cyanotype
@cyanotype

The Eastking, formerly the renowned Duke Harin Toberthy, had holdings throughout the lands now called Cora, bordered on three sides by the river Breren. He was married, under a ruby sky by a priest of the Threefold Halo, to the River Warden Arla, formerly the infamous river pirate Red Holly, whose ships were known from the mouth of Breren as far north as the Avari Mountains. It was an event of some fame; not simply for the status of the persons joined, but for the great feast, held in the Eastking’s mighty hall of bowed timbers and deep hearths, which followed the ceremony.

The Eastking had declared a day of celebration, and for this purpose were casks split and animals killed. And so the feast, though only physically accessible to those invited by the new Eastking’s word, nonetheless spilled out of his halls just as the wine spilled out of his cup. In the streets and homes outside the main hall, citizens and travelers alike were treated to a whirlwind of entertainment and delight, courtesy of any of those troupes and merchants who had not managed to bribe, sneak, or boast their way into the feast proper.

In claiming the archaic title, Harin Toberthy and Warden Arla intended to set up a new dominion along the coast lands, though they knew as all men knew that the world was large and all men were neighbors. Not since the age of broken seas had any man held dominion of an entire landmass, and while Arla’s ships and rivercraft would hold any stretch of the Breren they chose to take, Harin Toberthy knew very well that he had little hope of reaching his hand (or riding his troops) further north than the Avari Mountains which rose as a curtain behind the great fields from which many of the night’s victims (six types of livestock and fourteen varieties of poultry) had been brought.

Through this haze of celebration, through the throngs of people sharing food and flesh, one main strode with a confident and lazy gait. His clothes were white, his shoes were white, his cloak was white, and his gloves were in matching fashion. The starkness of his coloration was broken only in two places: the silver sword belted on his hip and his face which, had it not been hidden behind a mask of polished chrome, would have appeared brown and cocky, with matching eyes that danced from one sight to the next under unimpressed brows. His dark hair fell in long loose curls to his shoulder, and his sword bore no design that would indicate its name or pedigree.

He was admitted entry to the Eastking’s hall on sight of his immaculate dress; the former duke’s men had been told he might arrive late, and he had done just that. He entered without breaking his stride as a younger man hastily opened the door before him. As he did so, a voice called out to announce his presence to the Eastking’s inner circle. “Presenting the White Swordsman, Champion of Avar!”

A ripple of murmurs passed through the crowds. Harin Toberthy and Warden Arla sat as one beneath the new banner they had risen for their fledgling empire, enjoying their alliance and their company.

At the arrival of a new guest, the new Eastking set aside his food and smiled. This guest carried no gift that any could see, which would be a flagrant act of disrespect under most circumstances. But for a duelist, there was only one gift he could have brought, and it would only be truly visible to those with the most cunning of eyes.

“Ah, welcome! Welcome, indeed. Of all the arts I’ve seen this day, yours is the performance I have most looked forward to. You honor us with your arrival.”

“Truly,” said the man in white. “Though I ask you to honor me in return, oh Eastking.” He offered a deep and courteous bow, allowing his hair to fall forward before sweeping it back up with his head, all in one smooth motion.

“Honor you? How so!”

The man in white grinned under his mask. “Honor me, Your Grace, by allowing me to select a partner for my performance.”

The Eastking nodded, and waved a hand to the trio of men-at-arms lying in wait for this very request. They strode forward, bedecked in armor of liquid silver. “The finest combatants in all these lands are here. It was quite the challenge finding them; we hosted three tournaments over the last-”

“I would have another.”

Silence rang out. Harin Toberthy paused, jaw still opened as the ghost of his tale slipped from his throat.

“Another, sir?”

“Yes.” He pointed at his choice. “The wizard.”

If a silence could grow louder, this one did. The crowds slowed in their revelry, gave pause at this declaration. One or two men, bold by blood or mead, cast their glances toward the shadow that sat at the closest seat to the king.

The Eastking began to protest, but Raelus Marrow rose.

“You know me,” he said simply. His voice soft yet unyielding.

“I do, sir. Raelus Marrow. Though in Atal you are Death Rose. You’re a sorcerer.”

“If you like.” Raelus rose and walked around the table, standing between Eastking and challenger. He wore black robes over an ancient, outlandish fatigues that made him look half warlock and half lost star king. “You know, then, that you and I practice very different arts. An engagement of these arts may not favor both parties equally.”

“All the same,” the White Swordsman said as he lifted the point of his sword. “I think I can beat you.” He dipped his head in mock graciousness.

There in the center of the hall they faced each other. Their exchange had already changed the room; no one had their eyes on the Eastking or the Warden except the man who stood behind them, armed with a terrible curse for any who would threaten his wards.

There was a thrum in the hall. A million fears bloomed in the onlookers’ minds. Would the wizard bring down some sinister magic against this interloper? Would they be safe to view this contest from so close a seat?

“Terms?” asked Raelus.

“To yield,” answered the White Swordsman. “Draw your sword and stand ready.” Though he did wear a sword on his waist, he kept his hands before him, clasped gently like a priest.

“None may wield the sword I bear,” said the Wizard. “If this unfounds your challenge-”

“No,” said the White Swordsman.

“Very well. On His Majesty’s blessing.”

The Eastking gave it, and the due began. The White Swordsman closed the distance between them in a heartbeat and lead with a single cut. His blade met another, wielded by none. The sword on the Wizard’s hip had sprung to life and began exchanging blows as if held in a ghost’s dexterous hand. The pommel and the very edge of the blade began to glow a sharp blue. The White Swordsman allowed only a small grunt as sign of his surprise before he doubled his approach, delivering swipe and thrust to try and overcome the phantom guard.

The Wizard only watched, guarded by his magic. The sword flicked away the challenger’s guard, then kept spinning, keeping its momentum and shifting a slash into a single piercing stab that the challenger had to duck away to avoid.

The moment the White Swordsman’s feet moved, the pretense of dueling died. The floating blade did not fight like a man. Instead it swooped and stabbed and came at him from all angles, until it was more akin to fighting a deadly metal bird than a swordfight.

Again and again the blade thrust past the White Swordsman and again and again he dodged or barely parried it. When he dodged it, it halted in the air and doubled back. When he parried, it kept moving the direction he shoved it, then swung back around full circle. It was a hopeless fight, if a fight it could be called.

The challenger was clever, though. He backed away and dodged and ducked, leading the duel in a grand circle that at one point led him to stand atop one of the long tables full of food and drink. He baited the sword into another long, powerful stab, this time from above, and leapt forward under it. With a deep thunk, the blade pierced the wooden table and stuck fast.

Victory at hand, he turned toward the Wizard, only to find him already there, raygun in hand. Its fluted metal barrel was aimed squarely at the White Swordsman’s head, and there was a tense moment of silence.

Then, an explosion tore open the doors.


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