Ward looked around the gallery and, for the first time since Trent Roy had issued his challenge, felt a little nervous. More than a hundred people were standing around in a loose circle, watching him and Roy, while True rehashed the same rules she’d gone over earlier at the breakfast table. When she finished her spiel, she walked over to Roy, hand extended. “Your grimoire?”
The man set his tome in her hand—much smaller than Ward’s, about the size of a paperback novel. He’d changed out of his suit into a pair of close-fitting trousers, a collarless long-sleeved shirt that hugged his wiry frame, and a black sash that held not one but two blades close to his hips. One of the swords was similar to Lisa’s—a rapier of some sort—but the other was shorter and thicker, with jagged notches along the edge opposite the blade. He was moving differently, too. He seemed more confident, and his steps were springy and graceful.
“Ward?” True asked, and her tone made him think she was repeating herself. She was holding out a hand, so he nodded and gave her his grimoire.
She narrowed her eyes. “All right?”
“Yeah.” His mouth was dry, but thanks to his silver tongue, the word came out clearly.
“Well, did you note the captain and his men yonder?” She nodded toward the main bar, and Ward followed her gaze. He’d seen them, all right. Seven uniformed men, all holding long-barreled, breech-loading rifles. “I’m not sure if they know about your particular nature, but I wouldn’t let yourself go…wild here.”
“Yeah,” he said again. “That old sorcerer warned me of the same thing.”
Apparently, Trent Roy wasn’t enjoying True’s seeming favoritism. He cleared his throat and asked, “Well, Marshal?”
Ward looked at him and saw he had his blades in hand. Frowning, he unbuckled his heavy sword belt and walked over to Haley. He drew the sword before handing her the scabbard and belt. “Hang onto this for me?”
“Of course. Be careful, Ward. A spell isn’t worth getting maimed or killed for.”
“Doubting me?”
She smiled, and it almost looked genuine. “Never.”
With his elbow, Ward gave her a nudge, then turned back to Roy and True. He nodded to the marshal. “Ready when you are.” He tried not to look at the crowd of onlookers. He tried not to listen to their murmured conversations. Some were exclaiming about their size difference—Ward had four or five inches on Roy and had to weigh sixty pounds more than him, too. Others noted that Roy was fighting in a dual-wield fashion, and, to be honest, it made Ward a little nervous; he’d learned a lot in his lessons with Lisa, but he’d never been taught to counter a weapon like the one Roy held in his left hand.
The more he thought about it, the more he felt foolish for getting dragged into this situation. Sure, he was strong and quick, and his hand-eye coordination was a hell of a lot better than ever in his life, but he was still a novice when it came to sword-fighting. He’d learned that the hard way from Mr. Andrews, the sword master Lisa had hired to tutor the two of them while Ward awaited the living ship. Andrews made him look a fool whenever he let Ward have a go at him, even after a month of daily tutelage.
Ward ground his teeth, forcing himself to stop letting his worries steal his concentration. The fact of the matter was that he hadn’t counted on beating Trent Roy with skill. He just had to hit him once or twice and take the fight out of him. So, he gripped the comfortable leather-wrapped hilt of his rune-etched sword and put himself into a guard stance, watching the other man warily as True backed out of the ring.
“One more warning, gentlemen,” she drawled, “no spell flinging’s allowed in this duel on account of us being on a ship flying through space and all. I ’ear a word of power, and I’ll call you the loser. Understood?”
Ward nodded, and Roy said, “Yes, Marshal.”
“Well, an’ ya ’eard me say this is a friendly duel. Don’t be trying to carve each other’s ’eads off!” Ward almost chuckled at how thick her accent had gotten. Was it nerves? Was she playing it up for the crowd? His curiosity was stifled when True barked, “Fight!”
Roy extended his rapier and came at him like Lisa often did, stepping quickly but not crossing his feet. He held the other sword out to the side, ready, no doubt, to react to Ward’s response. Ward growled and, frustrated by his ignorance of the style, decided just to put an end to things. If he took a cut or stab, he’d live. Like a bull, he charged into Roy’s guard, smashing his rapier to the side and bringing his much heavier, straight, double-edge blade up in a back-handed follow-up.
He'd anticipated the sword catching the other man in the torso, and he’d also expected to get cut in the process, but Roy wasn’t there; he’d danced back, and he parried Ward’s blade with the jagged backside of his short blade. Ward’s sword edge caught between two of those serrated ridges, and Roy pulled, extending Ward and opening his left side for a brutal stab from the other man’s rapier.
Ward gasped as fire erupted in his side—the rapier had pierced him just below his ribs and passed all the way through, punching out the backside of his flank. It was a horribly painful wound, and as he spun away and Roy’s sword ripped out, widening the cut, Ward could feel a hot sheet of blood running down his stomach and back, staining his white shirt crimson. “First Blood,” Roy crowed, whipping his rapier in a flourish, showering the hardwoods with red droplets.
Ward growled, his vision darkening as his ire rose. There was a feral note to that growl, and it rumbled deep in his gut; it wasn’t the frustrated sound of a man but the hungry, angry sound of a beast. “Keep it together,” he hissed through gritted teeth. He had to keep the wolf at bay. Already, the fire in his side was fading. The blood had been copious at first, but he was pretty sure it was almost done leaking out; his lycan regeneration was doing its thing. “Come on then,” he said, holding his broadsword ready.
Roy smiled and bowed like the smug little asshole he was and approached, driving forward with his rapier extended again. Before they could engage again, True called, “Ward, you’ll continue?” He nodded, but it must not have been apparent because True asked again, “Ward?”
“Yes, dammit,” he grunted.
“Proceed,” True said, and Trent Roy moved. As he charged forward, Ward did as he’d been taught and watched his shoulders and hips, not his sword, but he still swung at empty air when he went to parry as Roy feinted left, then right, and then back to the left, dragging his sword over Ward’s thigh as he fumbled, swinging at a blow that wasn’t there. It felt just like fighting Mr. Andrews, except Roy was faster. As fire ignited in his thigh, his thigh split to the bone, he backpedaled.
Limping, frustrated, Ward began to wonder if his strategy was going to work. He'd counted on taking some hits, but he’d also assumed he’d be able to land at least one good shot on the other man. His vision hazed with fury, tunneling from pain and adrenaline, and he felt his wolf clawing at his mind, fighting to come into prominence. “No!” he growled, pushing it down.
“Ward? Do you yield?” True asked, a genuine note of concern in her voice.
He glanced at her, his teeth bared. “No.” Roy had backed off after striking his blow. He was prowling around the edge of the circle made by the throng of onlookers, watching and waiting. His eyes weren’t filled with malice or mockery. Instead, he looked almost sorry for what he’d done, which only further stoked the fire in Ward’s angry heart. He felt his arms swelling, his thighs straining the fabric of his pants. His wounds were closed, Ward was sure, but he’d bled profusely, so he doubted others could tell.
Where he gripped his sword, his hard, pointed nails poked against his palm, and Ward knew he was damn close to losing it, close to letting the animal too far out. Already, he was sure others would see the change in his eyes and his hulking, heaving, forward-leaning chest. He stalked toward Roy with his arms spread wide, the sword high. He was open, naked, undefended, presenting his throat, heart, belly, and eyes to the expert fighter. How could the duelist resist?
Roy didn’t look hungrily at those soft vitals, though. His eyes widened, and he backpedaled, only to come up against the circle of onlookers who also seemed frightened. Gasps and excited exclamations echoed around the hall, and then Ward heard True. “Ward! Are you well?” He knew what she was asking. Had he lost himself to the beast? Was he going to go wild and force the sorcerers and weapon-bearing crew to try to put him down?
“I’m well,” he grunted, then he darted forward, suddenly quicker and more agile than before. His posture and wild-eyed mania must have intimidated Roy because he forewent his usual feints and flourishes and tried to seize the moment and drive his rapier into Ward’s guts. He stepped forward, the blade extended. It bit into Ward’s stomach, but only an inch or two. Ward put a stop to the forward stab by grabbing the blade in a tight fist, letting it bite into the bones of his hand.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Roy’s other sword came chopping down, but Ward evaded it by sweeping Roy’s forward leg, kicking it so savagely that he heard something pop. Roy cried out and fell to the polished floor, and Ward hacked his heavy, well-honed sword toward the exposed V where his neck met his shoulder. “I yield!” Roy screamed.
“Ward!” True shouted, and, at the same time, a dozen men and women nearby cried out in anticipated horror, sure Ward was about to cleave Roy’s head off. Ward hadn’t been lying, though. He still had his wits about him. Sure, his vision was narrowed to a red focal point, and his heart was hammering. His breaths were heaving, and the seams of his shirt and pants were strained to the limit, but he had a grip on his wolfen side. As proof, he stopped his blade an inch from Roy’s neck and grinned with teeth a little too sharp and large for his mouth.
“You’re a good swordsman, Roy,” he grunted, straightening up, glaring over at the line of crew members with long guns aimed his way. He wasn’t too surprised to see Fernandes the Blue standing near them, his eyes brighter than Ward remembered. Had the old sorcerer put them up to it? Were they standing by with guns because he’d told them about Ward’s lycan bloodline?
As his blood cooled and his victory washed away his frustration, he felt his swollen muscles and slightly elongated limbs returning to normal and held a hand down to his fallen opponent. “Can you stand?”
“I can hop, I suppose,” he gasped through gritted teeth, clasping Ward’s hand. Ward heaved him up, and true to his word, Trent Roy hopped for balance, taking Ward’s shoulder to steady himself.
“Here you go, Roy,” True said, striding over with a healing tonic in hand. Ward watched as Roy drank the tonic, grimacing. Meanwhile, many onlookers had crowded around, doling out congratulations to both him and Roy. Not everyone was so charitable. One man grumbled about Ward fighting like a brute, and a woman called him “beastly.” He ignored them all, looking through their ranks for Haley. He finally spotted her, speaking to a young man in a very nice suit with a silken green tie, and decided to leave her alone; maybe she’d made a friend.
“What about you, Mr. Dyer?” Roy asked, and Ward had the distinct impression he’d missed something.
“Hmm?”
“Don’t you need a tonic, good sir?”
Ward frowned and looked down at his blood-soaked trousers. He pulled the flap wide and winced at the sore, swollen line of puckered, scabbed-over flesh. “Eh, it’s healing, and I ought to learn something from it, don’t you think?”
“But, sir! I ran you through!” He hesitantly reached toward Ward’s bloody shirt, but Ward took a step back, waving a hand.
“I heal quickly.”
Roy’s eyes widened. “So it’s true, then? Your eyes…some sort of monstrous bloodline? Spirits above! I should have listened to old Fernandes! He said I shouldn’t toy with you. Thank you for grappling with your inner demons and leaving my head atop my shoulders, Mr. Dyer!”
Ward sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t have any demon—” He stopped short, thinking of Grace, and he had to stifle a laugh. He was feeling stupidly exuberant after the fight, and he knew it had something to do with the adrenaline and the endorphin rush of almost wolfing out. He shook his head, chuckling softly, and tried again. “You’re fine, Roy, and to be honest, you were a hell of a lot better with those blades than I am with mine. I won’t feel bad if you want to back out of our bargain.”
“Nonsense!” Roy stood ramrod straight, and his eyes grew stormy. “My honor wouldn’t allow it!” He looked at True. “Lady Marshal, have you the grimoires?” When True chuckled and thumped something hard beneath the flap of her coat, Roy nodded. “Shall we go over to the bar and talk about your winnings, then, Mr. Dyer?” He was a little red in the face, but he was smiling, and Ward had to hand it to him: he was a good sport.
“I could use a drink.” He looked past True to see Haley was still talking to the dark-haired young man. He cleared his throat and called, “Haley!” When she looked up, he pointed to the central bar, surrounded by a dozen or so tables, most of which were empty. The crowd had begun to disperse, people going about their business now that the show was over. Haley nodded and held up a thumb, and Ward turned to follow True and Roy to a table. “Sit down, you two, and I’ll get us a drink. Whiskey all right?”
“Oh heavens,” Roy twisted his lips, shaking his head. “A tarnished crown for me, if you please.”
Ward had no idea what that was but nodded. “True?”
“Whiskey’s fine.”
Ward walked over to the bar and made the order and, after a side conversation with the barkeep, learned that a “tarnished crown” was a lot like an old fashioned. Whiskey, syrup, a twist of citrus, and bitters. He served it in a copper cup with a large ice cube carved into the shape of a crown. It was pretentious, but Ward wouldn’t begrudge Roy his drink of choice. He grabbed the drinks, returned to the table, and found his grimoire in front of his chair. Roy was leafing through his, a melancholy look on his face.
“You got me fair and square, Mr. Dyer. A bloodline is part of you, and I should’ve seen the signs for myself. I even dismissed old Fernandes’s warning, as I told you. Don’t have any pity on me; I’m lucky to have my life to learn this lesson.” He pushed the book toward him, open to the first page, with a heavy sigh. “I won’t begrudge you no matter which one you choose.”
Ward sipped his whiskey, finding it particularly good after the long buildup to his brief but harrowing ordeal in the duel. He noticed Trent Roy doing the same, cradling his cold copper cup as he breathed the heady aroma of the alcohol. “How many spells have you got in here, Roy?”
“Since you insist upon a familiar address, would you mind if I call you Ward?”
Ward chuckled. The guy definitely had a stick up his ass, but he was all right. “I’d appreciate it if you would.”
“Well, then, with regard to my grimoire, I have but four spells. I came by them dearly and am quite proud of each. Please take a look. At least allow me the pleasure of seeing your face as you see what wealth of knowledge awaits you.”
Ward sipped his drink again, then nodded, setting the glass well to the side so as not to drip on the delicate pages of the spellbook. He turned past the flyleaf to the first written-upon page and saw right away that Trent Roy took a great deal more pride in his penmanship than Ward. Unable to hide his enthusiasm, he leaned close and read the first spell description:
Brym Slenvek Dhorvak – Frostveil
They mocked me, saying my frost was too gentle to fell a foe. Yet, in their arrogance, they did not see the value of endurance. I forged the Frostveil to turn aside not just blades but scorn. When my enemies raised their swords, they struck only ice. When they hurled their spells, they met the unyielding chill. And when they fell to their knees, begging mercy, it was the Frostveil they cursed, not me. Power is not always about destruction; sometimes, it is about survival.
Beneath the spell description were the meditation poses and timings. Ward looked them over briefly; they didn’t seem particularly convoluted, nor did the words of power cause his brain any pain. Nodding and grunting his appreciation, he turned the page:
Vrahl Ghruvan Ignarak – Sarlight Flare
When I was young, the night frightened me. Its depths seemed to hold a thousand unseen terrors whispering from the shadows. My mother would strike a lantern, and in its glow, I found courage again. Starlight Flare is that lantern, magnified by my will. Its light banishes fear and strips away deception. It will not harm a soul, but it will reveal them for what they truly are—hero or coward, beast or man. Remember, light is not a weapon. It is a truth that no shadow can deny.
After reading the description, Ward almost asked Trent Roy where he’d gotten the spell. He wanted to hear the tale of the person who’d originally written that description, but he held his tongue and turned past the meditative poses to read the next one:
Dhravek Prakhun Bryve – Crimson Reap
Do not take lightly the Crimson Reap. I crafted it not for glory or bloodlust but from desperation. In the final days of the siege, I was dying—starved, broken, and fading. The enemy stood at the gates, their numbers endless. So I reached into the abyss, bargaining for a fragment of life stolen from another. The spell saved me, but the price was more than I had imagined. Each use felt like holding a borrowed heartbeat, heavy with the weight of its true owner’s despair. If you must wield it, wield it sparingly, for the line between survival and monstrosity is thinner than you think.
“Jesus,” Ward grunted after reading. He shook his head, sure he wouldn’t choose that spell. He had enough curses and dangerous things to manage in his life. He looked up and saw Roy staring, understanding in his eyes. He nodded slowly and watched as Ward turned the page:
Trahl Vrothun Slenvek – Chains of Silence
My greatest rival was not a swordsman or a sorcerer but a silver-tongued merchant whose words could cut sharper than any blade. His lies spread like wildfire, and his schemes nearly cost me my place among the elders. In desperation, I crafted this spell—not to harm him, but to strip him of his weapon. With a whisper and a flick of my fingers, his voice fell silent, leaving him dumb before the villages, unable to spew his vitriol as I laid bare the truth. Let the silence you impose give others the chance to listen!
Ward narrowed his eyes when he read the “silver-tongued merchant” part. It seemed too much of a coincidence, but then, he supposed it wasn’t such an unusual turn of phrase. He sipped his drink, turning the page to ensure he’d read the last of the spells, but nothing further was written in the book. “This last one,” he asked, taking another sip, “does it do what I think it does?”
Roy nodded. “Aye. A potent tool against a rival sorcerer.” He sounded despondent, and Ward knew why. The spell would make saying words of power impossible. It was one of those things—the moment Ward read the description, he knew he had to take it. He wouldn’t want such a spell cast on him, so the idea of it out there, possibly being copied and given to other sorcerers, was too much; he had to have it. “You know which spell I’ll take, yeah?”
“I know what I’d take.” Trent Roy sighed and reached for his grimoire. “Allow me to remove the page. I’d prefer not to damage the binding.” Ward nodded and pushed the grimoire his way.
True cleared her throat, and Ward saw she’d finished her drink. “I’ll get a refill. You going to tell me what that spell does, then?”
Ward looked at Trent, and the man shook his head ever so slightly. “It’s kind of a utility spell, True—meant to protect a sorcerer from other magic.” He was curious why Trent didn’t want him to describe the spell, and he wasn’t exactly lying, so Ward didn’t feel bad when True nodded and pushed her chair back.
“Be back in a minute, gents.”
As she walked away, her mechanical leg whirring, Trent looked up and nodded. “This is one of those spells that you don’t want people to know you have, Ward. It’ll make you a target.” He glanced at the bar, then leaned closer. “I know you think you can trust the marshal, and I’m sure you can, but those marshals are too quick to write in their log books, recording what they do and see, and those words are transferred to the master record at the Citadel—there’s no telling how many eyes will see what she writes.”
Ward leaned back, contemplating his words. He wasn’t wrong; it wouldn’t hurt True not to know precisely what spells he had, and he sure as hell didn’t want strangers on Primus to know. He finished his whiskey and said, “You know what, Trent, you’re a decent guy. How about this: teach me some sword fighting tricks on this journey, and I’ll give you a copy of one of my spells.”
Trent’s face brightened as he pulled the page from his grimoire and gently pushed it across the table. “That’s a lovely idea, Ward. I can think of a hundred ways you could have improved your performance during that duel!”