this fancy noble wine, just good, clean Posca in the outer circle. A woman, maybe even a brawl.

  He should be so lucky.

  He walked easily out of the gate and towards the stables when a sound caught his ear. A rhythmic slamming of wood against wood with the occasional bit of wood against flesh thrown in.

  He found his feet shifting, moving past the stables and around to a wide courtyard of packed earth and a hundred odd men paired off on working at each other with wooden swords, spears and shields.

  At the middle of it all, a small raised wooden stage surrounded by a dozen free fighters sported a tall, burly red head with a sword staff, half spear, half sword and all nasty, if not quite so scary as when a Falxman was using it. The other was a head and a half shorter and moved with the economical grace of a true killer. His small, light spear darted forward viperishly as it probed the bigger man's guard. Easily ducking and dodging his opponents wider sweeping blows as he did so.

  He quickly found himself at the edge, smiling as men laughed and spoke out wagers on the fight.

  “2 Silvers on the small one.” Guile offered. Having read the fight. It was a good one, but unless that big fellow was a better actor than he looked, it wouldn’t last 2 dozen more exchanges.

  “You’re on stranger!” A tall, armored figure offered, slapping his shoulder good-naturedly. “I think Fraken will get him this time!”

  But he didn’t. Not more than 6 exchanges later, the bigger man swung just a little too widely, and Fraken darted inside his spear flashing forward to strike the bigger man’s extended inner thigh.

  “Ouhhh!” the crowd called in sympathy as the bigger man folded over the blow. It wasn’t a proper shot to the jewels, but it was damn close.

  Guile shook his head softly in admiration. That was a dangerous little weasel of a man. Then he extended his hand palm up to his right.

  “Alright, alright.” The man quickly paid up, grumbling all the while.

  “Fancy giving me a chance to earn it back?” He offered, giving guile, and the knightly plate over hamata a side-eye.

  Guile grinned. “If you want to give me more money, why would I decline?”

  “Oh ho! Confident are we? Well, we’ll see about that.”

  Guile was already unbuckling his sword belt and hanging it on a corner of a weapons rack that sat beside the stage. A rack that was covered in wooden training weapons. It quickly gave him an acceptable substitute, well-balanced and weighted to feel like the real thing. After a glance, he also snagged a scutum. That and a spatha appeared to be the weapons of choice.

  Made sense for bodyguards in the close confines of a keep.

  Less so the battlefield. He’d have started with a greatsword, spear or a falx himself of preference.

  Still, a fight was a fight. And he could really use one right about now!

  He took his place, then they both raised their swords in a flickering salute, before crashing together in a shard shield bash. Blades darting over and around the locked shields for a moment as they fenced for an advantage.

  Then they broke apart abruptly as Guile hoped backward to dodge a blow to his angle, striking the sword blade from behind and accelerating it far out of position before stepping back in with a simple gut thrust that the man could no longer block.

  “Blood!” the Ring Warden called. And both men stepped back, saluting one another again.

  “Dammit!” The man grumbled.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “You want another go?” Guile offered.

  “No!” The man spat. “I’m no idiot. The second’ll go no better than the first.” Guile nodded. The man wasn’t bad. But he wasn’t great either. Solidly low tier 2 in body stat and blade skill but frankly well below that in actual skill with the blade.

  Skills made you faster with your weapon. Made the weapon more durable and even gave you better control. They didn’t make you good with one. That took daily practice, experience and talent.

  His former partner quickly vacated the arena but Guile wasn’t done. “I’ll let it ride.” Guile offered, placing the four silver on the side of the stage. “Winner takes all.”

  Delighted laughter hit the field as a new man quickly jumped up. Though one who moved considerably better than the last. They weren’t fools here. They’d seen him fight once, and the weaker members weren’t buying.

  Not that there were that many of those present. This was clearly an elite training ground, with the lowest present in the second tier.

  Guile saluted his new opponent and quickly became lost in the fight.

  The man was good. Cut and thrust, back and forth. Shield bashes and footwork, body stat, skill and skill.

  It was glorious. No more pointless dancing, no more politicking. Just good clean violence!

  Guile shifted, a flaw more felt than seen. Some previous injury had shifted the way the man threw an overhead blow. A small hesitation that he ruthlessly struck through and into the man's unarmored armpit.

  He damn near collapsed around the blow to the wincing and booing of the audience, who had their own side bets going.

  Guild reached down and helped the man back up. “Better get that shoulder looked at. It leaves you wide open on your overheads.”

  “Nothing wrong with the shoulder.” The man sighed. “Just in my head. I’ve been doing that since it was healed.”

  Guile nodded sympathetically. He’d seen the same before. “Then best practice it, over and over, with a man striking your back every time you hesitate. Do it till you can’t stand up straight.” He paused, considering, then shrugged. “Or you might not ever again.”

  “Truer words haven’t been spoken.” A new voice boomed. One of authority, confidence and power. Guile turned slowly, taking in the newcomer. A newcomer he recognized. The Count's bodyguards. One of the two he’d seen earlier at least.

  A full third-tier professional. Guild closed his mouth and tried not to drool.

  “A neat piece of work. And kindly offered advice. I thank you, Sir Guile of Alfwin Pass. But this is my practice ground. I can hardly let a stranger make a clean run of it.”

  Guile grinned widely and pointed to the side where the pile of silver had gotten a bit higher. “The wager is still riding, ah?”

  “Principis Castor. Sir Knight. And are you that confident?”

  “Confident? Not so much. But excited for the chance? That I am. Not often a man gets to spar with such as yourself!”

  Grunts of approval rang out around the ring. He might be a stranger, but he’d handled himself well. There was acceptance here for soldiers. Even outsiders, if they behaved well.

  “Then I’ll take your money. Call it a training fee.” The man offered with an easy smile, stepping over to leave his belted sword on the rack and replace it with a spatha and scutum himself.”

  A quick salute and they were ready.

  And on the first clash, Guile knew.

  If the man had been serious, he’d not have survived more than a dozen. The blow shook his arm to the shoulder and slammed through his spatha’s guard. Only a quick shift of his shoulders and interposing his scutum saved him.

  But after that first blow, the man nodded and reduced both strength and speed. Matching Guile and turning the contest into one of skill, not merely superior stats or Skills.

  The man was poetry in motion. His footwork precise and predictive. Moving to a new spot before it was needed. Always stable, always light and ready for the next step.

  His shield work likewise, always at the right angle to shed a blow, not merely block it. Deflecting in ways that left the attacker open to return blows even as his own blade flicked about the edges, forcing Guile to stay on his toes.

  He was no welp himself, but this man had at least 3 decades on him. And all 3 spent actively fighting!

  It was life. It was fire running through his veins and he could feel himself improving with every exchange!

  It couldn’t last. And it didn’t. Guile saw it coming. A familiar set of blows. Overhead transitioning into a slicing blow at his ankles, followed by a shield bash as the foot was recalled. Guile applied the standard counter, hopping backward as he crouched to deflect the blade into the earth.

  It wasn’t enough.

  The shield hit at precisely the right angle and threw off his balance, then the return flick of the sword slid into his armpit. A mirror of the blow he’d ended the last fight with.

  Both stood back without waiting for the Ring Warden. “It tis my loss.” Guild offered with a salute. A genuine one at that, to the cheers of the audience. An audience that had been held spellbound by the high-level duel and were nearly as sad to see it end as he was.

  Guild leaned his head back and laughed. “Ahh, I haven’t had a fight that good in years.”

  “You held up well.” Castor offered. “Well beyond your level, I’d wager.”

  Guile nodded at the compliment. “Still, I think I owe you a mug! How about it, I’m buying.”

  Castor leaned down with a smile and swept up the small pile of silver. “I think you already did!” He offered with an evil grin to the laughter of the audience. “Come, then, lets spend it together, exaggerating our deeds and glory as wildly as possible all the while.”

  A loud cheer, interspersed with laughter, took the field as men began to troop in. Stretching carefully on the way to rack their practice weapons, and retrieve their own sword belts in the doing.

  The days practice was clearly over.

  Guile couldn’t stop smiling.

  This was life!

  ___