The Assays of Ata (The Chronicles of Áitarbith Book 1) by K.I. S

Author:K.I. S. [S., K.I.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: K.I.S.
Published: 2024-03-02T00:00:00+00:00

“You know, you could concede…” Kaimam’s black hair (much too long for a soldier, in Svens’s opinion) was plastered to his scalp with sweat, his chest expanding rapidly as he wheezed.

“After you – I insist,” Svens responded, not in much better shape himself. They had been at it for over two hours, with short periods of rest throughout. The crowd had mostly dispersed, only the most dedicated still spectating. The other ‘events’ had concluded since, with just the two of them remaining (and their collective stubbornness, of course). Svens felt as though his legs were made of lead and his arm ready to drop off.

“Just finish it, for the heavens’ sake!” a familiar voice called irritably from the side lines. The fact that Ata hadn’t left like most of the others chagrined Svens no end. For some reason, it seemed to compound the strangeness of this entire bout – the thought of not winning against Kaimam, with her in attendance, brought a rush of discomfiting determination to him.

The heat of the day was upon them, a much more onerous experience here in southern Pandial than in northern Cinnae. Svens had noted, peripherally, that Princess Mindaia had joined the remaining crowd and stood next to Ata, a look of politely placid interest showcasing the inherently different natures of the two cousins, for Ata’s face was drawn into a cantankerous scowl.

As they engaged again, Svens felt a brief frisson of panic; Kai’s increased power in his strikes, his suddenly nimble footwork, indicated a surge of new-found energy that Svens couldn’t match. Then he spotted the minute opening in the man’s defenses, no doubt the result of exhaustion and the effort to overwhelm his opponent with his attack. Within seconds, he had managed to land a ‘killing’ blow to the lieutenant’s neck. Kai’s head bowed as he leaned on his weapon in exhaustion, Svens’s blunted sword resting threateningly against his jugular.

“I yield, oh great general,” he grinned tiredly yet still mischievously, “but I’ll never surrender.” The audience applauded, good-natured jibes exchanged by men who had, mere hours before, been at each other’s throats. The Pandial had scraped a victory, gaining three wins to Cinnaens’ two, Svens’s tenuous triumph keeping the Pandial from an ignominiously disparate loss overall.

“Fair enough,” Svens grunted, secretly wondering and worrying how he’d be able to leave the small arena without hobbling. If his current discomfort were any indication, his muscles would be unpleasantly stiff on the morrow. Without thinking, he offered his hand to the lieutenant, who looked at it in puzzlement, clearly never having seen the ‘working-man’s clasp’ amongst the Cinnaen nobles currently residing in Enddaian.

Before Svens could explain the convention or drop his hand for a more traditional bow, a warm, slightly smaller hand slapped against his arm and clasped it firmly. A tingle of awareness zinged through him and he knew who it must be even before he looked.

“Like this,” Ata’s tone of forced patience, along with her attention, was directed at the Pandial lieutenant standing next to her as she instructed him, but her arm lingered in Svens’s grasp.

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