Tales of the Vangen: The Black Ministry's Betrayal (Book 1)

Chapter 46: A Matter of Opinion

The courtyard of Gate Secondus was alive with the sound of clashing iron and thunderous cheering. Regis whirled round the training yard, his sword nebulous even in the pitch black of night. Torches glanced light off chainmail and axes as the Centum he was dueling charged to close the distance. Regis ducked under the first swing, blocked the second and caught the Centum's shield with his parry. The wood splintered against the might of his Star Steel.

"Come on," Regis roared as he whirled his blade about for a second strike. "I'm fighting a gods damned Jotan tomorrow! Give me something here!" The Centum responded by swinging his shield at him. In one fell swoop, Regis chopped the thing in half, scattering wood and iron onto the dirt field.

The soldiers watching whooped and hollered at the sight of the black metal sword. Indeed they had never seen anything like it, and their envy for Regis' new blade made all the more apparent. He smiled, holding up the weapon, revealing the mercurial glint in the metal. Like looking into the night sky itself, he'd reckon.

The Centum looked at the ruins of his shield on the ground and shook his head. "Couldn't beat you with a normal sword if I wanted too. I'll not lose my ax the same way. I yield."

"You yield?" Regis couldn't believe his ears. A coterie of Hallan soldiers booed, only to shut their traps when the Centum turned to glare at them.

"As I said," The Centum slung his ax back into its belt. "I'll not fight weaponless tomorrow. Better to keep my ax then my pride."

Regis spat into the dirt as the Centum walked away. "Fine then! Enjoy your mucking ax, you miserable Imperial doglet." He turned to scan the crowd, looking for another challenger. "Anyone else have a thirst in need of quenching?" He pointed the finger at one of the Hallan soldiers." How about you? You got a mouth that's writing debts your ass can't pay. Come over here and pay it forward."

The soldier in question suddenly went pale. "Ah..well...you see," He began to say, shuffling from foot to foot. "The thing is my shifts almost up. Have to be back to Gate Primaris before the Captain gets upset." Regis wasn't given a chance to respond before the Hallan soldier, and the rest of his little troupe, had beat feet out of there, leaving their pride behind.

"Cowards!" Regis barked at them. "The whole lot of you!" He turned back towards the yard, realizing that someone new had stepped into the ring. Civis stood at the ready, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He bent his legs, smirking under that crookedly long nose of his.

"You know," Civis started. "I've always wanted to duel a Danic man. Care to entertain that curiosity?" He drew his sword in one smooth motion, the silver etched blade glowing like moonlight.

Regis smiled, more than happy to oblige. "Gladly." He gripped his sword with both hands, holding the blade forward so that the tip almost touched Civis' own. For a moment they stood there, eyes watching, waiting for the other to move. And then Regis was upon him. He swung the blade up, testing the man's defense, feeling for an opening. The blades whirled, clashed, sang, before retreating once more.

The crowd went wild, cheering for both of them to win. A couple of bowmen from Lady Kent's division joined the fray, clapping with excitement.

The two circled each other with slow even steps, their boots grinding in the freshly churned dirt. "I've wondered about that sword of yours," Regis said. "No blade I've ever seen shines like that. You polish it often?" He stepped in and swung low at Civis. The man stepped back, beating the black blade aside and countering with a thrust. Regis turned just in time, the silvered edge missing him by inches.

"Not as much as you polish your own," Civis laughed at Regis' shocked expression. "No wonder it takes so long for you to leave your tent."

They moved in tandem with each other, black blade clashing against silver. Regis felt himself smiling, his heart racing now that he'd found a worthy opponent. The former imperial lapdog was surprisingly strong and always appearing one step ahead, catching, turning, parrying. Each sword stroke was a dance.