Fear's Union

Chapter Thirty-Three

—Anejo—

Ang – that was his name. Anejo used to have a thing for him, but only in the way she finds a fine weapon desirable. Or the way Xen dotes on an elegant dress. It was not the same as what Xen felt for Keles. Nothing like that.

Was that love? She didn't know.

Ang was the finest swordsman in her grandfather's personal guard. His physique was perfectly honed for the art of the blade, lean and chiselled, well proportioned. He wore his superiority too, walking with a swagger built on a life of achievement. But he deserved that self-appraisal, and he wore it well. He was arrogant, but he was likeable with it.

She had watched him from her window when she was younger, marvelling at the speed and ferocity of his strokes. He had shown promise as a young footman, all polished armour and arrow-straight poise, and now that promise had flourished. He was a fine man. He was the Jinq chief weapon skills officer, and he was formidable with it.

It was his day off, but here he was, stripped to the waist. Humouring her. She had never needed to practise in Altunia before. Then again, she had never been a prisoner in her home before. Xen would have been her first-choice challenger, but her friend was off on an errand.

She was such a good friend, perhaps too good, but is that how Xen thought of her back? She would be a better friend when Xen returned. She would offer more support.

But in the meantime, she flexed her shoulders. The finest swordsman in the Body of Ahan was coming straight for her. They engaged, and there could be only one outcome.

It was obvious really.

"Come on, Ang. I asked you because I thought you could offer a challenge."

He shot a glance at her, his golden locks plastered to the side of his sweaty face. He was not used to being bested, and certainly not by a woman.

"Yes, ah, magistra."

She rolled her eyes and bit her lip. That title was utterly preposterous, but such was the permanence of tradition. She didn't deserve the title, and she didn't want it either. Her face flushed, and she dug her nail into the dry skin of her thumb. The ache of exercise was invigorating.

"Don't call me that, please."

"I'm sorry..."

She sighed. What was his problem? "Just call me by my name. We've known each other long enough. Now, let's go again."

He nodded, and settled himself opposite her. He had a small duelling shield on his left arm, a short talon in the left hand, and a medium weight infantry blade poised in his right. He held the heavy length of steel professionally – not too tight. His concentration was absolute. He looked at her, his body side-on, minimising the target. His feet were well placed; far enough apart for stability but not so far as to be restrictive. When he pounced on her, the talon moved with such speed that she stumbled out of the way. Only then did the dulled edge of the heavy blade swing at her, and it could have done some serious damage.

But it didn't do serious damage. In fact, it did no damage at all.

Ang was good, so very good. But he was a league apart from her. She had barely registered the gulf between the Mandahoi and the majority, but it was more than a chasm. Ang adjusted himself, but she was already several steps ahead. His blade swept in and she crafted just enough angle to send it veering harmlessly wide. Then, casually, she poked the end of her training edge straight into Ang's bare chest. He yelped, backed away, and then stumbled over his own legs.