6th Trial, Ashan, 719
Orm'del Sea
Southwest of Volta
Orm'del Sea
Southwest of Volta
There was a restlessness in seafaring that Kasoria discovered within a handful of trials. Once the shore had become a sunny haze behind them, then vanished entirely, there was naught but a vast emptiness of water in every direction. Break after break, they saw nothing beyond their wooden vessel, save for other ships that passed them occasionally. No land, though. No islands or shorelines. One might have the imagination or inclination to think the whole world had been drowned, all soil swallowed, leaving nothing but this single element covering everything. Naught intelligent on the globe, save for those souls floating on the surface of it.
That particular distraction lasted Kasoria about a break. Then he got bored again. Keeping watch and doing chores took time, but he still needed something else. Fortunately, he had something new and deadly to fill his hand. A fine weapon, but one he lacked familiarity with. Not in the same way that his could wield his gladius or the charmed karambit like extension of his own body. No, the cutlass he'd looted the previous season was still an unknown quality.
Not for long.
Metal clanged into metal, booming out across the deck. There was no rhythm to it, for the two fighters were canny enough not to be so predictable. The sailors and smattering of other sellswords flinched every few moments as another, unexpected crash of iron and steel split the sky. The Captain's eye twitched and he looked down from the quarterdeck. His frown turned into a glare as he saw the source of it. Noisy bastards, he thought. Every fucking trial, now.
Kasoria paid him no heed. It was all he could do to keep his opponent from slicing him up; he'd no attention to spare on disapproving observers. The other men hired to guard the Lucky Lady on her voyage lounged in the shade. Sharpened weapons, ate porridge, drank weak grog. Watched the little man from Etzos, and the taller, tubbier man with the tattoos covering his bare arms. Both were shirtless and every swing and parry and dodge and thrust sent a spray of sweat across the deck. They all remembered how the little man had dismantled Shaz and Raader trials before. Took them apart after taking a beating himself, just to prove that he could. But a pirate's assault wouldn't be barehanded; there'd be blades and bludgeons to bring to bear, and they'd not seen him handle those.
Mayhap a few of them had thought the Captain had erred; hiring the little man based on one, impressive but singular act of violence. He was, after all, no proven swordsman. Until the first time he and Kilmain had stripped off and got to sparring. Then those doubts vanished.
Thus runs the theory, anyway.
The bigger man lunged at Kasoria from the side, sweeping his own cutlass through the air and expecting a block-
-but Kasoria ducked and weaved under the blow, letting it sail over his head-
-moving forwards and to the same side the blow had come from, seeking to backhand Kilmain under his guard-
-only for the cutlass to sweep back down vertically before it had even completed its chop, blocking Kasoria's blow, and the little man kept moving-
-kept sliding across the deck, turning as he went, ending up behind Kilmain-
-who turned himself, swift on his heel with more grace than a big man with a beer gut had any right to possess. Then they faced each other again, cutlasses out, circling, circling, circling slowly...
"All about the hack an' slash with this'n," Kasoria said, raising his black blade slightly. "More used to me gladius."
Kilmain spat to one side, taking a step back before he allowed himself the distraction of doing so. He'd already learned not to underestimate the little man from across the sea. He flexed his arms and rolled his head on his shoulders. Old boy had ten arcs on him, he'd wager, but he was the the one tiring.
"More of a soldier's weapon, y'know? Use it wiv' a shield, in a line. But this?" He held up his own cutlass. Plain and unadorned. Well-worn and oft-sharpened. A weapon of efficiency and long, proven service. "This is for the fray. Boradin' parties, fightin' off pirates, where y'won't have time fer shields or battle lines or any a' that shite. So you swing-"
He did just that, a diagonal blow that would have crashed through bone and kept going into Kasoria's torso... if he had meant it, of course. They were sparring, after all, and both men were pulling their punches, as it were. Strikes and swipes that would have cleaved open flesh were neutered into the movements of men playing with their children. Oh, they were still real swords, of course. Sharpened daily and not wrapped in cloth of scabbards. But the Captain had made it clear he wanted no killing on his boat, unless he was the one ordering it.
Kasoria's own cutlass came up and the blades crashed together, but Kilmain didn't shove him away this time. In fact, he stepped forwards, grinding the blades together. Kasoria ground his teeth and gripped the cutlass hilt with both hands, needing all their strength to keep the heavier man at bay. The sellswords watched with the bored indulgence of cats as Little and Large pressed their swords together. Screeching, straining, squealing metal scraped over the decks, making men wince at the sound.
"This 'ere?" Kilmain spoke through gritted teeth. At least he was suffering, too. "This is called a bind. Shite can bugger up yer edge, but wiv' a blade like this... it's long enough to slide-"
Kilmain shifted his feet and Kasoria knew he'd been suckered. All that pressure, the pushing, the force against his blade, focusing his attention and his efforts into a pointless grinding. But Now Kilmain slid the length of his cutlass up, Kasoria's own blade squealing against it, until Kilmain's blade clanged against his hand guard-
"-an' slice-"
Kilmain stepped to the side and twisted his cutlass into Kasoria. The little man's sword was squashed between Kilmain's and his own body, but where his weapon was immobilized, Kilmain's was already moving, sliding, blade long enough to keep the bind but at the same time reach Kasoria's upper arm-
-and with a feral grunt Kilmain yanked his blade free from the bind-
-Kasoria hissing as the last five inches or so of the cutlass laid open his right bicep in a straight, shallow wound. At once blood sprang from it and started pouring down his arm. Kilmain slid away from the smaller man, sword dripping blood onto the deck as he settled back into a defensive stance. Kasoria scowled at the wound he'd earned.
"Jus' like that," Kilmain said with a smirk. "Long blade like this, you can do more than jus' one thing at a time."
The little man from Etzos flexed his arm up and down... then tossed the cutlass to his other hand. Kilmain's triumph wavered upon his face for a trill or two. The little man had sand, he'd give him that. Half his arm was already crimson, nasty but superficial wound halting most ordinary men. But this Thagoras from across the sea - and damned if he believed for a moment that was his real name - just hefted his cutlass in his fresh hand.
"Youse good to keep goin'?"
"Oh, aye," Kasoria said, smiling right back and ignoring the stinging, pumping pain in his arm. "m'learnin' plenty."
