Morgan Rice - A Rule of Queens

The persistent sounds of his swordplay filled the air, and while his neighbors yelled out to complain, he didn’t stop. He didn’t care. He would slash away the day’s memories, every day’s memories, until he was spent with exhaustion.

Darius heard the occasional bark at his feet, and he did not need to look down to know it was Dray, the neighbor’s dog, sitting loyally by his side, watching him as he always did, barking and getting excited as Darius struck the target. A medium-size dog with scarlet hair that grew too long, like his master’s untamed hair, Dray had unofficially become Darius’s dog long ago. He belonged to one of the neighbors, but whoever owned it had stopped feeding it long ago. Darius had encountered Dray whining one day, and had given him one of his scarce meals. Ever since, Darius had had a friend for life. Since that day, they had developed a ritual: Dray watched Darius fight, and Darius ate only half of his dinner, giving the other half to Dray. Dray rewarded him by always seeking out his company, especially when he was at home, sometimes even sleeping in his cottage.

Dray lunged forward and bit the bamboo, playing along with Darius’s imagination, snarling and tearing at in imaginary enemy, as if it were a true foe coming for Darius. Darius often wondered what would happen if he faced an enemy with Dray at his side. Like Darius, Dray was not the biggest of the bunch, or the strongest, or the most loved. But he had a great heart, and he was the most loyal animal in the universe. Over the last few moons, he had even taken to sleeping curled up before Darius’s door, snarling if Darius’s grandfather even dared to approach.

“Are you tired of swinging at sticks?” came a voice.

Darius looked over to see Raj and Desmond standing there, each holding long wooden swords, looking back with a mischievous grin.

Darius stopped, breathing hard, wondering; they lived on the other side of the village and had never come by his cottage before.

“It’s time you sparred with men ,” Desmond said, his voice dark, serious. “If you strive to become a warrior, you are going to need to hit targets that hit back.”

Darius was surprised and grateful that they had stopped by. They were several classes older than him, much bigger and stronger, and well respected amongst the boys. They had many older, stronger boys to spar with.

“Why would you waste your time on me?” Darius asked.

“Because my sword needs sharpening,” Desmond said. “And you look like a good target.”

Desmond charged for Darius, and Darius held up his wooden sword and at the last minute, blocked the blow. It was a mighty blow, strong enough to shake his hands and arms, and to send him stumbling back several feet.

Darius, caught off guard, saw Desmond standing there, waiting for him.

Darius raised his sword and lunged forward, slashing down. Desmond blocked it easily. Darius kept swinging, slashing left and right, again and again, and the click-clacks of their wooden swords filled the air. He was thrilled to have a real, moving target, even if he could not overpower the bigger and stronger Desmond.

Dray snarled and barked at Raj and Desmond, running alongside Darius, snapping at Desmond’s heels.

“You’re quick,” Desmond said, between blows. “I will give you that. But you don’t use it to your advantage. You’re not half as strong as I—and yet you fight as if you’re trying to cut through me. You cannot fight a man my size. Fight as if you’re your size. Be quick and nimble. Not strong and direct.”

Darius swung with all his might and Desmond stepped back, and Darius went circling through the air, stumbling forward, landing on the ground.

Darius looked up and saw Desmond standing over him, reaching out, giving him a hand, pulling him up.

“You fight for the kill,” Desmond said. “Sometimes you just need to fight to survive. Let your opponent fight for the kill. If you are patient, if you avoid him, and watch him, he will overreach; he will expose himself.”

“You’d be surprised at how easy it is to kill a man,” said Raj, coming over. “You don’t need a strong blow—just a precise one. I believe it’s my turn.”

Raj raised his sword high, aiming for Darius’s head, and Darius spun, raised his sword sideways, and barely blocked the blow. Then Raj leaned back, put his foot in Darius’s chest, and shoved him, and Darius stumbled backwards.

Dray barked and barked, snarling at Raj.

“That’s not fair,” Darius said, indignant. “This is a swordfight!”

“Fair!?” Raj yelled out with derisive laughter. “Tell that to your enemy after he has stabbed you between the legs and you lay dying. This is combat—and in combat all is fair!”

Raj swung his sword again, before Darius was ready, and he knocked the sword from Darius’s hands. Raj then dropped to the ground, swung his legs, and kicked out Darius’s knees from under him.

Darius, not expecting it, landed hard on his back in a cloud of dust, winded; Raj then pulled a wooden dagger out of nowhere, dropped down, and held it to Darius’s throat.

Darius conceded, raising his hands, pinned to the ground.

“Again, unfair!” Darius complained. “You cheated. You pulled a hidden dagger. These are not honorable actions.”

Dray rushed forward, snarling, and leaned in close to Raj’s face, showing his teeth, close enough to make Raj drop his dagger, raise his hands, and slowly get up.

Raj roared with laughter as he jumped to his feet, grabbed Darius, and pulled him up.

“What is honor?” Raj said. “Honor is what we, the victors, name it to be. When you are dead, there is no honor.”

“What is battle without honor?” Darius said.

“He who speaks of honor is he who never lost,” Desmond said. “Lose once, lose a leg, an arm, a loved one—and you will think twice of honor next time you face your foe on the field. Surely, he is not thinking of honor. He is thinking of winning. Of life. Whatever the cost.”

“You’d be surprised how much a man is willing to throw away—including honor—when he is staring death in the face,” Desmond said.

“I would rather die with honor,” Darius countered, defiant, “than live in dishonor.”

“Wouldn’t we all,” Desmond said. “Yet what you think and what you do in a moment of life and death do not always match.”

Raj stepped forward and shook his head.

“You are young yet,” Raj said. “Naïve. What you still don’t see is that honor comes in victory. And victory comes in expecting everything. Even dishonorable actions. You can fight with honor if you choose. If you are able. But don’t expect your enemy to.”

Darius thought about that—when suddenly a strident voice cut through the air, interrupting him.

“DARIUS!” yelled the harsh voice.

Darius turned to see his grandfather standing at the door of his cottage, scowling down at him. “I don’t want you with these boys!” he snapped. “Get inside now!”

Darius scowled back.

“These are my friends,” Darius said.

“They’re trouble,” Darius’s grandfather replied. “Inside now!”

Darius turned to Raj and Desmond apologetically.

“I’m sorry,” Darius said. He felt bad, as he’d truly enjoyed fighting with them. He already felt his skills sharpened from just their small bout, and he wanted to fight again.

“Tomorrow,” Raj said, “after training.”

“And every day after that,” Desmond said. “We are going to make a warrior out of you.”

They turned to go, and Darius realized he’d made two close friends in the group for the first time. Older friends, great fighters. He wondered again why they’d taken an interest in him. Was it because of what he’d done for Loti? Or was it something else?