Chapter 9: A Different Result

Chapter 9: A Different Result

Ferrow repaired a gap in the white boundary line with her heel, then faced Silas and Alden.

"Surrender, incapacity, my ruling, or complete ring-out. Both feet outside with no part of you touching the ring. Blunted weapons only. No attacks to the throat or back of the head. When I say stop, you stop. Clear?"

"Yes, Instructor," Alden said.

"Yes."

Alden selected an academy longsword and checked the blade, grip, and guard before taking his position.

Silas chose a sword as well. He had no intention of trading strikes, but standing empty-handed would advertise that fact. The practice weapon was heavier than it looked. He rested its point in the sand and hoped everyone mistook necessity for arrogance.

Alden stood across from him with his shoulders loose and his weight balanced.

"Good luck, Young Master Rooke."

"Let’s get it over with," Silas said.

Alden adjusted his grip. Silas wished he hadn’t noticed how comfortably the sword sat in his hands.

Ferrow stepped outside the ring.

"Begin."

Alden moved first.

He closed the distance at a controlled pace, then drove a straight thrust toward Silas’s lead shoulder. Silas caught the flat of the blade with Remote Grasp and pushed it a few inches aside. Alden had already committed his weight. The point passed Silas’s arm, and Silas retreated before Alden recovered.

Alden reset and used the same thrust again.

This time his elbow stayed closer to his body and the blade rolled during the approach. Silas’s push landed poorly. He lurched sideways to avoid the point, jarring his chest hard enough to steal a breath.

One failed attack had produced a better version.

Silas shifted his attention to Alden’s rear foot. A short pull at the heel turned his next step into a stumble, but Silas kept his distance instead of trying to punish it. His body would lose any contest fought within reach of that sword.

Alden came again with a low cut that rose toward Silas’s side. Silas pressed down on the crossguard and spoiled the second half of the motion.

When he tried the heel pull again, Alden’s foot landed flat and braced. Remote Grasp barely moved it.

Once. Everything works once.

Silas changed targets. He interfered with the sword during one exchange, Alden’s balance during another, then let the next attack come without touching it at all. Alden slowed in anticipation of a force that never arrived, giving Silas time to move along the edge of the ring.

A pressure against the shoulder spoiled a cut. A brief tug at Alden’s sleeve bought half a step. Silas lifted sand toward his face once; Alden closed his eyes, continued forward, and nearly struck him anyway.

Fine. No sand.

Alden gave him less time between attacks. Second Attempt was correcting mistakes in a technique that had already been drilled into him; he needed fewer adjustments than Silas had hoped. Alden stopped putting too much weight into his thrusts. His feet recovered sooner after each disruption. Before long, he was watching Silas’s eyes and shoulders instead of the hand holding the useless sword.

Silas’s own control worsened as his body tired. A pull meant for the blade landed near the guard. Another came late. His chest tightened, and each breath gave him less than the one before it.

Alden feinted low. Silas committed pressure to stopping it, and the real cut came over the top.

The blunt edge passed close enough to stir his hair.

Silas dropped to one knee. The yard tilted and then steadied.

"Rooke," Ferrow said. "Yield or continue?"

He put one hand on the sand and stood. Across the ring, Alden had already recovered his guard. He was breathing hard, but his sword remained steady.

"Continue," Silas said. He was close enough to the boundary to see where Ferrow had repaired it with her heel. If he could get Alden across it, he wouldn’t have to beat him in another exchange.

One try. Then yield.

Alden’s gaze settled on Silas’s unsteady lead leg. He had learned the rhythm of the interruptions and adjusted to the tricks Silas had already used. Silas doubted he could evade another committed attack.

Silas lowered the point of his sword and let more of his weight settle onto the shaking leg.

Alden took the invitation.

He approached from the outside, fast and wide, with his rear foot ready for another pull at the heel.

Silas left the heel alone.

He divided Remote Grasp four ways.

One pressure turned the sword inward across Alden’s body. Another drove down against his leading shoulder. A third pushed the braced rear foot in the direction it was least prepared to move—forward. The last caught Alden at the hip and added force to the momentum already carrying him toward the edge.

Pain flashed behind Silas’s eyes.

Alden released his sword instead of fighting the altered swing. His free hand reached for the ground, and he twisted to roll. It was the correct response, made a fraction too late with both feet already misplaced.

He crossed the white line in a spray of sand and landed on his side beyond it.

His raised boot passed beyond the line before his hand reached the sand. No part of him remained inside.

"Out," Ferrow said. "Winner, Rooke."

Silas did not move. His right hand had gone numb, his vision had narrowed, and the practice sword was the only reason he remained upright.

He adjusted his coat with his other hand.

"Adequate," he managed.

Nobody appeared convinced.

Ferrow came to Silas first and took his practice sword. "Over here. Sit down."

He followed her to the low wall. Behind them, Alden got up before an assistant could help him, collected his discarded sword, and took both weapons back to the rack.

Ferrow handed Silas a water skin. He needed both hands to open it. By the time the remaining matches ended, sensation had returned to his fingers and the worst of the gray had cleared from his vision.

Ferrow came over with her slate.

"How’s the hand?" Ferrow asked.

Silas flexed it. "Better."

"Good. The win stands. It doesn’t change the endurance result." She sat on the wall far enough away to face him. "You found an opening and used it. You also reached your limit before the bout was over. I need you able to finish an exercise without taking the rest of the morning to recover."

He drank from the water skin. There was no useful argument available.

"I’ve read Physician Kerr’s notes, so I won’t tell you to train harder on your own. You’re assigned remedial conditioning three mornings a week, first bell, east field. Supervised and medically graded. The workload will change with your treatment reports."

"Three mornings?" Silas asked. "Kerr said rest."

"And I’ve read her notes. This is rehabilitation, Rooke. I’ll set the work you can manage." Ferrow held out the schedule. "Attendance is compulsory. Miss two sessions and I have to refer it to your dean."

Silas looked across the grounds in the direction of the east residence. The route back suddenly seemed much longer.

"Understood."

Ferrow left him with instructions to eat before walking anywhere.

He remained on the wall until standing became a reasonable idea. One compulsory morning outside had turned into three mornings every week. Complaining would not alter the schedule, and collapsing out of spite would only prove Ferrow right.

When he finally rose, Alden was helping the injured girl carry the bowls back to the assessment table. Neither of them looked toward him.

Silas started the walk home.

Alden’s hip hurt where he had landed, and his right palm was scraped raw from the sand. He flexed the hand once, then continued stacking bowls.

He had heard enough about Silas Rooke before the match to think he knew what to expect. A bastard son who borrowed his father’s name whenever he wanted money or an audience. A bully with one invisible hand and no idea what to do when pushing harder failed. ℯℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

I waited for the same pull again.

He had been so sure he could correct for it that he had let Rooke keep choosing the exchanges.

Silas had changed his attack every time Alden began adjusting. Sword, balance, footwork, shoulder. During the last exchange, four pressures had arrived together, each placed where it could use Alden’s own movement against him.

Across the yard, Silas paused beside the arch before continuing into the shade. Even from behind, he looked ready to fold in half.

The girl beside Alden followed his gaze.

"I thought you had him," she said.

"So did I."

Alden picked up another bowl. He could explain how close he had been, but she had watched the match.

"I should have kept him away from the edge," he said.

Mira set the last bowl on the stack. "He was the one backing toward it."

"I know."

He watched Rooke reach the arch and stop again. The man could barely walk. Alden had lost to him anyway.

He still disliked him. There were students who changed corridors to avoid Rooke; Alden had seen them do it. But he would have to practice against more than a single pull if they fought again.

He picked up the stack of bowls and carried it to the table.