Mevralaud tries to open his eyes in the dark.  The effort feels tremendous. His head feels as though a thousand Gheysharran drums were pounding inside. He tries again, this time slowly and realizes the darkness is not him; the room was near pitch black.  The only light came via the scant moonlight from the window in the far corner.

        That should not be.

        Where were the delightful sisters, Cheriana and Charliana? What happened to the fire that blazed so hotly in the hearth before? It was put out somewhat recently for the room was still warm.

        Instinct alone made him lay still in the dark.

        Instinct alone made him listen to what he could not see.

        Instinct alone told him he is not alone in the room.

        And instinct alone saves him, as the all too familiar sound of swinging steel gives him the warning needed to roll away from the blade crashing down to take his very life.

        He is fully awake now.

        Mevral feels the air of the blade brush his skin as he dives from the bed.

        Barely dodging another attack, he slides on what he knew had to be blood before he trips over a body and finds the unfortunate answer to his question of the sisters, as he crashes into a table along the wall.

        The table.

        Mevralaud has his full bearings now.

        He slides under the table, coming out from the other side swinging on the pure instinct alone as broadsword meets broadsword.

        Noise erupts from outside the room and Mevral cannot help but grimace at the familiar bellow that comes with it. Amrieux was immersed in his own fierce battle from the sound of it, doing everything in his might to get to his best friend and DarkraSeci.

        Lyshiar! If it had not registered before, it hits Mevralaud like a physical blow now.

        This is an assassination attempt!

        He has only one question, but dares not ask for fear of the answer.

        Though Mevralaud has yet to fight his first full on battle of war, warrior instinctively understands warrior and he knows no words will be spoken between the two of them.

        The assassin steps up his pace with a furious volley of attacks, throwing Mevralaud off balance.

        Ydarkra! Sparks fly as metal slids against metal.

        The continuous clang of their respective swords is near deafening as both men fight hard.

        Whoever this assassin may be, he was good!

        Mevral feels as though he is moving through sludge and can barely keep pace with the assassin’s attacks. He understands now why Charliana insisted he try the new ale the barkeep created. It was just as well that she was likely the body he tripped over; it spared having to kill her himself once this was over.

        Mevralaud misses a parry and pays for it dearly when the assassin brings the flat of his sword down hard on Mevral’s wrist.  The shock of it runs straight up Mevral’s arm, numbing him and he drops his sword. The assassin swings quickly and Mevralaud swerves, the blade tip catching him just under his jaw.

        First blood.

        Mevral drops to the floor and rolls.  Hearing the assassin right behind him, he kicks out hard.

        The satisfaction of hearing the breath leave the assassin’s body as it hits the floor is only temporary. He cannot get to the dropped sword and back on his feet fast enough.

        Mevralaud hears the whoosh of the assassin’s blade just as he takes his own sword in both hand and swings.

        Blindly.

        Wildly.

        Desperately.

        The two swords swinging in opposite arcs pass each other by a hairsbreadth.  He could sense the assassin’s surprise at what both knew should have been Mevralaud’s death.

        Instead, it grazes across Mevral’s chest drawing blood.

        Mevralaud was slow, but not slow enough.

        The assassin was fast.

        But not fast enough.

        Mevralaud, with the longer arm reach, cuts true.

        The assassin acknowledges his death with a nod to the better man, dropping his sword.

        There is an eerie silence as Mevralaud completes his swing, drawing his broadsword through, letting the body fall.

        “Lyshiar!” Amrieux crashes through the door, with others of Mevralaud’s cadre right behind him flooding the room with light, just as the body landed.

        Mevralaud stands and looks around the room. Both sisters were naked, their throats cut, their golden beauty, now a ghastly shell of their former selves, lying in pooled blood. The small telltale mole on the hip identifying Charliana from her twin looks garish in the sudden light.

        Mevral looks down at the liquid warmth touching his toes. He steps away from the flow, reaching down to remove the hood that covers his would-be-assassin’s face. Amrieux curses at the revelation; the name repeated to those men who cannot see into the room.

        Amrieux, silently signals for the men to stay were they are as he steps into the room, leaving the door only slightly ajar to provide light.

        “Mevralaud?”

        Mevralaud hears his best friend, but cannot speak. He simply shakes his head.

        The light catches something glittering in the corner.

        His sword.

        Not the sword he currently holds, snatched from its hidden spot in a specially carved groove under the table, in case it was ever needed for a time such as this, but his own royal sword, D’Uralaive. Mevral casts aside the sword in hand and goes for his own. It is then he realizes he is naked.

        Amrieux watches as Mevralaud dresses quickly, but silently.

        It is a deadly silence.

        Fully dressed, Mevralaud touches his own sword, at last. The sword given to him by his father when he reached of age two reaagons ago, its jewels and carving so familiar to him as he unsheathes it. He turns and faces his best friend, D’Uralaive extended directly in front of him.

        Amrieux immediately falls to one knee as he calls out to the men in the hall. The door opens wide and, they follow suit.

        “My Darkran,” Amrieux bows his head solemnly, “we must go.”

        Mevral wants to fall to his knees and roar in grief at the confirmation.

        He cannot; there is no time.

        Instead, he orders the body of the assassin brought with them as he sheaths his royal sword, then picks up the one he cast aside and hangs it from his opposite side. He will continue to fight with that sword for as long as possible. He promises himself D’Uralaive’s first kill by him will be in vengeance of his father.

        Amrieux called him Darkran.

        My Darkran.

        The unasked question, answered; his father was dead.

        Mevralaud the DarkraSeci is now Darkran Mevralaud Takrioh Ydarkra Rohn.

        He just has to live long enough get back home and claim his throne.

        “We ride!”

>==========<
Just a little fiction, just because I was dared to write a sword fight scene several years ago. I finally started seriously expanding on this last year when I challenged my self to do NaNoWriMo. I am no where near finished with this, but I may post more scenes here and there. Or I may not.