Anthem's Fall

Chapter Eight

The monstrous mass of Darien bounded over the ridge just in front of Vengelis, his heavy legs shaking the frozen ground. It was an obvious decoy. Vengelis maintained his focused state, channeling all his concentration on locating the third sparring partner, Master Tolland.

Wait on the attack; let your opponent commit to the first move and then counter. Perfection in execution will always trump brute strength and impulsiveness. Vengelis could practically hear the sagacious voice of Master Tolland in the wind.

Then, like the sharp release of a taut bowstring, his muscles surged into action. With blazing reflexes Vengelis reeled around on the spot. Lord General Hoff’s enormous knuckles were mere inches from Vengelis’s unscarred and unworn face. Vengelis dodged the thirty-pound fist with searing speed, protecting his still straight and unbroken nose, a testament to his quickness.

Vengelis grabbed the huge thrusting forearm and spun, shooting his hips into the giant’s belly and throwing him directly into Darien, who was now mere feet away. The two giants collided with a deafening crack that echoed across the snow-swept plains below like a roll of thunder. Hoff and Darien were momentarily dazed from the impact.

Vengelis smirked in their direction, his eyes still closed.

The two Imperial First Class soldiers each shook their heads to purge discombobulating black stars from their vision, and exploded toward the young leader in unison. Vengelis weaved easily between their full-force attacks, still focusing his attention on detecting Master Tolland’s approach. He was toying with Hoff and Darien; their movements were so slow he barely had to concentrate to avoid them.

“Enough of this,” Vengelis muttered. He flexed his knees and exploded into the sky with a loud boom as his body ripped a hole through the supersonic barrier. The two lumbering behemoths followed skyward in his wake. And so they took to flight. The three figures soared across the broad sky like great falcons, the very air around their shoulders tearing apart from their speed.

In a split second Vengelis suddenly reversed directions and launched himself directly at Hoff. Before the Lord General could raise one of his hefty arms to block the blow, Vengelis buried a fist into Hoff’s enormous barrel chest with vicious force. The blow audibly deflated the wind out of the general, and left him gasping for breath as he plummeted helplessly to the snowdrifts far below.

Vengelis turned and dodged Darien’s incoming blow with staggering agility and countered the Royal Guard’s strike by sending a knee straight to his stomach.

“Gah!” Vengelis roared. A surprise impact sunk into his back, striking his left kidney with surgical precision. Master Tolland had entered the fray. Like Vengelis, Master Tolland was of Royal descent, his body lean and hard as steel. Vengelis turned just in time to duck away from a potentially crushing blow to his chin.

“You’re getting sloppy, Vengelis!” Master Tolland roared over the wind and burst forward. “Too many nights in Sejeroreich!”

Vengelis smiled and engaged him. The flurry of attacks that ensued between them was without restraint. The two warriors battled brutally, the speed of the strikes accelerating with each passing moment. From below, the two beaten giants Hoff and Darien heaved for breath as around their thick legs snow melted.

“Mother of god,” Darien muttered, his hands resting on his knees, strikes echoing across the barren lands from overhead.

Hoff blinked as he tried futilely to track the movement of the two Royal warriors—old and young— across the sky.

“Vengelis . . . crazy.” The Lord General panted.

Darien nodded. “Master Tolland, too.”

There would be no draw. Even in a training session such as this, it would not stop until blood was drawn or someone submitted. That was the way of the Sejero warriors of old, and that was the way of Prince Vengelis Epsilon. Every spar he entered ended in blood, and every duel he fought would end in his death before his submission. To Sejero warriors, fighting was not a sport. It was life. Or it was death. In a world where the very cohesion of society depended upon the raw power of the greatest few, those few regarded that power with the utmost solemnity.