Collaboration discussion

Rashad traced the pummel of his sheathed sword nervously, waiting for the referee to finish his requisite dramatic declarations before the potential bloodbath. Not that what would follow was really all that dangerous; no one had died in well over a decade, and only a few were maimed – as Rashad firmly reminded himself for the umpteenth time.

“After a week of clashes from the best swordmages in the region,” the referee declared to the few hundred spectators gathered, while Rashad bitterly thought, A region the size and depth of a puddle, “we have finally come to the final duel – to the finest two swordmages in all of Correl!”

The cheer that rose, while it came from a tiny crowd compared to the one found at the Hemlem Ultimate, was loud and undoubtedly genuine. These people had watched thirty-two swordmages – possibly the only thirty-two swordmages in the region – fight, lose, and win to come this far. In truth, only six of the swordmages had any true power, and half of them lack anything resembling control.

“On one side, we have the returning champion, Correl’s pride and greatest issue – who, with his fifty-second victory achieved just days earlier and two regional championship victories under his belt, just needs this one last win to qualify for the Hemlem Ultimate – please welcome Graceham Gurdell!”

Rashad tried not to be intimidated as his opponent climbed onto the raised platform on the opposite side, but it was difficult. The dedication behind the crowd’s roar was unmistakable and unmistaken; Graceham Gurdell was a fantastic swordmage. He was something of an enigma, for his abilities were nothing sort of Sentinel quality, and definitely had the edge of a trained warrior. Where did one find swordmage training in Correl? Yet, his reputation was nothing to the valiant visage he wore. Muscular, but graceful, he looked over the tiny crowd with sapphire eyes that shone with passion from beyond his obsidian skin.

He drew his two-handed bastard sword with only his right hand and raised the gleaming blade straight above his head, much to the tremendous approval of the crowd.

“On the other side, we have the underdog of the competition – a boy with no known warrior blood, no revealed magic heritage, and no patronage to sponsor his travels thus far. Please give your best for the blue collared warrior – Rashad Herum!”

Rashad’s disconcertion at being labeled the underdog of the entire competition was quickly washed away in the flood of annoyance at being called “a boy.” He pulled himself up onto the high, stone platform as well, though with considerably more rigidity to his movements. In his anger, he almost didn’t notice that he was receiving nearly as much applause as his rival. Mimicking Graceham Gurdell, Rashad yanked both his swords from their sheathes, crossing them above his head momentarily before bringing them in a defensive posture in front of him.

“Oh, it looks like someone is eager to get started,” the referee jeered, eliciting a laugh from the crowd.

Rashad winced, thinking of Olive. She already disapproved of these fights, declaring them a childish dream. Nonetheless, she usually accompanied him, if only to try to peddle her medicine to citizens in other towns. Undoubtedly that stunt he just pulled would confirm, in her mind, that he did it for the glory.

The truth was worse than that.

The referee smoothly turned his joke back to business. “I think we’re all eager for them to get started. Aren’t we?” The roar of several hundred spectators came when he called. “Then let’s get started. The finals of the Correl Region’s Swordmage Championship – for glory, for honor, for the Realm! – “

For the money to feed my family through the winter, Rashad thought bitterly.

“ – Begin!”

At that single word, Rashad felt his own magic surge within him. The arena had a very clever enchantment, one that allowed the amazing feats of power that the audience craved without the unnecessary drop in population. The spell redoubled innate magical power within the confines of the ring and within the confines of a short period of time. It allowed contestants, like Rashad, to accomplish feats that would normally be way beyond their typical ability, but it also created a curious shell around them. The shell, invisible and slippery, usually prevented any fatal blows from destroying good talent for the Game Masters, though slamming into it hard enough often knocked out the person it was supposed to be protecting.

As for usually preventing death, Rashad tended to emphasis the “usually.”

The moment the surge finished its work, Graceham Gurdell was moving – and moving at an extraordinary pace. He closed the distance between the two in less than a second, a barreling boulder racing towards Rashad with all the momentum of a sports riot. Rashad realized immediately that, if he tried to block or even parry, the fight would be over in seconds; so he decided to not be there when Gurdell was.

The moment he side stepped the speeding swordsman, Rashad was lost. He didn’t lose the fight – if anything this was the moment he won the fight – but this was the moment he lost himself to the fight. The fight became a dance, and that dance became rapture. As he pivoted around the much more experienced opponent, his swords moved as one. The left met Gurdell’s whirling retaliation, catching the top of the broadsword with its forte, while the right drove forward to a narrow gap in the warrior’s armor, thrusting into that narrow slit.

The dance lasted longer than usual. Gurdell easily leapt back, using magic to carry him several feet further than he should have without momentum. Rashad didn’t give him respite, instantly re-engaging. The swing the broadsword was much too powerful to deflect, but it hardly mattered since Rashad had already left the ground, on a trajectory to bring him right above the blade and onto Gurdell’s shoulders. Somehow, Gurdell seemed to expect this and turned it on Rashad, creating a sheet of fire in front of him. There was no evading the flames, but Rashad quickly used the wind to part them – revealing that Gurdell had already moved. The heat of the flames around Rashad didn’t burn as hot as the flames of delight in his heart.

There was the awful truth, the thing he hid from Olive for fear that her disapproval would turn to hatred. He didn’t enjoy the glory or recognition of battle – he enjoyed the battle itself. The speed, the strategy, the base survival instinct; he breathed it in like a psychedelic, riding on the high for days after.

Now he had a true opponent, a true dance partner. Of all the contestants, only three could be considered competent – and Gurdell had fought the other one. Here, now, was the greatest fight, the greatest thrill Rashad ever had the pleasure of engaging in. Whereas most fights ended in a couple of minutes, this one stretched out for more than ten, straining the crowd’s voices.

They traded spells and blows, denting their blades and scorching their armor. Gurdell managed to freeze Rashad’s leg at some point and immediately moved in to finish the match. Rashad didn’t have time to undo the spell, but simply used magic to aid his strength, ripping the ice-covered leg from the ring and bringing it to Gurdell’s chest. The larger warrior tumbled away, disorientated, but undefeated. Rashad used that brief lull to melt the ice, wearing his power down further.

He had never been in a bout this long.

They traded several more blows, Gurdell apparently recovered from the dizzying strike, only for Rashad to abruptly find a gap in the man’s defenses, bringing one of his blade down on the broadsword’s hilt with a small electric charge. The massive sword tumbled away, and Rashad was too close for Gurdell to parry effectively, magic or no.

As he brought the other blade to his opponent’s neck, Rashad abruptly had one, conscious thought: How the hell did I manage that?

A less conscious thought stopped his blade several inches short of Gurdell’s neck. Both warriors paused, frozen comically in place for three long seconds. Dully, Rashad realized that Gurdell should’ve tossed him across the ring by now.

Eventually, he did, lifting the smaller combatant bodily and chucking him farther than any human should be capable of, but the pause was unmistakable; Gurdell had just tried to throw the fight. Rashad was so stunned by the idea that he didn’t have time to react to the raging sphere of flame streaking towards his head.

He woke up several minutes later, while the crowd was still roaring about Graceham Gurdell’s ascension to the Hemlem Ultimate. The referee was screaming his approval with only slightly more coherence, clearly ecstatic as any of them. No one seemed to have registered the inexplicable pause as Rashad did, or perhaps they invented some technical combat reason for it. Either way, only Rashad, Gurdell, and whoever put Gurdell up to it knew that the match was supposed to be fixed.

Well, Rashad thought bitterly, at least they didn’t get what they wanted.

* * *

Two spectators pulled themselves away from the crowd as soon as possible, pulling up their hoods to hide their identities. The only reason why they weren’t wearing them until that point was because sports spectators wearing their hoods up in the dead of summer were quite conspicuous. They quickly headed towards a shadier part of town, where hiding one’s face was more fashionable and the people were more synthesized to devious discussions.

“That’s the one we want,” the shorter one said, his voice rasping like flint scraping across steel. “He’s the best chance we’ve come across.”

The other’s voice was smooth and several notes higher than a typical male. “Indeed – that recovery was astounding. I thought the underdog had him.”

“I don’t mean Graceham,” the raspy man snapped. “We need the boy.”

Sorry it took so long; been busy. I think this sets a decent standard, though.

The chapter was 1,658 words long. Any thoughts on it, corrections, etc?

I'll take a closer look when I'm in A school.

So ... 'tis been a month now.