Bloodstains (standard:fantasy, 2778 words)
Author: Zell	Added: Apr 25 2002	Views/Reads: 3155/2238	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
This story starts en media res, but includes Zell's fight for the honour of his love, in an ancient deul.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


“I know, but it wouldn't be the first time...” 

I let loose another of my characteristic sighs. I didn't know what to
say or what to tell her. The whole thing sounded like a bad movie. Who 
actually had these conversations anyway? A long silence lingered in the 
room. 

“I have to get to the match.” I kissed her lightly on her cheek, the
same as before every match, fight, or duel that I've been in, but this 
time it felt different; her worries left her entire body rigid and 
tense, and her deluge of shivers chilled me to the bone. I walked 
hastily out of the room, my heavy footsteps echoing from the walls. 

I entered the stadium. We called it a stadium, mostly for lack of a
better word. I guess we could say ‘kijatka', but nobody spoke the 
native tongue of this antiquated religion anymore. I sought out 
Christopher, my friend and a fourth order priest. We teased him about 
his name, and everyone called him ‘Chris'. We all thought a name 
meaning “child of Christ” didn't fit an Apocalyst cleric. He insisted 
people call him Sharakun. I called him Shar, but I suppose I did that 
because he let me. We didn't need to exchange any words; he shared his 
discontent with me long before Diana. He handed me my sword, 
‘firebrand'. 

Remembering the look of the sword gets more difficult with each passing
day. I can remember the damascus blade; it shined like any sword; the 
pommel and scabbard carried a deep garnet red stain. The braided 
leather grip almost covered the glossy handle, but its terra cotta 
polish had as much beauty as the exquisite golden hand guard that 
crowned it. I slipped the sword and scabbard between the layers of the 
sash at my waist, and knotted the scabbard to my belt. I strapped my 
long shield to my arm and stepped into the ring, each of my steps 
sounding heavily off of the empty stands. 

Meanwhile, Pat had been making the same preparations. His attire had the
same scheme to it, mostly black and steel. His dagger had the only 
color in his wardrobe, and its indigo finish seemed quite menacing. I 
can't rightly explain how a colour could have such a characteristic, 
but it seemed to pierce my very soul. Perhaps the countless foul things 
its owner must have done with it granted it such an aura. His sword 
drew as much attention as his repulsive dagger. He insisted it to be 
the legendary masamune, but I knew better. While he fought with a 
quality sword, but who believes that fairy tale? Where would he get 
such a blade, even if it did exist, anyway? 

He pulled “masamune” free from its scabbard and held it firmly in front
of himself. Only my fear drove me, but I had to do this. I trembled, 
desperately trying to gather my senses, finally returning to the task 
before me when my hand came to firebrand. I freed it from its wooden 
imprisonment and accustomed myself to its feel. 

“There's no shame in giving up now.” Pat's words startled me, but it
somehow seemed natural to the flow of things. 

“Are you calling me a coward!?” 

“No, I'm just giving you a fair chance. I am not exactly noted for my
merciful... well, anything.” 

I grabbed my pant legs at mid- thigh and pulled them up ever so
slightly, crouching into my fighting stance. Pat's left foot glided 
back, putting him into a far more aggressive position. He placed his 
off hand on his sword and waited. 

The sound of the two swords tapping each other worked like the bell of a
boxing match. The both of us flew into our opening barrage of attacks. 
My shield and sword deflected his lightning quick strikes. I soon found 
myself relying on my feet to do the attacking. The occasional kick 
found its way to his knee or thigh, but that did little against a man 
of his build. 

We fought with a vigour unknown to anyone in the stadium. Finally, an
opportunity to strike made itself. A quick feint with my sword left me 
an opening to pin his sword to him, and so I took it. 

“One of us has virtue; he's fighting harder, and he's going to win.” My
heavy breathing must have been quite pungent to my opponent, but I 
doubt he cared. “Can you guess which one I am?” 

“When I kill you, you wanna know what I'm gonna do to Diana?” He calmly
stared at me, and licked his lips happily. Rage boiled from within me. 
What would happen if I lost? No! I didn't have the option anymore. I 
knew him all to well; even a scumbag like him couldn't speak those 
words in vain. 

“You wouldn't... I won't let you!” My screams seemed to shake the
foundation of the stadium. The fighting had already brought about a 
painful swelling to all of my muscles, but I didn't care. I summoned 
all of the strength I could, and pushed Pat away from me. Dust clouded 
up from the arena floor as he slid back. Unfortunately, my shield still 
stood clutched in his hands. The heavy steel guard hit the ground with 
an echoing clang. I adjusted my stance and placed my second hand on my 
sword. 

“I guess I leveled the playing field,” Pat sneered. “That damn thing was
getting on my nerves.” 

I glanced at it quickly, not wanting to take my eyes off Pat for too
long. Dents and scrapes covered its surface, making it hardly worth 
using anymore. Then I discovered that I looked too long, and Pat had 
already sprung at me. The butt of his sword slammed across my face, 
launching me across the ring like a feather in a hurricane. I tasted 
blood, lots of it. A cough splattered red on the sand covered arena 
floor. Finding my footing, I focused on my opponent. 

“This is it” I thought to myself. “It's now or never; this isn't going
to go my way unless I hit him hard, now.” 

I charged at him, starting with a feinted roundhouse that he easily
dodged, but that gave me momentum. I feinted the next strike, but less 
obviously, and he parried the high strike to his head. I spun around 
and brought another cross cut to his abdomen. A flash of panic came to 
Pat's eye as his blade swung down to stop me. By the time I saw the 
crimson pattern spattered on my breastplate, something hit me in the 
face, hard. My left eye stung as blood flooded into it. I looked to Pat 
through my good eye. A massive cut ran across his entire face, from the 
right side of his jaw to the left corner of his forehead. I looked to 
his sword. It must have broken when he parried. 

“So much for masamune,” I chuckled to myself, but that ended soon
enough. I looked to firebrand, and saw that the blow had shattered it, 
too. I dropped what was left of my sword and released my sodes. A 
symphony of chiming metal filled the room as the chunks of our swords 
rained from the cavernous ceiling. My sodes sounded like the thunder to 
accompany the raining steel as they hit the ground. 

“I don't need masamune to kill you.” Pat shook as he stood. “I have all
I need right here.” He drew his dagger with his now ghostly white 
hands. His loss of blood quickly took its toll. 

“Stop this, Pat. If you keep going, you'll die.” I knew showing concern
only showed my own weakness, but my nature always betrays me. 

“You're cut too; it's still an even match.” 

I had trouble focusing, but I couldn't stop now. Blood dripped from my
chin as I moved back to my fighting stance. He meant to win; the tragic 
flaw of arrogance cursed both of us. He charged at me, very much in the 
same fashion as I had at him only moments earlier. He swung his dagger 
with all of the force he could muster. The moves where all predictable, 
but my body wouldn't respond the way I wanted it to. I barely evaded 
his strikes. Then he spun behind me and sliced open my lower back. I 
cursed loudly; he'd cut me deep, too. I  had learned how troublesome 
keeping my balance was with a cut like that was when I remembered my 
wrist sheath. 

With the flick of my wrist and a flash of steel, the thin dagger found
its way into Pat's right shoulder. I took the initiative to kick his 
knee out, and my gauntleted fist slammed against his jaw. Pat's eyes 
lost their focus as he fell backwards. He still looked fine when he 
landed, but one of his friends ran into the ring anyway. 

“He's unconscious” 

I fell over. Lying on my back on the cold arena floor, staring at the
massive arched ceiling, I laughed. I couldn't stop it; it just seemed 
so great. I had won... it didn't seem possible, but I was alive... and 
I'd won. I even got to see a doctor sewing the massive gash on Pat's 
face. 

Soon a medic came to me. I felt a pinch on my forehead, and then a
couple of tugs. The next thing a knew, a stream of water hit my face, 
washing the blood away. The doctor shined a flashlight in my eyes. I 
untied the heavy headband and looked at it. 

“If it wasn't for that little guy, I'd have put a lot more stitches in
you.”  The doctors words made me happier, and I hadn't yet stopped 
laughing. “Roll over, I have to look at that cut on your back.” I did 
as he said, and I felt more stitches being put in. “The cut on your 
brow needs to have the stitches out in a couple days, but this one on 
your back needs at least a week.” The sting of alcohol shook my whole 
body. I got back on my feet, and slid my hauberk back to its rightful 
place. I thanked the medic and walked towards the familiar faces at the 
edge of the ring. My joints creaked painfully and my head swam, but I 
still couldn't stop grinning. 

“You're so pale... Are you going to be okay?” Chris' voice comforted me.


“According to those guys,” I gestured weakly over my shoulder, “I'll be
fine.” 

“You're a wreck. I told you that you shouldn't fight...” The concern in
Diana's voice somehow comforted me. 

“It's... okay... I'll live.” 

Chris looked at the both of us, and then his watch. “I'd hate to leave
you right now, but I have to go... see you later” 

“Enjoy your hot date.” I chucked to myself, far too exhausted to notice
his face turning red. He got embarrassed so easily.  While he headed 
off as hastily as he could, I found my way to the lockers. Diana 
followed me, but I guess I didn't have any particular objection. 

“Something's on your mind.” I unbuckled my breastplate and tossed it
into my cabinet. 

“You didn't have to fight him for me.” I unlaced my bracers. 

“Sure I did.” A long silence followed. “What would he have done if I
didn't?” My gauntlets and bracers fell to the floor. My whole body 
screamed in pain as I bent to retrieve them. 

“I... guess he would have kept trying to get you into the ring... but
you could have just refused.” 

“Pat... would have gone too far. My wounds will heal, but the kind you
would have gotten wouldn't.” I slowly lifted my leg to the footlocker 
to remove one of my grieves. 

“I... I guess I didn't want you hurt on account of me.” A long silence
floated in the air. 

“Then you know how I feel.” My other grieve dropped from my leg, ceasing
my concern with its unbearable weight. 

“I tell you what. Come over to my house, and I'll make you dinner.” 

I untied my sash and lifted the final piece of armour from my shoulders,
putting it in the cabinet. “That'd be... nice.” 


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