Sir Richard had decided on a wide area within the garden, near an arbor.

There was an audience. The few servants that heard the teatime commotion had told those that didn’t. They gathered around them in the garden, as if they were the gladiators of old. Volsten didn’t mind. In fact, he welcomed the attention. It would be nothing short of comedy to humble this creature before her own servants. And he would do it quickly.

Across from him, Melridge stood with wooden sword in hand. She wore a loose set of trousers with boots and a tunic. Though, the tunic was hardly that. It cut off not long after it dropped below her breasts, before it could obscure her stomach. Truly it was a terrifying sight, that row of muscles. Each was pronounced. He counted no less than six before asking himself why he bothered to look at all.

The noon sun was strong here. He would begin sweating soon.

Sir Richard stood to the right of them, closer than the ring of servants did, though he blended in quite well. His hands were behind his back.

“The duel will be no more than five rounds,” he said, his voice carrying more than Volsten expected. “That means, the first of you to garner three victories will be the winner. The winner is the first to strike a killing blow on the other, or to strike a blow that would reasonably disable the other if the swords were made of metal.” His eyes, once looking at them evenly, focused on Melridge. “No magic, of any sorts!”

Volsten whirled his wooden blade around. He didn’t like how it felt. It was thicker than a normal blade; it had to be, in order to replicate the weight. That came with its own annoyances. “Do let me know if I go too fast for you, Melridge. My goal is to entertain as much as it is to win.”

Melridge readied herself, blade held before her. She smiled. “I wish Karpila was here. She’d get a laugh out of me kicking your ass!”

“Or she would cry, as her friend struggles in futility,” Volsten said, readying as well. Melridge’s stance was typical of a woman raised in the kingdom’s middle. Ardent taught that every style was deadly, and that it was the wielder that mattered. In that case, he had no fear.

Sir Richard held up a hand. “On my mark. Begin!”

His hand fell.

They approached each other. Alexandria was sure of herself. She knew how to hold her blade, at least. This would be far harder than bandits in the forest.

They were within a sword length. Alexandria couldn’t wait; she lunged at him. It was a predictable strike, easily countered, but her tunic was far too short. Her breasts swayed with abandon as she moved, and Volsten’s eyes found them to be a terrible distraction. He moved aside, letting her soar past him.

The wind was evident. She had put much into that.

Reorienting herself, she came at him again, but this time Volsten’s eyes were disciplined. The opening was clear, and he took it, extending his wooden blade into hers. Her eyes widened at his move, and he unbalanced her. She stumbled. Volsten chased, and lightly touched his weapon into her chest, just above the soft white skin of her left breast.

She swatted it away, but Sir Richard’s shout halted her. “A point to Sir Volsten. Please, reset.”

Melridge’s jaw dropped as she looked at her father. “Bullshit!”

“A fine display,” Sir Richard said, ignoring his huffing daughter. “A duelist indeed.”

Volsten bowed, his sword arm extended. “I do aim to please.”

They were again across from each other in the courtyard. Again Sir Richard set his mark, and released it.

Melridge was more cautious this time on the approach. Each step was slow, but far from calculated. Many preached patience as the key to dueling. And, in certain situations, it was. But this was false patience on her part. Her body was wound tight, like a coil, ready to snap at a moment’s notice.

Volsten stepped. He had no intention of striking, but Melridge was too eager. She swung with force enough to blow his hair backwards.

But air was all she found, and his blade was soon on the chiseled surface of her stomach.

Another point for him. In truth, this was far easier than he expected. It was somewhat disappointing. He hadn’t faced a knight in a duel in sometime, so the chance to have a rousing duel had excited him. What he went up against was a sloppy, impatient woman, too ready to cleave his head from his shoulders. The enthusiasm was admirable, if a bit disturbing, but made for poor swordsmanship.

Melridge fumed across from him. The servants were talking among themselves, their faces ones of surprise and awe. Mian was there, her arms crossed in disapproval. What a prudish wench she was given how her people were in their homeland. Faith had done a number on the poor woman. He thought of blowing a kiss for no other reason than to fluster. That would be poor behavior.

“Why can’t I fucking hit you?” Melridge all but screamed.

Volsten had no idea if she meant for the question to be answered. “It’s the footwork, you see. I don’t think you took your father’s lessons to heart.” He shifted in his stance. To the unknowing, it was a dance. To a duelist, it was a dance, but one with deadly implications.

If looks could kill, Melridge would have sent him to the goddess then and there.

“You’re too angry, honey,” Sir Richard offered. “You aren’t remembering much of what I taught you. Does Sir Volsten affect you so much that reason has no room?”

“DADDY!” she shouted. “Start the next round!”

Mark set and released.

Melridge held her sword as if she wanted to break it, and to do so over his head. He let a small laugh escape. It was increasingly clear that she had little experience with pure dueling. Why she agreed to such a duel, and with such conviction, was a mystery.

She had taken offense to his small bout of amusement. He hadn’t intended to mock her, but it was clear that she thought the opposite. As soon as they were within range, she yelled, and unleashed a flurry of strikes.

Volsten blocked each unruly blow, but not with ease. Each strike rattled his arm, and it was a wonder that the swords didn’t catch fire. Goddess, how is this woman so powerful?

He stepped backwards, blade lowered. Melridge swung from the top, and with a mighty upwards arc, he parried her blade to the side. His sword slipped over her recovering arm and touched tip to chest.

There was silence in the garden, as if the birds and insects and the city itself waited.

He and Melridge stared at each other, sweating dripping from them both on this terribly hot day. It rolled gently down Melridge’s neck and upper chest before sloping away over the fine curves of her bosom. If only her face was as pleasant.

It was clear that the morsel of human in her kept him alive at that moment.

“Round-and duel-to Sir Volsten,” Sir Richard announced.

Melridge swatted the sword away from her chest, then stomped over to her father, who squinted in the noon sun.

“I am most grateful for the duel, my lady,” Volsten said with a bow. “It was invigorating, to say the least.” And disappointing, he thought. If she was the guild’s idea of a great knight, then he shuddered at the state of them.

“We go again,” she said, loud enough for them all to hear, though she had eyes only for her father.

“Only if our knight friend agrees,” he said. “The winner can’t be forced by the loser. And you did lose, dear.”

“I KNOW!” she shouted into the sky. “No rules this time. Anything goes!”

“I…” Sir Richard bit his lip. “I don’t think that’s fair.”

Melridge glanced towards him. “Tell him you agree, Bandages!”

Volsten wiped his face. “Volsten, you mean. And I see no reason why not. I would enjoy teaching you more.”

Melridge’s face changed from a scowl to a smirk in an instant. “See, Daddy? He wants to!”

Sir Richard looked at him, and this was the first time he’d seen genuine concern on the man’s face. “I implore you to not do that. My daughter is a formidable fighter, and this will not be a normal duel.”

“Will there at least be swords?” Volsten asked. His fear of Melridge was little to begin with. After that display, he found her downright harmless.

“Yes!” Melridge answered eagerly.

“Then I must accept.”

Sir Richard shook his head. “The conditions of victory are the same as the duel, then.” He turned an eye to his daughter. “My only rule is that no one is seriously injured.”

“Of course, Daddy.”

Volsten’s stomach was uneasy. Melridge’s mood had changed suddenly, to a happiness he didn’t know she was capable of. He stamped the uneasiness into dust. Had he not beaten her soundly with the blade? Nothing she knew could close the gulf between their skills.

She took up her stance across from him.

Sir Richard raised his hand. “Are you sure about this, Sir Volsten? If you would like to retire now, I would allow it.”

Why is this man so concerned? Volsten thought with annoyance. Had he not seen the convincing loss he’d given his daughter? Perhaps that was the thing. He didn’t wish to see her lose again. “There will be none of that,” Volsten said. “She’s a strong-willed woman, and I’d hate to deny her.”

The hand fell. They met in the middle, and it seemed all was as before.

Then, she swung. Not quite in range to reach him, and Volsten thought she’d gone mad.

Flames erupted in the air, following the sword’s path. Volsten stumbled backwards, but the flames were upon him in an instant. He held his arms up in a futile attempt to stop it, but just as quickly as they appeared, the flames vanished.

The next thing he felt was a wooden tip shoved roughly against his chest.

“A point for my lovely daughter,” Sir Richard said.

“Bullshit!” Volsten shouted.

“You agreed to this, Bandages,” Melridge said as she backed to her side of the courtyard. “All of that sword bullshit doesn’t mean anything in a real fight, now does it?”

“Language!” Sir Richard warned.

“Sorry, Daddy!”

Volsten rubbed at his forearms. They hadn’t been burned, but the heat he felt was incredible. No hearth was as hot as that. “I feel that the guild has warped your sense of what a real fight is.”

“Hmph.” Melridge wiped at the sweat collecting on her forehead. “Another round.”

Stance. Mark. Release.

Volsten had no idea what to do with her now. Dueling was a normal man’s game. Ardent rejected users of magic, no matter how talented or interested they were in dueling. It was never discussed. They were never told how to handle a person who wielded blade and spell alike. He was sure that the lesson would be one taught in the church. They would have to pray.

But it was more than that. She was no duelist, but he could tell that her skills were beyond what she showed earlier. Even without magic, she should have put up a better fight.

Volsten found himself under the heat of another wall of flames. He stepped to the side of this one, only to find that another was well behind it, crossed like a ‘t’. The heat was scorching, and he stumbled backwards. By the time he regained himself, Melridge’s blade pressed against the fabric over his stomach.

The servants clapped. Funny how the bastards cared not when he won. Then again, if his mistress was this beast, he’d be afraid of not capitulating at every possible moment.

Volsten sighed as Sir Richard awarded the point to his daughter. All vestiges of frustration and anger had left Melridge’s face, replaced with a knowing smile that made Volsten rise to near rage.

“A woman who is nothing without her magic,” Volsten spat at her. He’d wanted the words to be calm and piercing. They sounded like a sore child’s.

“Do you say that about everyone that kicks your ass? Did you tell the dragon it would be nothing without the strength of ten men? Would you tell a demon the same?”

Volsten made a low sound in his throat. Goddess be praised these were not swords of steel.

“Are we ready for the next round?” her father asked.

“Always, Daddy.”

Volsten said nothing, but raised his sword nonetheless. This next round would be his. Somehow.

Sir Richard gave his signal, and they both darted forward. Volsten was on her. He would give her no time to play with fire. This time, however, her defense was improved. They clashed several times, but it was a matter of time before he found an opening. He thrust towards that glistening chest of hers. Her offhand flicked.

His sword caught fire, from tip to hilt. With a yell he released the flaming wood, letting it drop to the ground. Melridge’s sword jabbed into his throat and forced him backwards until he fell.

Volsten coughed and sputtered. The bitch had tried to kill him!

“That’s too far, dear!” Sir Richard said sternly.

“Sorry, Daddy. I got excited.” She walked over to him with a lightness in her step until eventually she towered over him, hands on her hips. An intriguing angle if one liked to stare at the sweaty underside of breasts. “I think you get my point now.”

He took a few tentative breaths. His throat felt two sizes too small. “No…I can’t say that I do.”

Annoyance colored her features. “I went easy on you, and you couldn’t even touch me. It’s no wonder you don’t bother with the guild. You’re far too weak to be of any use to us.”

“Clearly,” he said, clearing his throat, “you’ve forgotten about our first duel.”

“I haven’t,” she said. “Dueling is dead for a reason. Who cares that you’re good enough to win a stupid fight with stupid rules? Being a knight isn’t about sport. Protecting people isn’t a game to entertain bored noblemen.”

“If you think that’s all it is, then you know less than nothing about it.”

“I know enough to say that I have no respect for anyone who claims to be a knight by right of their blade. You’re all fucking useless.” She left him there, as did the servants. They all gathered about their mistress, doting over her as if he’d ran a sword through her heart.

Volsten thought another servant passed him, but this one stopped and offered a hand. It was no servant. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such beautiful motions,” Sir Richard said.

“I try,” Volsten said, taking the offered hand and rising.

“I’m terribly sorry about my Alex’s mouth. She’s got very strong beliefs, you see.”

Volsten kept his mouth shut. The word ‘bitch’ pressed against his lips.

“I’d actually like to discuss something with you later on, after teatime.”

Volsten raised a brow. Sir Richard’s voice put him in the mind of secrets. “Of course.”

Sir Richard placed a hand on his shoulder and followed the crowd of servants inside. Volsten lingered for a moment. His eyes were drawn to the smoldering ashes that had once been a sword.