Notes: Finally, right?
I wonder if anyone can guess the sort of 'theme' or inspiration for this chapter. It will be pretty obvious to some. I'm working on revising the past couple of chapters, mainly changing 'Téa' to 'Téa.' Otherwise I think from now on we should have smooth sailing.
Of course, I couldn't have done it without DarkShadowFlame, my wonderful beta, without whom I'd be lost in a sea of horrible grammar.... I'd also like to thank Azurite for all the support and help with plot. (Even though she doesn't know it.) And Guardian Kysra from the wonderful fanart that she's done– I'll be posting more on my bio ASAP.
And just everyone who's helped me along– and of course all the readers.
Recap: (Because it's been so long...) Seto had just brought Téa back to the Tomb Keeper abode and, after an argument, she's run off, determined to get home by herself. However, she didn't make it very far– three mysterious characters have taken her once again. Will valiant 'Prince Seto' come to her rescue yet again?
In the Sands of Egypt
Chapter 11
Swordplay
Clink. Clink. Clink. Téa awoke to the sound of a metal buckle rhythmically hitting up against the side of a leather saddle bag that was mere inches from her nose. The girl was strewn over the back of a new horse, her face directed at the sand. This was new.
Glancing up as best as she could, she discovered two more horses trotting with her, one in front and one to the left. The riders, whoever they were, hadn't noticed that she had woken and so she decided to use that to her advantage.
"Now where are we going again?" came a deep voice from the man on the left horse. He immediately earned himself an irritated scoff from the rider on the front horse, and her rider merely chuckled.
"Back to Mastaba, you dolt! How many times have I said this to you?!" scolded the front man. The burly one merely shrugged.
"How many, Montoya?"
"Fifteen, I believe," answered the man on her horse with a thick Spanish accent.
"Thank you for keeping score," the left rider said, to which Montoya only laughed.
"Anytime, my friend."
They didn't speak for a while, and during that time Téa did her best to analyze these people. The one on the left– the one she could see the clearest– was a huge man, larger than most. He was not one to be trifled with. But then again, thieves weren't supposed to be the genial type.
She couldn't see the man that led them very clearly, only a glimpse now and then, but what she did pick up was that he wasn't a large man, quite small in fact...
It was starting to grow increasingly hot; the beads of sweat that rolled down her forehead reminded her of the dangers of the sun. Once during their passage, the smaller man took out a satchel and drank from it greedily. It made Téa want to jump up and snatch it from him, but she wasn't supposed to be awake. Thinking of water made Téa aware of the relatively cool container bumping up against her feet, something she hadn't paid attention to before. Maybe she could jump up, steal the water, and make a run for it? No, no, she knew she couldn't outrun a horse, and they had three against her!
"It's hopeless," she sighed, but soon after realized her mistake and clamped her hands to her mouth. Dreadfully, the rhythmic beating stopped and the lead horse sauntered over.
"Hopeless, missy?" The man's face, now that Téa saw him, was ridiculously squinched together, reminiscent of an English Bulldog. "The only thing that's hopeless is any chance you have of survival."
Téa gulped. It wasn't exactly what she wanted to hear, and she knew that if she dared laugh– especially at Bullie's high-pitched voice– things would only get worse, so she remained grudgingly quiet, trying to hold her tongue.
The man, Vizier as he was called, only indulged further. "So don't even think of escaping or acting out. Just sit quietly and wait until we reach the city," he bent down low, pinching Téa's chin and pulling it up, "because there's no one out here to hear you scream." Téa wrenched away her jaw, scowling only to Vizier's delight.
"I think he might be able to," the giant said calmly. Vizier took it as nothing; it was just the oaf's imagination.
"Let's continue on," he ordered, giving Téa one last smug look before pulling the reins back on his horse and urging the beast forward once again.
Téa craned her neck sideways so that she could see behind them; was someone really following them? Heat rose off the sand so that it appeared like glass in the distance, this also making it difficult to see anything afar.
Every now and then Argus, as the giant was called when 'dolt' and 'stupid' were dismissed, would cast a glance over his shoulder, and by the third time, Vizier had had enough.
"Would you stop that?!" he squawked, swinging his arms in emphasis. "There's no one there; it's just your imagination!"
"...Are you sure?" Argus was skeptical. He was fairly sure he knew when he was making up things, but if Vizier said it was his imagination, then it must have been his imagination.
"Yes, I'm sure! The girl was alone when we found her; I'm sure no one even knows she left!" Vizier was positive that this was indeed the truth, but he turned around just to amuse the hulk. He was quite surprised when he saw, barely, the blurry outline of another rider trailing behind them, not within earshot, but behind them nonetheless. "They must have been separated from a nearby caravan," he concluded.
Argus and Montoya were not so sure. It was the Spaniard who first spoke of these doubts.
"Vizier, if he is not following us, how come he is going in the same direction?" he asked. The small man brushed this question aside as child's play.
"It's because he thinks we can help him," he brought his horse closer to Montoya's; "he must think we have directions, and wants to attain them from us." Vizier raised his index finger and waved it rapidly in the Spaniard's face. "But! If he doesn't, I want you, my friend, to cut him down."
The lead man received a blank look and groaned. Such halfwits he worked with! "Argus, take the girl, and Montoya, wait in this spot until that guy gets here. Then - kill him!"
It was done as Vizier ordered, and Téa soon found herself, very much against her will, draped over the back of the burly man's horse. Sitting upright was obviously too much to ask for. With furrowed eyebrows and a frustrated scowl, Téa watched as the Spaniard Montoya became smaller and smaller.
A chestnut brow arched over a curious blue eye. One was staying behind? They must have spotted him. He would have preferred taking them by surprise, but this was just as well. Casually coming to a halt, Seto glanced down at the man with little interest.
"Sir, you don't happen to be a lost traveler, do you?" Montoya inquired from the seat of his own horse. Seto shook his head. "Then you know where you are going?"
"No. I thought I'd just ride around in circles 'till I died of dehydration," Seto drawled, frowning at the man before him.
"You are very clever," Montoya admitted. "Tell me, what are you doing out here then?"
"I just happened to notice three riders running off with something that didn't belong to them, that's all," Seto answered to the Spaniard's surprise. So he was following them!
"So this 'something' belongs to yourself, sir?" Montoya dismounted his horse, brushed off the dust from his white attire and placing his hands onto his hips.
"...I wouldn't say that," Seto replied, hesitant. He knew Téa would be furious at the notion of being someone's 'item.' The very image of her face flushed in anger brought a smirk to his lips. "But I'm obligated to return this something to its rightful place."
"Well, I cannot allow you to fulfill such a task." Montoya's leafy green eyes contrasted highly with the nothingness of the desert as they glared into Seto's.
"What are you going to do about it?" Seto scoffed, not at all taking the blade-thin man seriously.
"We shall duel," the other answered, drawing a finely crafted rapier from the hilt at his side. Seto's eyebrows rose in interest and he let his head fall back slightly. Seto had never before been challenged to this kind of duel.
"Well, well, well-well-well!" Duhand bowed gracefully, right hand flowing out before him and coming to a stop at his left cheek. "If it isn't Marik! Ex-leader of the Rare Hunters, heir to the Tomb Keeper legacy, and, my favorite, inside man for the Uraeus," he purred, raising his head to meet Marik's annoyed glare.
"What?" His smile widened to reveal his pearly white canines. Oh how he relished in 'that look.' The one that the golden-skinned boy was giving him now. That small frown, barely curved, a sign of growing distaste. "Well, if you're going to keep silent, then I guess I'll instigate the conversation. Why have you graced me with your presence this day?"
"I didn't come to grace you," Marik replied with a snort. This so-called 'leader' was already getting on his nerves and they had just met five minutes ago! After arriving in Mastaba and securing a place to stay, he had come to the Uraeus outpost to report the successes and failures of recent raids to his home; that, among other things...
"I came to talk to whoever is in charge here."
"Then you came to grace me," Duhand insisted, smug. "Now, hurry up and say what needs to be said - I grow tired of you."
The nerve! Marik growled softly, barely audible. Through clenched teeth he said, "You must know of the failure to obtain Téa--"
"That girl?" the leader cut in.
"Yeah. That girl," Marik affirmed, rolling his eyes; "she is currently at the Tomb Keeper residence-" to that Duhand gave a light, 'I know something you don't' chuckle and, after another glare, urged Marik to continue- "but because of this failure I've learned that Seto Kaiba has received the Millennium Rod." The last words were filled with greed as they were spoken.
"Has he now?" That got Duhand's attention. The fabled Millennium Rod, seductress of minds and bringer of power... It was this Item that had brought the teenaged boy before him to where he was now. The thought interested him greatly. Tapping each thin, bony finger together in a waving motion, he began to weave together ideas.
"So, señor?" Montoya prompted again. "Do you accept?" He discovered the broadsword strapped to Seto's back and grew eager. Maybe this stranger knew something about swordsmanship? People didn't just carry around swords for anything. Prickles of dark hair began to rise on the back of his neck, oh how glorious it would be to finally test his skills again!
The answer was easy. It didn't even take words, just a slight tilting of the head on Seto's part, and that was that; the duel would begin. As per request from the Spaniard, Seto removed his cloak, tossing it in the air and letting the heavy folds settle atop the sands much like a water beetle on a lake.
Hidden daggers and knives were now exposed, and soon after, removed and lain across Ezra's saddle so that they wouldn't bury themselves in the golden grains. He was only allowed one weapon; his sword.
As it often did in the afternoon, the temperature steadily rose, heat beating down on the two males as they stood still, lying in wait like cobras ready to strike.
Seto's eyes kept shifting slowly from one area to another, inspecting. Sand all around them; it had its advantages and disadvantages, as did most situations - nothing was ever ideal. This man would not be able to find cover from any of his attacks, but the same applied to himself. Slipping was to be avoided at all costs, no matter how easy it would be in such a terrain.
"Nervous?" Montoya asked; a glint of sunlight caught his eyes, making them flash dangerously. He laughed, spreading his feet apart and bending his knees slightly. Then he raised his sword; the thin metal gleamed, lusting for battle. His free hand rose to the air as he let his left foot slide back.
His opponent had a broadsword, so he expected power. He had a rapier; he would fence.
"No." Seto's blade chimed as he pulled it from his sheath. Gripping the clawed handle with both hands, he pointed the sharpest point of the sword dead between Montoya's eyes. However, one thing wouldn't leave Seto's mind: He could always read people; it was simple and he had had a lot practice, but for some reason he couldn't tell a single thing about this man by his features. It was simply as if he were a mysterious weapon, not a man at all.
He couldn't help but smirk but the twitch of his lips betrayed no amusement; so they were similar - so what?
Then the word 'begin' was spoken in counter-point and, just as the word incited, the battle began. Seto was first to attack, raising his sword and slashing downward, as expected. Montoya easily blocked it; then let the heavier blade slide down his own and to the side, leaving Seto wide open.
'Pity.' The Spaniard gathered himself mere seconds before Seto and attacked with a horizontal chop to Seto's left side. Using the unstableness of the sand to his advantage, Seto raised his sword just in time to block the attack and also, due to the force of the blow, was pushed sideways– controllably– out of harms way.
This also put Seto in the perfect position to counter. Adjusting his grip so that the sword's edge was vertical, he thrusted, aiming below Montoya's rib cage. His attack was unsuccessful as the Spaniard side-stepped, dodging the expected assault in a spin and coming out to hit his backside with his free hand.
Seto stumbled forward, sand flying up as he twisted around and to a halt. He hated to admit it, but it seemed that his opponent was superior in style and skill, which wasn't exactly a surprise considering he had been studying swordsmanship for less than a year...
Memory
"Pick up your sword," Odion instructed, "and attack me again."
"Get me a different sword and I would," Seto groused, making no move to do as he was told. In his hands now was a large, hulking sword made entirely out of stone; he couldn't lift it - for long. When he did manage to pull the useless weapon from the ground, he spent all his energy and thought maintaining it, so any sort of attack or defense was impossible. So for now, the sharp end of the blade dug itself into the sand.
"I'm not going to give you a different sword, quit whining," Odion snapped, growing impatient. The response that he earned was an indignant glare, but he waved it off. He had started teaching Seto Kaiba the way of the sword, something he had picked up long ago, but unfortunately Kaiba wasn't the most gracious student. "I gave you that sword for a reason, now attack me."
Seto found Odion's words highly annoying. How was he supposed to attack if he couldn't even lift the sword? It made no sense; a lighter weapon would be a more logical choice for him. He knew though that he wouldn't accomplish anything by arguing further; he would just have to attack. Maybe if he, by way of a miracle, hit Odion, the man would shut up for once. Gripping the hilt of the sword like a golf club, Seto used all his strength into one blind swing, heading straight for his 'teacher.'
Unfortunately, Seto's arms gave out just a breath away from Odion's body; they wobbled and fell limp, the sword crashing to the ground soon after. So much for that.
"Try it again," Odion merely said. It drove Seto mad.
"Again?! How can I?! I can't even lift the damn sword!" He was more than frustrated by now, the tints of red sponged across his face was a sure sign. Odion didn't even bat an eyelash.
"If you keep trying, you will be able to lift it," he responded. Even though no one had actually taught Odion to use a sword didn't mean he couldn't come up with effective training methods. There was a point to giving Kaiba that sword; he wouldn't have done so if there wasn't...
"What does it matter?" Seto fought back wildly, glaring at Odion as if his life depended on it. The Tomb Keeper shook his head, looking down at Seto with disgust.
"You said you wanted to get stronger, and I'm helping you do that, but your constant questioning is not helping!" His voice was a low rumble, thundering across the empty desert.
Seto dipped his head down, scowling. It was true, he had asked to be stronger, but he never asked for Odion to assist him. He didn't need that brute's help, and this whole 'session' was pointless.
"If you want to leave, then go," Odion continued. "I can understand if you're to weak to go through with this training."
"I'm not weak," Seto spat immediately. Exactly as Odion had predicted.
"Then let's continue."
End Memory
"Mr. Broadsword, yoo-hoo," Montoya called from his spot on the other side. Seto had been sitting there, doing nothing but glaring at him, it was starting to get boring. "Are you going to admit your weakness and surrender?"
As if Seto needed to answer. Instead he let his sword do the talking. With a quick sprint forward, he slashed downward in a diagonal motion to the Spaniard's left cheek. Montoya easily parried and countered flawlessly.
First blood was his.
Stepping back, Seto gripped his arm; blood trickled between his fingers and dripped down his arm. His opponent grinned, giving Seto a split moment before proceeding with his assault. A flurry of attacks hurled themselves at him, and Seto did his best just to avoid them.
Montoya had him on the guard, stepping back with each attack that he blocked. Attack, block, attack, block. Montoya did everything he could, but he was still blocked. Frustrating as it was, the Spaniard kept leading Seto slowly back. His gallant thrusts and multiple cuts had Seto restricted. All he could do was block and back away. They were battling at the top of a large sand hill now, Seto toward the end.
"Give up, my friend, you have no chance," the fencer said through another attack.
Another block. "Never." Seto glanced behind him. If he moved back any further he would slip down the hill and that would be the end of him. He had to do something - now.
Montoya thrusted, but was surprised when his blade didn't return to him. His eyes darted upward and discovered a hand grasping his lithe blade, blood staining across its steel lengths.
The sun rose higher in the sky, determined on scorching all that lay below it. Sweat rolled down tanned skin, rolling across smirking lips. Seto had grabbed the sword to stop the attack.
"How foolish." Montoya lifted his sword, twisting around so that Seto was dragged with it and finally thrown off.
Seto still smirked. His hair dripped with sweat at the edges, down his face, staining his shirt, and making the grip on his sword unstable. Blood spilled from his arm and speckled across his shirt. Yet he still smirked, because he knew something that Montoya was only now starting to realize.
Seto Kaiba had won the match.
It was painfully clear to Montoya as his breathing became more ragged and unstable. While he was using all his energy in attacking and thrusting, Seto barely moved to block. He was only slightly fatigued, while Montoya was spent.
The fencer spilled to his knees, ignoring the heat from the sand when his hands sunk into it. How could he have been so careless? Such a stupid mistake... "You've won, my friend. Please, do this man a favor and kill me quickly."
The man's life was in Seto's hands, but it was a prize that disgusted him. Glowering, he kicked the Montoya's gut, digging his boot into the lean flesh. The Spaniard crumpled over, only unconscious. Finding Montoya's steed, he draped him across the saddle and sent the horse off.
"I don't do favors."