King of Crows

Chapter 1

The world was a shower of sparks inside Daren Foster's mind. He tried to smile, knowing that showing any tell-tale signs of pain would earn him jeers and cat calls. He could feel the eyes of his audience boring into him. With difficulty he blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision. He grunted in disgust, getting punched in the temple was never one of his favorite sensations. But what had he expected? He had wanted a challenge, now he had one. A bought of nausea made his knees weak, the pain that coursed through the side of his skull ebbed.

"Get to your feet!" The agonizingly loud words drifted past the pounding pulse of adrenaline inside Daren's head. Beads of sweat streamed past his dark eyebrows and muddled his vision. Quickly he passed a tanned hand over his eyes, trying to clear them. Finally he could see, his mind focused on the fight.

Out of oblivion a black blur slashed downward, nearly striking him between the eyes. Daren snorted a dry breath as he lurched backward, avoiding the blow by a hair's breath. Feeling the packed earth beneath his boot he scrambled to place some distance between him and the vicious blur. Daren blinked away the salty, stinging sweat with tired eyelids. Two steps in front of him a tall young man dressed in a smudged tunic twirled a dark oak stave. The young man raised a pale eyebrow, his mouth twisting into a smirk, "What's the matter?"

The youth's voice carried a highborn lilt, soft and full of flourish. It reeked of upper class upbringing. He was classical nobility, born and bred for higher warfare.

Daren risked a quick glance at his surroundings. A smooth timber fence and twenty eager faces encircled him. There were battle-scarred veterans, stroking their stubble in serious contemplation. Slack- jawed stable boys and ruddy-faced pages stopped and gawked, eager for a glimpse of the fight. Fresh recruits and bare headed knights looked on, ready to cheer the victor.

The young man's pale blue eyes flashed like crystal, "I've seen you train every evening after work hours. Have you been thinking of joining the princess and her ladies-in-waiting? Your sword craft would be more suited for embroidery."

"Shut up, Calin". Daren raked a free hand through his damp hair.

"That's the spirit!" Calin lunged, his stave aimed to strike Daren's shoulder. Daren clenched his teeth and blocked the swipe with an open palm while his other hand he raised a wooden practice knife. Like a coiled viper Daren jabbed his opponent in the thigh. Wood connected with flesh, sending a miniature shockwave up his arm.

The blonde youth grunted and retreated, his icy eyes kindled with fury. The two combatants paused for a beat then paced like wary hounds, gazes locked in a silent contest of wills. With a shout the tall warrior rushed forward and struck.

Braving the downward stroke Daren smacked his opponent's stave away and drove his elbow into the youth's exposed stomach. His foe barked a short yelp of pain and slashed wildly in retaliation. Daren twisted to avoid the blows and regained his stance. His right foot planted in front of the other, both hands raised with the knife angled forward. Calin sucked in a breath and dropped to one knee.

"What's the matter, Calin?" Daren grinned while straining to control his ragged breathing, "Are you planting daisies again?"

Calin flashed a smile, his face twisted slightly by pain, "There's that wit we all know and cherish. I cannot speak for its originality though."

"Why not call it a draw?" Daren stepped toward Calin, blade ready and breathe finally steady.

Without warning Calin lunged from his kneeling position and struck Daren on the hip. The crowd raised a half-hearted shout at the sudden turn of fortune. Pain sprouted in Daren's side as he spun away, avoiding another onslaught. He could hear Calin's breath coming in angry gasps.