Cursed: Traitor's Trail

Chapter 2 Part 1

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Here is a taste of another aspect of Sheathra, happy reading!

 The sword flashed toward his face; white bone with deadly sharp edges; it whistled through the air as it passed. Moving quickly, without hesitation. Only his reflexes allowed him escape...mostly. The tip caught his arm, marking the block he parried with as misplaced; the hilt a hand-space too far left for effect. Fortunately, the blade reversed its path before it could do any real damage.

Jaob Du...well, nothing, since banished men couldn't claim their heritage. Jaob Du Nothing...it just didn't have the same ring. He cupped the separated flesh. Bright red blood seeped through his tightly bound fingers. He paused a moment, struggling with the same argument he'd gone over many times since his change. The majority of his life he identified with his full name; then everything changed, denying him that. And now it seemed as though part of him was missing.

Not happy with its meager insult, the blade returned. Jaob blocked effectively this time. His arm jarred with the impact, leaving an ache that promised lasting trouble. The sword retreated, the man behind its movements, Bane, trainer and friend, glared with fierce determination. Fast as a snake strike he lunged. Jaob rolled sideways, avoiding the blow.

"Can you stop a move like that?" he grunted with the effort of deflecting another side swipe. "What if I wasn't quick enough? I might be dying on the ground right now." Another swing, this one jabbing toward his thigh and the important blood vessels within. Bane didn't respond. "This is supposed to be practice," he reminded.

The blade swung to his neck, instinctively Jaob raised his own, following the movements imbedded deep in his body's memory.

I need to do something unexpected, break the pattern. Without over-thinking and giving his opponent the chance to read his body language, Jaob spun and sliced low, ducking at the same time, aiming for Bane's calf.

Bane met it easily, dropping his blade low, the two weapons clashed with a hollow thunk.

Impossible, I didn't even know I was going to do that. A growl escaped his parched lips; not once could he surprise this man. There has to be some flaw in Bane's fighting, his footwork perhaps. But keeping an eye on the man's feet at the same time as his blade proved harder than he had thought.

A voice off the field lifted in greeting, followed in chorus by several others. Had a scout returned? The urge to check overwhelmed him and with his focus thus pulled from the practice, he missed the rapid movement of Bane's blade until it was too late. Fortunately for him, his opponent had no intention of slaying him; the blade missed at the last instant. Barely.

Jaob tossed down his sword, it bounced and clattered uselessly against the practice blades piled neatly at the field's edge. The heated gaze of the sun on the horizon did little to quell his frustration. He raised his right arm and wiped at the beads of sweat forming beneath his head-cloth, his chest heaving from a combination of exertion and heat.

“It is your mind that is your enemy,” Bane told him, stabbing his own weapon into the dry earth and leaning against it casually. “If you focus on anything beyond the battle, you will lose.”

Jaob nodded acquiescence, flushing at how well Bane picked up on his distraction, his weakness, and how often it happened.

He rubbed the blister forming on his forefinger, brought on by the hilt of the inferior weapon. Doubtless he would die of some infection from the wound to complete the cruel irony that his life had become.