Eight-Stroke Sword
"You know, Iris," Mark said conversationally, weaving his fingers into the scarlet hair at the back of his head, as his emerald eyes surveyed the populace of Nells, the small fishing-village they had laid over in to wait for a ship, "You still haven't mentioned exactly where we're going." Since the earliest points of Lunar's populated history there had been a fishing-village on the southwest cape of this island, keeping it and the small population scattered across it connected with the rest of the world. Its name had varied over the centuries, even millennia, as had its size and prosperity, but its purpose and main source of revenue remained the same.
"The Star Dragon Tower," Iris tossed offhandedly as she surveyed her reflection in the large display-window at the store-front they were standing before. At least, she pretended to be studying her reflection, though Mark had a sneaking suspicion she was covertly eyeing the intricate, bejeweled black choker fastened snugly around the throat of the mannequin before her. It looked suspiciously like the rest of her armor, and even without that it would have complimented her cape splendidly--but he knew without asking the storekeeper that its price was far beyond the reserves of his meager pouch of silver, and to his astonishment Iris had told him she carried no silver on her at all.
Her revelation took a moment to sink in, since she had spoken it so casually, but when it did both he and Rose choked. "Do you realize how far that is?!" he demanded, whirling toward her so fast he nearly flung Rose off his shoulder; she only maintained her position by digging her claws into the thankfully thick material of his tunic. "That's practically the other side of the world from here!"
"This world is smaller than the Blue Star," Iris replied, her hand rising to lift a few hanks of hair clear from her throat as she eyed her reflection--and, Mark was sure now, the choker that was neatly superimposed over the reflection of her throat, at her angle. "It isn't really as far as it seems. Besides, the sword we need is on the Blue Star. Whoever separated them was wise to do so; they were on the verge of awakening when they were split up, a thousand years ago."
Mark began to ask how precisely she would know about all this, but before he could get the words out, her eyes focused on his own reflection as she spoke again, gesturing to the choker with the hand not holding her hair aside. "What do you think? Does it suit me?" Despite being a patent attempt to cover what was apparently a slip of the tongue, Mark let it go, resolving again to leave her to her secrets. Rose didn't seem quite so easy to deter, so he settled for stuffing a silver coin into her mouth before she could push the issue.
"Ah...well, yes, but..." He frowned, trying to think of the most polite way to say he couldn't afford it, without making it sound like she was asking--women, he had learned, could be funny about things like that--or sounding like a cheapskate himself.
He didn't need to worry. Today seemed to be the day for coincidentally timely interruptions, for just as he was about to fry his admittedly ill-prepared brain-cells, a new voice spoke not far down the street. It was a harsh sound like the creaking of an ancient door-hinge, emanating from the dead center of a slowly gathering crowd.
"Repent, ye followers of the False Goddess! Repent and prostrate yourselves before the might of the New Ones! Soon they come, very soon indeed, and upon their coming the charlatan Althena shall be cast down and forgotten! Bow, ye poor, blind souls, bow before the awesome might and spellbinding fury of the Sinistrals!"
Throughout most of the mad prophet's tirade, which Mark had largely tuned out after the initial surprise, Iris had remained for the most part uninterested, returning to her study of her reflection. But upon this last sentence, her head lifted and she turned sharply in the direction of the crowd, ruby-tinted eyes wide. Blinking, Mark turned as well, beginning to edge his way toward the crowd as Iris strode boldly toward them.
"Lords of Death and Destruction are they! Masters of Terror and Chaos! They shall cleanse this world in the pure fires of Hatred, and from the ashes the Silver Star and the Blue Star shall be born anew!"
Mark wasn't sure what was more shocking; the man's words alone, or the fact that there seemed to be faces in the crowd listening raptly to his message of doom and Armageddon. He, himself, was just stooping to pick up a rather large rock--when he heard Iris' voice ringing clearly out, cutting off the rusty-door-hinge with confident abruptness.
"Silence, old one. You know not of what you speak." Like wolves making way for the leader of the pack, the crowd slowly parted to let her pass, some awed or even frightened by the cold look in her burning red eyes, others seemingly as eager as Mark to see this old madman silenced. As the gap widened, Mark finally got to see the doomsayer. He wasn't much to look at, to be honest, a gnarled old olive-tree of a man in burlap robes, whose wispy white hair was falling out in patches and who seemed to be suffering from some unidentifiable skin-disease, his rheumy bloodshot eyes focusing blearily on his apparent challenger. He looked like, and very likely was, some reject from the Magic Guild of Vane.
When Iris spoke again, though, Mark's attention riveted itself back to her in disbelief. "The Sinistrals will bathe both worlds in blood and carnage, destroying all that does not fit with their ideals and making a mockery of all that humanity holds dear. The only thing that will rise from the ashes in their wake is the stench of blood and death."
But that wasn't what had given Mark and Rose such a shock; rather, it was the way the old doomsayer sank to his knees under Iris' icy tone, bowing so low that his brow scraped the cobblestones underfoot. "Lady! My Lady, I am humbled in your awe-inspiring presence!"
For a moment, Iris looked vaguely uncomfortable, even almost frantic. Then, however, she seized hold of her composure and shoved at his shoulder with a thick-soled leather boot. "Get up, you old lunatic. Don't foist your mad delusions on me." She shoved harder, until she pushed the man back onto his rear, and then turned with a swirl of her black mantle and strode regally out of the already dispersing circle of people. The old man, his crowd gone the way of his dignity, began to slowly creep away from the storefront he occupied toward the nearest alleyway, and was soon out of sight.
Rose spoke before Mark worked up the gumption. "What was that all about?"
"Nothing," Iris answered curtly, not even sparing the little creature a glance. "Obviously a case of mistaken identity."
"That wasn't what I meant," Rose answered in reasonable tones that implied just the opposite, "but that's something to discuss later. I meant the stuff about 'Sinis--'...er, whatevers. And all that gloom and doom stuff he was preaching."
"The nonsensical ravings of a lunatic mind," Iris brushed it off, brusquely walking on toward the harbor at speeds that once again forced Mark almost to jog to keep up with her. Thankfully, at least for Rose, she wasn't exerting herself, which left her free to continue her interrogation.
"You sure seemed to know a lot about it, yourself. Just who exactly are you?"
Iris actually slowed again, her gaze going introspective as it lowered to the cobblestones before her, though she didn't stop altogether. "...sometimes I ask myself the same thing."
Before Rose could press, Mark stopped at a fish-vendor they had just passed, dropped a handful of silver coins onto the oak boards and snatched up a small trout, stuffing it lengthwise into the catlike creature's mouth. While the leafy green fur along her back bristled at being interrupted, the bribe of fish was enough to silence her for the time being. "...I don't think the ship is ready yet, Iris," he said quietly, hoping to break the sudden uncharacteristic melancholy that seemed to have overtaken her.
"Nor do I," she replied as she looked about, seemingly back to her old self. As she began to step forward, Mark caught a flash of gray as a jogging figure with a burlap sack slung over its shoulder, presumably full of fish, shouldered past Iris and continued past him. Mark, himself, had just stepped aside to let the figure by, though hoped to grab the man's arm to reprimand him for his rudeness--when, in a separate flash of blue, Iris herself caught up and seized him by the wrist.
"Now, Iris, I don't think there's any need to--" Mark began, hoping to forestall another outburst of that frighteningly cold side of his new friend...but something was different about the hard set to her eyes this time, and her next words made him blink in confusion.
"Give it back," she said tersely. Mark turned to survey the gray-haired man, a nondescript fellow if he'd ever seen one, who lifted his head just slightly from within his bundled scarf and raised his empty hand. On the finger, Mark realized with a shock, was Iris' onyx ring.
"Tsk, tsk," the gray-haired stranger clucked his tongue, smirking with infuriating superiority, "A lady should be more careful with her valuables in this day and age." Then his fingers closed into a fist, and suddenly he raised his index and middle fingers, which held between their knuckles a single silvery ball.
He closed them again, and then when he spread all five fingers, there were four such metal balls held between all the gaps. "Sayonara!" he laughed jubilantly, flinging the lot of them down. When they struck the boards underfoot, they exploded in a blinding, choking cloud of smoke that left Mark, Iris and even Rose shielding their faces and coughing for air. When it finally cleared, the thief was apparently gone. Mark bit his tongue to stifle a vile word he knew Rose would have bit him for, but suddenly Iris raised her hand and pointed at one of the side streets they had just passed with a coughed "There!"; Mark followed with his eyes just in time to see the trailing end of a long, crimson scarf disappearing around the corner.
He wasted no time sprinting after the flash of red, Rose fluttering up off his shoulder as not to be hurled off...but even so, Iris quickly outdistanced him, and soon it was all he could do to keep her in sight.
"After him!" she urged back to him over her shoulder, just before vanishing around the corner so that the next words she called were lost to him. He groaned wearily, as best he could on the run, but pressed on. It would have been somewhat less embarrassing without the people who stared at their mad chase--mostly at him as he lagged behind, weighed down by his pack and moreover by his own fatigue, since Iris had insisted they wait and sleep on the ship.
After rounding a second bend, Mark nearly ran into Iris, who had stopped with her fists balled tightly in frustration at the dead-end the street had lead to. Mark, himself, cast all about but could find no sign of a window or door into which the speedy thief could have ducked. Just as he was just about to suggest that perhaps the burglar had gotten away, a piercing whistle jerked all three sets of eyes upward.
For the first time, Mark got a good look at this thief. The man was rail-thin, now that he had shed his fish-seller's guise, almost unrecognizable save for his slicked-back gray hair and dressed in close-cut black clothing that covered him from neck to fingertips to toes, with a sharply contrasting fiery-red scarf bundled thickly about his shoulders and trailing downward. Somehow or other, he actually seemed to be clinging to the brick wall, though in the darkness of the upper reaches Mark couldn't quite make out how he was accomplishing this feat.
"You Gaijin are all so slow," the man said, merriment dancing in his rich brown eyes. In spite of his hair-color, he appeared surprisingly young, perhaps even younger than his two human pursuers. "But as much as I'd love leading you on a merry chase to the other end of town and back, I have a boat to catch. So if you'll excuse me..." Not waiting for a response, the nimble man dropped from the wall he had been impossibly affixed to, his feet landing squarely on a very stunned Mark's shoulders, and using the swordsman as a springboard. The shove sent Mark toppling right into Iris, bowling the two of them over in a heap as the sounds of footsteps pattered down the cobblestones.
Mark was just struggling to rise and follow, when he suddenly realized that the side of his face had landed on an oddly cushioned part of Iris' anatomy. He was just in the process of piecing together…exactly what the two soft shapes his head lay between were, when he caught a vague flesh-toned blur sailing toward his face. Stars danced in his vision, for a brief moment, and then blissful darkness descended.
When the curtain of blackness lifted, the first thing he became aware of was brilliant light lancing into his eyes, forcing them closed again. While they were still closed, several other realizations struck him--much like the first time he had awakened after losing consciousness under similar involuntary conditions. The first was that, while nowhere near as yielding as the last place he remembered resting it, his head was quite comfortably settled onto something not unlike a utilitarian pillow, only moderately comfortable but still much better than a rock. The second was that he was bundled very nearly to his chin in barely-comfortable but suitable bedding, and the third was that the subtle swaying motion he could feel beneath him was not the results of a perceived head-trauma.
"Ngh..." was the most coherent thing he managed to voice at first, but it apparently drew the attention of another occupant of the room, for he dimly heard footsteps on wooden flooring thumping in his direction. A soft, warm hand settled gently across his brow, smoothing away wisps of scarlet hair.
"You alright?" It was Iris' voice, soft as the hand with concern. "You fell and hit your head while we were chasing that thief. We're on a ship bound for Meribia now."
"Meh...fell...? But...I could have sworn I remembered..." Dimly, he fought his way through the fog of his memory. Something that was amiss, some reason his jaw felt so sore...
"He got away," Iris continued, derailing his train of thought with painful abruptness that made him flinch involuntarily. Her touch turned more soothing as it flickered through his hair, and her voice even softer. "He got on our boat, and we wasted so much time chasing him that we missed it. Had to catch another."
He decided it wasn't worth trying to remember; something told him he probably wouldn't like the answer anyway. "Where's Rose?"
"Topside. Said she wanted to catch some sun, oddly enough."
Mark actually found himself smirking despite the ache in his jaw. "Not odd for her. Sometimes I swear she's half-Plantella."
"Such an unusual creature." Iris' hand finally withdrew as he began to push himself up, forcing his bleary eyes to focus. She was dressed much more casually now, in a loose-fitting sleeveless shirt that hung almost indecently on her slender shoulders, threatening to slip down at more overt movements, and a pair of shorts that looked like a spare pair of trousers that had been torn off at mid-thigh. Her boots were propped in a corner next to his own, and her sword and shield hung on nails on one wall, next to his own and his chainmail shirt. That was when the brief draft caught up with him, and he glanced down to realize something was missing. He jumped, briefly, as he glanced up at her.
"Your clothes were starting to smell," she tossed offhandedly, turning with a tiny smirk on her face to lift something off the small end table next to the hammock he lay in. "When was the last time you bathed and changed?" When he continued to stare with wide eyes, she added, "And don't look at me like that. I have three brothers; you don't have anything I haven't seen."
"E-Even so--!" he started to stammer, but she cut him off by pressing his pack into his hands.
"You can stop panicking and let your blood-pressure drop, you know. I let Rose do most of it. I did have to lift you up to get you in the hammock, though. I figured you'd prefer me manhandling you to some sailor." To that, he could offer no real argument.
Instead, he decided to shift the conversation to a less awkward track, even as he began to fish around inside the pack for new clothes. Thankfully, Iris at least had the decency to turn her back while he threw the bedding off and started to dress. "So the thief got away? I'm sorry about your ring, Iris."
"No matter," the warrior-woman said lightly, though he could hear the thwarted frustration in her voice. "It was just a tool. I can still accomplish what I need to without it. But if I ever get my hands on that thief..."
Hearing the beginnings of the icy side of Iris he was coming to fear, at that, he cut her off hastily. "--we'll get your ring back, or wring the location where he stashed it out of him, and then everything will be fine. You sure you don't want to try and find him when we get to Meribia?"
"Meribia is a huge city, Mark," Iris said coolly, though thankfully more from her usual aloofness than what he had felt building. "And his ship got a good half day's lead on this one. The odds of finding him are somewhere between slim and none, and Slim sadly jumped ship some time ago."
He found himself having to choke back a laugh as he poked his head through the neck-hole of the new shirt, less at the joke itself and more at the image of Iris making a joke. "Still, it can't hurt to ask around, right? The worst that can happen is hearing that nobody's seen him."
As though sensing his task nearly complete, Iris turned to face him just as he was shoving his arms through the sleeveless tunic's arm-holes. "Why does it matter so much to you? It wasn't your ring he stole." The words weren't harsh and accusing, but rather genuinely curious.
"Well, no," he admitted with a shrug, lounging in the hammock now that he was comfortable enough to fully enjoy it. "But it was yours, and we're sort of comrades now, aren't we? Traveling comrades have to look out for each other. Even if it's something simple, but that ring was obviously something pretty special. What if he figures out how to use it? Or sells it to somebody who does?"
"That ring won't work for anybody but me," Iris said distractedly, still favoring him with that odd look, somewhere between curiosity and disbelief. "But...alright, Mark. If it means so much to you, we'll ask. ...thank you." Her small but genuine smile made the skepticism in her tone bearable.
It wasn't a terribly eventful trip; at the very least, he found himself almost hoping for a sea-monster attack or something, anything to break the monotony of travel by sea. They arrived in Meribia port without incident, however, and Rose was just as childishly fascinated by the tremendous ships and sprawling streets as on their last pass through. Iris, herself, was as somber as ever, though she thankfully maintained her more sedate pace as well as she lead him, with Rose perched on his shoulder as usual, through the streets of the most bustling center of commerce on all Lunar.
This time, though, something was different. The streets didn't seem quite as congested as before; the assortment of beast-race and human merchants, intermingled with the occasional mage from the nearby Magic City, seemed unusually thin for the largest city on the Silver Star. Small trickles of the populace, however, did seem to be filtering in the direction of the southwestern part of town. Curious, Mark began to stray as well, but Iris seemed bound and determined for the northernmost city gate. With a slightly disappointed sigh, he corrected his course as well. So much for asking around about the ring.
The gate, itself, however, was quite firmly shut, with a spear-wielding footman standing to either side with expressions of frustrated boredom on their faces. Apparently Mark wasn't the only one disappointed about missing the apparent show.
"What is the meaning of this?" Iris demanded as she came to a stop, hands settling imperiously on her hips and scarlet eyes raking scathingly over each man--both of whom flinched in spite of the fact that each stood a good head taller than her--before returning to the closed gate itself. "Why is passage into and out of Meribia overland blocked while sea-travel is obviously unrestricted?"
"Don't look at us, your Worshipfulness," one of the two said gruffly, apparently having reminded himself of the difference in height, build and rank at last. "We're just doin' our job. If you wanna know, you better go ask Mr. Ramus. He's the one who petitioned the Governor to have it done as part of his promotion."
"That I shall," she replied loftily, turning so that her mantle swirled rather dramatically and fluttered behind her. Thankfully, she remembered to slow her steps after a moment so he could keep up with her, making for that southwestern region of the city. Mark, himself hadn't really stopped to explore the city much on his last pass through; he had been too desperate to get Rose out of the city so she wouldn't keep trying to snatch fish from the fish-sellers, so he had no clue who this Ramus was at all, save that the man's ancestors had been the city's most prominent business folk for millennia.
It wasn't difficult to find the "promotion" the guards had spoken of. Very nearly a quarter of the city's populace seemed to have gathered in a rough semicircle around the storefront, where Mark's ears could pick out the quite distinct sounds of combat; clashing blades.
Judging from the cheering, jeering and occasional wagering going on, it became apparent that this battle had something to do with the "promotion" in question. Of course, even stronger evidence to this effect was the portly, bespectacled, mahogany-haired man standing on a short stack of crates with a battered copper megaphone lifted to his mouth, bellowing out phrases like "come one, come all!" and announcing the alleged battle of the century.
Again, as if she had some sort of mystic aura of intimidation that all could feel even when they couldn't see, the crowd slowly parted for Iris as she passed, and Mark hastened to follow before it could close in behind her again.
Just as they cleared the last few lingering spectators and came within sight of the grand empty half-circle in front of the store facade, there was an exultant bark of laughter, and a final clash of steel, followed by a clattering of metal-on-stone as a sword skittered away from its fallen owner's hand.
"Once again, Nicholas the Eight-Stroke Sword stands victorious!" a booming voice bellowed around triumphant laughter. "Now surrender that sword!" The man on the ground, battered but not injured, merely groaned and made no move to retrieve the weapon. As the winner strode to collect his trophy, Mark took a close look at him.
He was a tall man, half a head taller than Mark himself, with copper-hued hair that would have likely fallen to his shoulders, had he not kept it pulled back in a neat and practical tail at the nape of his neck. He had the square-jawed, broad-shouldered and even barrel-chested build of a seasoned warrior, so large even his breastplate--obviously a piece from the store he was helping to promote--hardly seemed to fit, with piercing blue eyes that betrayed far more cunning and intelligence than was usually credited to a man of his stature.
Aside from the ill-fitting breastplate and similarly uncomfortable-looking greaves, he wore no armor, his arms bare save for fingerless gloves to protect his palms while gripping his sword, and deep royal-blue trousers tucked into the armor that sheathed his legs below the knee. Gripped tightly in his broad right fist was a broad hand-and-a-half sword, its blade nearly the width of his palm and almost as thick as his smallest finger.
As the man named Nicholas stooped to take up the dropped sword, his eyes paused at the level of Mark's sword-belt, azure orbs locked on what was unmistakably the hilt nestled in the ill-fitting sheath. His eyes stayed there as he continued down, closing fingers around the hilt of the relatively mundane sword he had just won as its owner crept away on hands and knees, and using it as a crutch when he straightened, eyes trailing up to the green orbs of the sword's apparent owner. Mark nearly blanched at the sudden resolve he saw.
Thus it was, before Iris could so much as open her mouth to the man on the crates she seemed about to address, the Eight-Stroke Sword raised his almost thunderous voice once again. "You there! Redheaded boy! Are you man enough to accept Nicholas the Eight-Stroke Sword's challenge?"
Rose seemed about to say something, for the first time since Iris had glared to silence her gushing at the docks earlier, but Mark cut her off before she could utter so much as a syllable. "What sort of challenge?"
"Ah, now that's the attitude I like to hear, my boy!" the larger man laughed, handing his new trophy off to a verdant-haired girl dressed in a conspicuously skimpy bunny-girl outfit, then resting his own sword's point to the cobblestones and crossing his hands over the pommel. "The rules are simple, as the crowd has heard any number of times. I challenge you to a duel, one-on-one, to the disarmament or disabling. The first man who drops his sword or loses consciousness loses. If I win, the challenger must surrender his sword to me; if I lose, the winner may select one sword from my collection, and I myself will serve as his personal guard for the period of one year. Needless to say, I have never lost a battle."
"And to show our sportsmanship," the man with the megaphone added, causing one of Nicholas' eyebrows to twitch, "We'll even allow you an hour's time to select the sword of your choice from our personal assortment here at the Dragonmaster's Cache! The finest selection of armaments with which even the most unskilled amateurs can stand up to the Eight-Stroke Sword's mesmerizing fury!" At these last words, Mark faintly heard a few women from the crowd swoon, though Rose and Iris both merely snorted with surprising similarity.
Nicholas cleared his throat faintly, his eyes dipping to the hilt of Althena's Sword again. "But of course, you hardly look like you need a new sword, my lad. What say you? Try that magnificent blade against my Zircon Sword?" For a moment, the name left Mark somewhat baffled; the blade certainly looked to be made of ordinary enough steel. Then, however, he realized that there was a faint glittery dusting over the edges, like ground-up glass or crystal somehow forged into the metal. That would explain it, surely.
Rose hissed an urgent negation into his ear, and Iris looked at him sharply and gave a tiny shake of her head, but Mark ignored them. Twice already, Iris had wounded his ego, albeit unintentionally--once even in front of a crowd. He had some measure of dignity to reclaim, and this was the best way he could possibly conceive of to do just that.
"I'll take that challenge," Mark said boldly, stepping into the circle as Rose flapped off his shoulder to settle onto Iris'. He swung his pack down off his shoulder and offered it to Iris, and with a weary sigh she plucked it out of his hands. Striding further into the cleared space, Mark slowly slid the Sword of Althena out of his own humble, battered sheath, again feeling more than hearing that distinctive ring of...some indefinably unique quality as the blade sliced through the air.
"I'd hoped for nothing less," Nicholas agreed with a sly grin, spreading his feet to brace himself and taking up a firm-handed grip on his sword, which Mark mimicked at first before drawing his own down and back so that the point very nearly touched the cobblestones behind him. The green-haired bunny-girl skipped in to hand Nicholas a sturdy-looking shield and strap it to his free arm, and to Mark's surprise Iris supplied his own, before stepping back to the sidelines.
For a long moment there was silence, thick and tense and very nearly tangible. Then, at some unspoken signal between them, the two men charged, swinging at opposite vectors. The downward swing of the Zircon-dipped blade met the uppercutting slash of Althena's Sword with a spray of sparks and a flash of light, sending both warriors stumbling back and blinking to clear their eyes.
"Magnificent! You've passed the first test, my boy; my strongest swing couldn't break your sword. Now I want it even more!"
Those were the only words spoken, before the two combatants lunged back into the fray. The man was good...very good. There was no denying that; Mark would need to use every trick of the trade he had ever learned, as well as a significant measure of luck, if he hoped to win this fight. But he couldn't back down now; even if he did, it would only mean forfeiting Althena's Sword without a fight. He had to at least try to defend his ownership of it, as well as his honor as a swordsman.
The crowd was certainly pleased, there was no questioning that, and already spectators who weren't enraptured by the duel or placing and managing wagers were shoving their way through the revolving doors of the Dragonmaster's Cache, eager to get their own hands on the kind of weapons and armor that could endure such a clash of titans. Mark did his best to tune out the wagering in particular, since none of it was encouraging; apparently this had been going on since early morning with not a single loss to Nicholas' now infamous Zircon blade.
Even when Mark felt his strength beginning to flag, his swings slowing and lessening in power, the larger swordsman seemed hardly winded; and to think, he had been fighting all day, and had only just won a battle before challenging Mark. This man might well have been more powerful than Iris! Mark wondered briefly if she would challenge Nicholas if he lost, but decided that even if that were likely--she might insist to get Althena's Sword back, since it was so important to her--he wouldn't allow it. If he lost, which was seeming increasingly more likely now...no, he couldn't even afford to entertain thoughts like that. If he couldn't beat this man with the Sword of Althena, then it simply wasn't possible to.
It was rapidly becoming apparent, though, that just because the sword was beautiful and incredibly durable, it didn't transform him into the ultimate warrior or even make him any stronger. In fact, aside from its perfect balance and heft and that strangely unidentifiable quality, it handled distressingly much like a perfectly mundane broadsword. And it even made the same sound as the broadsword of earlier, when a final fierce horizontal swing caught the blade above the crossbars and tore it out of Mark's hands, sending it skittering across the cobblestones.
Broken, panting heavily and stricken with disbelief, Mark sank to his knees. This time it was with a much more solemn air that the mountain of a man strode to take up his trophy, examining the ruby-chips set into the dragon's head on the pommel and the larger stone planted in the hilt. Then he walked back to where Mark kneeled, laying a hand on his erstwhile opponent's shoulder as he handed off his Zircon Sword to the bunny-girl from before. "You ran a good fight, my boy, the best I've had all day...but it simply wasn't enough. No hard feelings, eh? It's all part of the game."
Numbly, Mark nodded. He honestly couldn't hold it against the swordsman, not when he hadn't gloated over this victory like the last. He was the one who had accepted the challenge, after all, knowing the consequences perfectly well. Still, losing as he did, not only his first real loss to anyone but his teacher but losing such an important treasure as well. It did worse than just gall him, it humbled him, worse than any of the superhuman feats Iris had performed thus far.
Even for his state, he was a little surprised when Rose flapped over to settle on his shoulder, murmuring condolences rather than berating him with "I-told-you-sos". Iris was more neutral, not berating him but offering no reassurance either, as she took his shield and hung it from his pack once more. In fact, she seemed more intent on studying the man who was even now giving Althena's Sword a few experimental passes through the air, marveling at his latest trophy. Well, he supposed half a loaf was better than none, and more than he deserved after that display of overconfidence.
Wearily, almost lifelessly, he surged to his feet. Iris was still silent as she distractedly handed him his pack, and even consented to follow him down the street when he tugged at her elbow, finally tearing her eyes away from the man who called himself the Eight-Stroke Sword.
"...I'll get it back," Mark mumbled weakly, eyes downcast as he strode away, "Somehow."
"I know," Iris said softly, and he blinked in surprise as he looked over at her.
"You do?"
She nodded, her expression still blank but her eyes focused intently on his. "You have to. The sword chose you. You have to prove worthy of it."
For a long moment, all he could do was stare at her in blank silence. Then, he took in a deep breath, then let it out helplessly. "But how? Althena's Sword didn't do me any good. I might as well have held a blunt metal rod."
Iris slowly shook her head, and this time her hand move to guide him by the arm as she lead him toward the dock. "Althena's Sword is like any other sword, only more so. And a sword is like any other tool. It only produces as much as you put into it. It's the wielder and not the sword that makes the true difference, in any battle. I could do all the same things with that Zircon Sword he had, that I can do with my own personal weapon."
"So Althena's Sword is just a fancy-looking lump of iron?"
Iris fixed him with a harsh, narrow-eyed glare and he flinched. "Sorry."
"Althena's Sword resonates with the spirit of its wielder," Iris explained patiently. "Humans and humanoids, especially fighting men--and women, of course--they...well, they radiate Waves, Waves of power. The stronger the human's fighting spirit, the stronger the Waves they radiate. Althena's Sword has the power to amplify those waves, somewhat; matched with its mate sword, they can magnify a human's fighting spirit up to a hundredfold."
"Then the reason I lost..." he began, dismally.
"--is because your fighting spirit is too weak, right now. Even without Althena's Sword, you have the power to beat him--to defeat any human opponent--if you only strengthen your fighting spirit."
"And how am I supposed to do that?" Mark countered, disinterested.
"...why don't you have Iris train you?" Rose asked meekly, after her surprisingly extended period of silence.
"I thought you didn't trust her," he protested, surprised. Rose had never made any secret of her opinion of their travel-mate after the initial gratitude for finding him unconscious, which was why he spoke it so boldly aloud.
"I don't," Rose answered candidly, looking past him to the girl in question. "But there's no denying her power. If anybody can help you to beat that guy, she can. Besides, it's in her best interest too; she's the one who really needs us to get it back."
Iris stood still and silent as Mark turned to face her; obviously she wasn't volunteering anything, though her face was still neutral. He sighed, wearily.
"Iris...will you teach me?"
Solemnly, she nodded--almost bowed, even. "I will. Come." Taking hold of his wrist, she began to lead him on toward the docks, rounding bends and stacks of crates, finally slowing to a stop in a relatively clear region nearly surrounded by towering walls of crates. She lowered both their packs to the boards underfoot, while Rose hummed her soft tune to restore his spent strength and heal his lesser bruises.
When the preparations were made, Iris offered him his old sword and shield, before taking up her own. With a firm, decisive nod on her part, the lessons began, Rose sneaking off to the sidelines and poking at crates to see if she could catch any loose fish.
The first day alone was grueling, and Mark was only able to last the entire day thanks to Rose and her healing powers...but even so, the only reason he conceded to stop was because both of them repeatedly assured him that this promotion was sure to go on for days, especially after the show he had put on and the customers it had drawn.
Still, with each passing day he spent training with Iris, accumulating bumps and bruises and no real improvement as far as he could tell (he still hadn't even been able to come close to Iris, let alone tag her with the flat of his blade), he felt himself more and more galled by the waiting, and more and more frustrated and frantically afraid Nicholas the Eight-Stroke Sword would take his challenge out of town or even overseas before Mark was ready.
It was the fourth day after his ignominious loss, however, that Iris pronounced him ready to face his adversary again. There was only one thing she had taught him that he felt was particularly different from what he had done before, but she and even Rose seemed adamant that there had been an astonishing improvement for such a short period of time, even doing nothing but train between eating and healing and sleeping at the inn.
Since it was the second time they had agreed on anything since they had known each other, he didn't have the heart to disagree. So he let Iris and Rose lead him back toward the store facade of the Dragonmaster's Cache, both their capes fluttering behind them, where the fat little bespectacled man was just announcing yet another victory for his mighty champion, and today's bunny-girl--a sweet little number with short cobalt-blue hair--was just retrieving a towel and canteen of water from the victor.
Exactly as before, the crowd parted for Iris, and exactly as before, Nicholas the Eight-Stroke Sword looked up at his challenger as his attendant took his latest trophy aside for him. This time, though, his expression was a touch disbelieving. "Back for more, son? Well, I can't fault your persistence, but it's only been three days. You sure you're ready for another round?"
The crowd practically answered for him; many of the spectators were the same that had been there the past several days, and after their last struggle, a heated grudge match was just the thing they were looking forward to. Nevertheless, Mark spoke for himself.
"I'm not going to lose this time," he said boldly, confidence he hadn't felt before surging through him at both Rose's and even Iris' unexpected encouragement, and the crowd's own enthusiasm. He wasn't sure why, exactly; he simply felt as though there were only something he had missed, before, something simple that he could have used to defeat his opponent, but had merely overlooked.
"Did you hear that, ladies and gentlemen?" the rotund man with the megaphone asked eagerly, nearly falling off his crates in his own enthusiasm. "Sounds like we have a heated rematch in the making! Place your wagers now, dear spectators! It looks like we may have the tussle of the century brewing!"
As bets were placed, either monetary or simply in jest, the two warriors stepped into the circle and readied their swords and shields, Nicholas wielding his Zircon Sword once again and Mark carrying his old steel blade. Years old, it was still a sturdy weapon that had served him well, which was why he hadn't been able to bear parting with it even after acquiring the magnificent Sword of Althena; now he found himself glad for his sentimentality, as it prevented him from having to drop money on a new and unfamiliar weapon for this important challenge.
The two challengers squared off, shields strapped to their arms and swords steady in their hands, eyes of azure and emerald meeting over the rims of steel shields. As three days before, there was a long, tense moment of silence, this time laced with the building anticipation of the crowd. They knew they were about to see something epic, and neither warrior had any intention to disappoint.
This time, Mark was ready when the first charge came; apparently Nicholas the Eight-Stroke Sword was planning to "test" Mark's new sword just the same as before. This time, though he charged as well, Mark didn't meet the challenge; it was headstrong and foolhardy cocksureness that had gotten him into this mess. This time he was going to play it cautious.
Thus, when Mark lightly spun to one side out of his own charge and flashed out with his sword at one of Nicholas' greaves, the larger man scarcely seemed to know what had hit him. Steel rang soundly off of steel, the swing meant not to cut flesh but to deliberately strike the armor plating--and the force of it threw the man known as the Eight-Stroke Sword's equilibrium off. He caught himself on his other foot, but it took a comically exaggerated hop-step before he could regain his footing and turn, by which time Mark himself had the time to prepare for his next trick. A swing of the Zircon Sword, more a probe than an intended attack, was rained down on his shield and was brushed aside, but rather than counter with a swing of his own, Mark kept the shield held before him.
The defensive tactic was new, and one he hadn't tried before simply because against a behemoth of this size, he simply didn't have the endurance to last. And Nicholas knew that quite well, indeed, for the larger swordsman continued to rain blow after blow down on Mark's suffering shield, all enthusiastically accompanied by a running commentary from the announcer on the crates. Still, Mark endured, waiting for his opening.
Then, at last, it came. Knowing his opponent was smaller and weaker, and simply unable to withstand an all out assault of brute force, Nicholas raised his massive arms over his head, prepared to bring his sword down with all his might and reduce the shield to an utter ruin. During the furious assault, though, Mark had been busily loosening the strap that held his shield to his arm, readying himself for just this moment. When the sword swing came, it did indeed crumple the scarlet-painted shield like an insect carapace under a heavy boot.
But even as it folded and buckled under with a shriek of tortured metal, Nicholas realized his mistake--for Mark was not standing behind it, having released his hold and lightly tossed it up as he danced aside. And with the Eight-Stroke Sword still half-bent from his own brutal swing, they both knew the fight was over even before the final attack.
"Hope you like this; I've been itching to try it!"
Nicholas struggled to rise and defend himself, but it was far too late. Mark's charge continued, his boots actually racing up the flat of the Zircon Sword's blade, one using the upraised shield as a springboard as he launched himself up. The motion flipped him upside-down in midair before gravity reasserted itself and began to drag him down, sword parallel to the horizon as he held it at a right-angle from his body. Though the Eight-Stroke Sword lifted his weapon in time to meet the clash, the combination of gravity and all Mark's own not-inconsiderable strength behind the blow made the outcome academic. Steel exploded in a spray of white-hot sparks and shards of metal, as people gasped and some even cheered.
As Mark passed, one of his hands left the hilt of his sword to stretch below him, hand-planting off the cobblestones and vaulting to land in a half-crouch with his back to his enemy, scarlet cape settling around his shoulders and pooling on the stones behind him. His eyes went wide with chagrin, though, as he looked down to his sword hilt and realized that his sword was the one that had broken.
After a long moment of shocked silence, he nearly sank to his knees again, when the complete and utter silence of the crowd suddenly struck him as odd. Rising to his feet, he slowly stood and turned. Just as wide-eyed with shock as he had been a moment ago, the man called Nicholas the Eight-Stroke Sword was gazing down at the hilt of his Zircon Sword.
The blade lay in pieces at his feet, some of them still glowing red.
Slowly, a single pair of hands brought itself together somewhere in the crowd, breaking the almost palpable silence with as much force as the two shattered swords. More applause followed, gradually like a building avalanche, and soon the entire crowd was roaring its approval, as two swordsmen, one red-eyed warrior woman and one flying cat-creature gazed in shocked silence.
It was a heavy hand on his shoulder that shook Mark out of his own state of shock, and he looked up into the astounded but oddly pleased eyes of his erstwhile opponent.
"That was marvelous! Absolutely ingenious!" the man blurted, hand still clamped onto Mark's shoulder in a vice-like grip as his other, now empty of the discarded sword hilt, pumped Mark's empty hand like a used-nag-salesman who had just made employee of the millennium.
"Wha? Bu-But..." Mark was still having a little trouble coordinating his thoughts. His sword was broken! He had lost!
"No man has ever managed to break my sword!" Nicholas explained, as though it should be obvious. "Not in over ten years! That was a brilliant bit of trickery and a fine show of strength, besides! You've won, my boy; you've bested me! Me!"
"But my sword's broken too...!" Mark protested, still somewhat out of sorts even as Iris plucked his broken sword's hilt out of his hand and Rose settled to his shoulder and began smoothing his hair back with almost motherly paws.
"It doesn't matter. The point is that you broke mine as well," the taller man insisted, crossing his arms firmly across his too-small breastplate. "That was my sword, custom forged to be unbreakable, and yet somehow you managed with a mere sword of steel. I'd like to know how you managed a feat like that; there obviously weren't any enchantments on that blade."
"I'd like to know, myself..." Mark muttered, but Iris seemed strangely self-satisfied--and at the same time, almost unnerved. It was an odd combination of expressions, one he hadn't thought possible on a human face.
"Well, it doesn't matter. Come, lad, choose your sword. You've earned it."
This time, at least, Mark finally managed to regain some control of his faculties. "I already know which one I want." The last thing he needed was some temptation to forego Althena's Sword in the face of some finer-looking blade; though he didn't see how that was possible, he didn't want to take the chance.
"Ah, of course, I might have known," Nicholas said knowingly, smirking. "You want your treasure back, don't you? Can't say I blame you, though it pains me to part with her so soon. S' just as well, though; every time I tried to use her she nearly shook herself out of my hand." Finally releasing Mark's shoulder, the bigger man strode off toward the store facade where a long line of oblong objects stood propped against it, presumably the swords of defeated challengers. He plucked up one from somewhere around the middle, and slowly walked back toward them.
It was with an odd sense of relief that Mark closed his fingers around the grip of Althena's Sword again, as though it were a dear friend he had been parted from and was now being reunited with. He nodded his gratitude to the larger swordsman and began to turn.
"This should be interesting," he heard the man's voice continuing from behind him. "Give me a moment while I pick out a sword. I'll miss my Zirc', but it was a fair match."
"What?" Mark asked, bewildered, as he turned when Iris did to face the man once more.
"Don't tell me you've forgotten the other part of the victory conditions, lad. For the duration of a full year, I'll be serving as your personal guard. I daresay you probably won't need it much, since it looks like you already have a fine compliment to your skills, but two blades are always better than one, hm?"
"But...you don't even know where we're going," Mark protested, glancing to Iris for help or confirmation. She only shrugged, giving an offhanded gesture he translated as unhelpful at best.
"Doesn't really matter much, does it? Come on, now, you knew the conditions when you challenged me. Don't tell me you don't need my sword for anything.
Well...the Blue Star was a dangerous place--even Lunar could be, at times--and...
"Alright. Welcome aboard, er, Sir Nicholas."
"Enough with the 'sir' stuff," the Eight-Stroke Sword protested with a hearty laugh. "Call me Nick. We're comrades now, aren't we?"
"Then you can call me 'Mark', not 'boy'," Mark retorted with a genuine laugh of his own, sliding Althena's Sword into his sheath. "C'mon; we'll finish introductions at the inn, alright? It'll be at least tomorrow before they open the town gates, I think."
The fat man with the megaphone was too busy ushering bewildered but enthusiastic patrons into his store to even realize they were gone, though he did think to take up the two broken swords and enshrine them in a glass case as a memorial to his little promotion. If only Great Grandpa Ramus could have seen him now…