Heroist
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Today had indeed turned out to be incredibly long: to some, it might have even seemed as if it had stretched into an entire week. The village guests, starved for spectacle, had practically squeezed the life out of central Tamphana, seemingly leaving behind neither an unread book, nor an uncompleted task, nor an unbeaten gladiator. One might have thought the city would not recover from such an invasion for some time, but no: by the very next day, the usual flow of Tamphanians would wash away all consequences of the Baldurians' stay, as if they had never been there at all. New Competitive matches in the arena would entirely fill the hearts of fans greedy for spectacle; newspapers would occupy the minds of political discussants; assignments would find their brisk executors. The merciless winds of history would tear this insignificant page from the play of countlessly important world events, and only tiny lines, barely visible to the eye, would for a moment settle in the souls of its immediate actors—whether it remained a revitalizing warmth or the cold of failure was for them to decide.
The arena again, which had already managed to feel somewhat like home: Reynold exhaled heavily and stepped forward. Bright sunlight hit his eyes mercilessly; squinting, the youth looked around. To his left stepped Calentia, to his right a stranger with a halberd. A moment, another—and the tense silence was shattered by the shouts of the frenzied stands: the slaughter had begun.
It would be difficult to fairly describe all the events that followed, and Reynold could not give proper attention to most of them anyway. Drawing conclusions, one could say that he was undoubtedly lucky: three fighters were caught off guard by him, wounded or simply unprepared for such an unexpected attack.
But then, behind him, came the sound of feet lightly touching the sand: a deadly bloody whirlwind was already flying toward him. And he was ready for it. No other opponents remained; there were no wailing fans, no light, no shadow. Only he and she. They had left dirty, bustling Tamphana and found themselves once more on the soft grassy carpet of the western forest. They were surrounded by mighty, centuries-old trees whose evergreen crowns blocked the cold winter sun. Somewhere on a stump, Baron Gungnir sat with a solemn air, attentively watching their duel. Reynold had fought Eir many times in training and understood perfectly the danger of the coming confrontation. But despite this, there was neither fear nor anxiety in his heart. Moreover, he was glad that he would fight her specifically in the final.
Their battles did not resemble the dull beating of armored tin cans, overgrown heavyweights, or the catching of archers' arrows. Rather, they resembled a lightning-fast fiery dance accompanied by the ringing of red-hot steel. This was exactly how he had imagined fairy-tale duels in childhood, in which he himself once dreamed of participating. Sometimes he remained lying on the ground; other times, she did, but neither could admit to themselves that they were disappointed by another duel. The answer was very simple: in battle, neither character, nor views, nor dreams, nor ideals mattered. Only the precision of technique and reaction speed. And each of them, truth be told, loved a worthy fight.
Six swift saber strikes barely touched Reynold's body, but in vain; he noted with some satisfaction his opponent's increased skill. But Eir was not the only one who spent days and nights in the training hall: he himself had not wasted time. In his next strike, the youth put all his strength and even more, having no intention of yielding to his opponent in diligence. And only when the latter fell exhausted onto the dusty ground did he allow himself a sigh of relief: until next time, Eir.
Ilva could not stay angry at Reynold for long: she herself felt pangs of conscience for repeatedly pouring her accumulated negativity onto her brother. After all, he wasn't just amusing himself for pleasure: he was gaining invaluable experience and earning money for their joint future. It would be the height of selfishness on her part to reproach him for such a thing.
The girl reached the arena stands toward the end of the competitions, and through the roar of the heated crowd, she could not make out who had won. She tried timidly to peer from behind the backs of the spectators who had jumped from their seats, and eventually managed to catch a glimpse of the battlefield: a sandy haze reliably covered the motionless bodies of nine gladiators, gently touching the shins of the last one still standing on his feet. One glance was enough for her heart to leap joyfully in her chest.
Long, tense preparation for the performance. Hurriedly learned words, repeated dialogues. All of this was so new, so foreign, that perhaps only the deadly fatigue accumulated over a day of gladiatorial fights prevented Reynold's mind from finally slipping into the madness of daydreams. Before his eyes rose the gold-shimmering towers of Clematis; the brave Rogdan loudly read the tales of the great heroes of Vivian; Brahe fought desperately with Lucretia, and Valdemar contemptuously commented on their duel. He hardly remembered how he ended up on stage, how the performance ended, the cheering of the audience, the noise of thunderous applause, the director's praise, the cheerful shopping trip, and the purchase of trendy weapons. The youth only woke up when his beloved sister, with happy tears in her eyes, hung around his neck, whispering something cheerfully in his ear. But her joyful eyes, in the serene skies of which he always drowned, were the best reward of this mad day.
***
Heading to the meeting with the count, Reynold expected short and serious negotiations in which he hoped to take absolutely no part at all. But the ruler of Tamphana managed to surprise the squad of unfortunate mercenaries here as well. One against all? For some reason, Reynold heard a disturbing rumble of an approaching avalanche in his ears. Casting a tired glance around the massive office, the youth prepared for a new, and this time entirely unwanted, battle.
The arena again, which had already managed to feel somewhat like home: Reynold exhaled heavily and stepped forward. Bright sunlight hit his eyes mercilessly; squinting, the youth looked around. To his left stepped Calentia, to his right a stranger with a halberd. A moment, another—and the tense silence was shattered by the shouts of the frenzied stands: the slaughter had begun.
It would be difficult to fairly describe all the events that followed, and Reynold could not give proper attention to most of them anyway. Drawing conclusions, one could say that he was undoubtedly lucky: three fighters were caught off guard by him, wounded or simply unprepared for such an unexpected attack.
But then, behind him, came the sound of feet lightly touching the sand: a deadly bloody whirlwind was already flying toward him. And he was ready for it. No other opponents remained; there were no wailing fans, no light, no shadow. Only he and she. They had left dirty, bustling Tamphana and found themselves once more on the soft grassy carpet of the western forest. They were surrounded by mighty, centuries-old trees whose evergreen crowns blocked the cold winter sun. Somewhere on a stump, Baron Gungnir sat with a solemn air, attentively watching their duel. Reynold had fought Eir many times in training and understood perfectly the danger of the coming confrontation. But despite this, there was neither fear nor anxiety in his heart. Moreover, he was glad that he would fight her specifically in the final.
Their battles did not resemble the dull beating of armored tin cans, overgrown heavyweights, or the catching of archers' arrows. Rather, they resembled a lightning-fast fiery dance accompanied by the ringing of red-hot steel. This was exactly how he had imagined fairy-tale duels in childhood, in which he himself once dreamed of participating. Sometimes he remained lying on the ground; other times, she did, but neither could admit to themselves that they were disappointed by another duel. The answer was very simple: in battle, neither character, nor views, nor dreams, nor ideals mattered. Only the precision of technique and reaction speed. And each of them, truth be told, loved a worthy fight.
Six swift saber strikes barely touched Reynold's body, but in vain; he noted with some satisfaction his opponent's increased skill. But Eir was not the only one who spent days and nights in the training hall: he himself had not wasted time. In his next strike, the youth put all his strength and even more, having no intention of yielding to his opponent in diligence. And only when the latter fell exhausted onto the dusty ground did he allow himself a sigh of relief: until next time, Eir.
Ilva could not stay angry at Reynold for long: she herself felt pangs of conscience for repeatedly pouring her accumulated negativity onto her brother. After all, he wasn't just amusing himself for pleasure: he was gaining invaluable experience and earning money for their joint future. It would be the height of selfishness on her part to reproach him for such a thing.
The girl reached the arena stands toward the end of the competitions, and through the roar of the heated crowd, she could not make out who had won. She tried timidly to peer from behind the backs of the spectators who had jumped from their seats, and eventually managed to catch a glimpse of the battlefield: a sandy haze reliably covered the motionless bodies of nine gladiators, gently touching the shins of the last one still standing on his feet. One glance was enough for her heart to leap joyfully in her chest.
Long, tense preparation for the performance. Hurriedly learned words, repeated dialogues. All of this was so new, so foreign, that perhaps only the deadly fatigue accumulated over a day of gladiatorial fights prevented Reynold's mind from finally slipping into the madness of daydreams. Before his eyes rose the gold-shimmering towers of Clematis; the brave Rogdan loudly read the tales of the great heroes of Vivian; Brahe fought desperately with Lucretia, and Valdemar contemptuously commented on their duel. He hardly remembered how he ended up on stage, how the performance ended, the cheering of the audience, the noise of thunderous applause, the director's praise, the cheerful shopping trip, and the purchase of trendy weapons. The youth only woke up when his beloved sister, with happy tears in her eyes, hung around his neck, whispering something cheerfully in his ear. But her joyful eyes, in the serene skies of which he always drowned, were the best reward of this mad day.
***
Heading to the meeting with the count, Reynold expected short and serious negotiations in which he hoped to take absolutely no part at all. But the ruler of Tamphana managed to surprise the squad of unfortunate mercenaries here as well. One against all? For some reason, Reynold heard a disturbing rumble of an approaching avalanche in his ears. Casting a tired glance around the massive office, the youth prepared for a new, and this time entirely unwanted, battle.
Whatever