No Man’s Slave

I challenged the leader of my mercenary guild to a duel. The prize: his place as chief.

It had not been my idea. For weeks, a handful of the others who had gathered at my fire whispered in my ear. They spoke of the chief’s cruelty, his excess, the way he hoarded the best and safest contracts for his favorites. They spoke of my skill with a blade, how I had earned more respect in two years than men who had served for ten. They spoke of change.

The others formed a ring around us, their jeers and laughter pressing in from all sides. I searched the crowd for the faces of the those who had urged me here. I found them near the back, watching with expressions I could not read. I told myself it was anticipation. I rolled my shoulders and drew my blade, raising it towards my companions, then fell into a stance I had practiced a thousand times. Their words continued to whisper in my mind, bolstering me, making me feel light on my feet. I was to be the wind, the storm, the fury. I was certain of it.

Across from me, the chief stood with arms folded, watching me with the same expression a man might give a dog that had learned a new trick.

“Whenever you’re ready, boy,” he said. He had not yet drawn his weapon.

I moved first. A quick thrust aimed at his chest, the kind of strike that had ended men twice my size. He sidestepped without urgency, letting my blade pass within inches of his ribs. Before I could recover, his hand shot out and cuffed me across the back of the head. Laughter erupted from the circle.

I spun, slashing wildly. He swayed back, then forward, inside my guard before I could react. His knee drove into my stomach and I doubled over, gasping. When I swung again it was desperate, graceless. He caught my wrist, twisted, and my blade tumbled into the dirt.

“Pick it up,” he said, stepping back. Still no weapon drawn. “I’ll wait.”

My fingers closed around the hilt. I rose, circling now, trying to find an opening that did not exist. He moved like water, effortless, every motion exactly as large as it needed to be and no larger. I feinted left, struck right. He batted my blade aside with his forearm, the edge skidding off a metal bracer hidden beneath his sleeve.

Arms raised up in a boxer’s guard, the chief hopped from foot to foot, surprisingly light on his feet given his size. I let him think I was more exhausted than I was. I drew deep breaths and let my wrist sag slightly, the point of my sword dipping. Before he could respond I launched at him with sudden ferocity. Another thrust, closing the distance, this time aimed for the stomach. Again, he stepped to the side at the last moment, the blade harmlessly passing through the air where he was. Then his fist connected with my nose with a crunch.

I wheeled, the world tipping sideways as I toppled to the ground, blood spattering the packed earth. Cheers rose from the onlookers. Arm held wide, the chief turned around slowly, basking in the acclamation and whoops. I growled, hand curling around the hilt of my sword tightly. Rising from the ground again, I prodded lightly at my nose and winced. My fingers came away slick with blood. Broken.

The chief slowly turned to face me again, hands on hips. “It is done. You are dead, two times over,” he called out, voice booming over the jeers of the crowd, “When you face a true opponent, remember to keep better hold of your weapon.”

Raucous laughter erupted from the crowd. Hoots and hollers filled the air.

“I do not yield.” I said. Warm blood dripped down my face, falling from my chin to paint the ground with my pain.

Bemused the chief spoke, “Don’t be a fool. We stop this charade now. Before you get hurt.”

“I. Do. Not. Yield.” I said between gritted teeth. I grasped the blade in two hands and lowered into a battle stance, feet apart, eyes trained on the chief.

Focus

The sounds of the crowd drew away, the wind quieted. The stinging pain in my nose ebbed. My grip on the hilt tightened, vision narrowing until nothing but the contest remained. Time slowed to a trickle, each moment seeming to stretch into infinity. I locked eyes with the chief, eyes narrowed. Something in my expression must have seemed different. The chief frowned and set his feet in a wide stance, knees bent slightly.

Move

I flashed forward, blade already moving in an upward arc. The chief pitched backwards, the blade sliding past his chin, but only by a hair. In this strange slow-time, I saw his eyes widen in what might have been surprise or shock. I pressed forward, throwing everything into a flurry of strikes—each one faster than the last. The chief stepped to my left to avoid my thrust, but left himself unguarded. My fist drove up and into his stomach, sending him staggering back. I continued the assault, stepping forward with each swing, forcing him to retreat. I struck left, then right, his eyes barely able to follow the flowing path of my blade. The edge whipped past his chest, then was turned away by his steel vambraces, now revealed through slashes in his sleeves. Though he continued to avoid my sword he was running out of luck and out of space to maneuver. Before long it would be over. A laugh escaped me then, sharp and disbelieving. I was the wind. I was the storm. I was the—

Metal sang from its scabbard. Steel met steel with a sharp trill that rang through the evening air, sparks flying in all directions. We stood locked, blade to blade, close enough that I could smell last night’s wine on his breath. He pressed down on me, using his superior weight and height to his advantage. My back foot slipped slightly, but somehow I managed to set it right. I kept my grip steady even as the muscles in my shoulders and arms began to scream in protest.

Then he locked eyes with me. His face split into a terrible lipless smile that did not reach his eyes. Cold, dead eyes without mercy or compassion. For a moment, just one, I felt my courage slip. My breath caught in my throat, knees buckling slightly under his impossible strength.

Then his knee drove into my side, just below the ribs. Air exploded from my lungs and my grip weakened. He wrenched his sword free, sending me stumbling backward toward the edge of the ring. I stood there for a moment, back to the crowd, watching the chief. His posture relaxed, he eyed me lazily, as one might watch a street performer. He held his blade in one hand, point towards the ground. A boot from behind connected with me hard, sending me sprawling forward. I spun to snarl at whoever had pushed me, fists raised.

In that moment of distraction, the chief closed the distance. His hand clamped around my throat, lifted me off my feet, the sword slipping from my grasp and clattering to the earth. With barely more than a flick of the wrist he flung me across the ring like a sack of grain. I hit the ground hard and rolled, dirt filling my mouth, the air driven from my lungs in a single violent rush.

I tried to rise. My arms would not obey. The sky swam above me, shapes moving at its edges. When my vision cleared, I found the chief standing over me, blade point resting against the hollow of my throat.

“Yield,” he said. Not a question.

The word tasted like ash, but I spoke it.

He smiled and sheathed his blade. Then he leaned down, close enough that only I could hear. “Brave,” he murmured. “Stupid, but brave. We’ll make something of you yet.”

He straightened and turned away, already laughing with the others. I remained where I had fallen, knees in the dirt, eyes cast down to the ground. Shame and anger grew as twin flames in my chest. Around me, the crowd began to disperse, their entertainment concluded.

Then the laughter stopped. Footsteps approached. The chief’s shadow fell over me once more.

“Look at me,” he commanded. I remained frozen, eyes focused on the stone between his feet. A rough hand grabbed my chin, wrenching my face up to meet his. His eyes were slate grey, hard, without a hint of remorse. “When I speak, you listen,” he said quietly. “Here, my word is your law, your scripture, your truth. Do you understand?”

I held his gaze, shoulders high, back straight. My jaw clenched, breath hissing through my teeth. Every muscle screamed to pull away, to strike, to reject his command. Blood continued to drip from my mangled nose, running down my face and onto his arm and hand. His mouth twisted into a smirk. His grip tightened ever so slightly - not enough to hurt, just enough to remind. Remind of my place. And his. The fight went out of me. I nodded slowly.

His smirk widened into a full smile, “Good”, he said, drawing a large knife from a scabbard at his belt. “Now let this be a lesson on your place.” He lifted the blade in front of my face, my own reflection staring back at me from its metallic sheen. “And of my mercy.”

My eyes widened in horror. I quickly began to rise to my feet, but before I could flee a booted foot collided with the back of my knees, sending me back to the ground. Someone twisted my arms and pinned them to my back, the joints crying out in pain. I struggled against the hands for a moment, then sagged into them, falling still. A hand gathered up a handful of my hair and yanked my head back up to look at the chief.

“Make sure to scream,” a voice said next to my ear, breath hot and stinking of rot, “The boss likes it when they scream.”

Cool grey metal pressed against my temple. A trickle of red warmth dripped down my face. Slowly, he applied more pressure, the blade sinking into the soft flesh. Even slower still, he dragged the blade down, carving a path from temple to chin.

I screamed.

When he was satisfied with his handiwork the knife withdrew. The hands retreated and I collapsed to the ground, face pressed into dirt that drank my blood eagerly. I could hear the others dispersing, jokes and laughs passing between them as I curled into myself. Someone spat. A boot nudged my ribs, not hard enough to bruise, just enough to remind me that I was nothing. Then footsteps retreated, voices faded, until I was alone on the field. No hands came to lift me up, no worried faces swam into view. I was certain that no one would share my fire that night.

I lay there for a long time. The fire in my face dulled to a deep throb that pulsed with each heartbeat. Blood cooled against my cheek tacky and thick, mingling with the dirt until I could not tell where one ended and the other began. Above me, the sky darkened from orange to purple to black. Stars emerged, indifferent.

At some point, I realized I had not wept. Not from strength. The tears simply would not come. Something in me had gone quiet, drawn inward like a creature retreating into its shell. I searched for the shame I had felt kneeling before the chief. Gone. The anger too had changed, cooling from fire into something harder. Denser. Patient. Anger was a tool, one I had stoked and swung like a torch. But where had it gotten me before? The marks of the whip against my back brushed against the rough cloth of the inside of my shirt. I placed a hand atop the spear wound at my side, it still ached even now. Wounds, constant painful reminders.

I pressed my palm into the dirt and pushed myself upright. The world swam for a moment, then steadied. I touched my face and my fingers came away dark and wet. The wound would scar badly. I would wear his mark for the rest of my life. Another reminder.

But as I sat there in the silence, a certainty settled into my chest like a stone sinking into still water.

He had made a mistake.

He thought the scar would remind me of my place. Instead, it would remind me of his. Of the way his eyes had held no fear when he cut me. Of how easily he had turned away, already forgetting me.

He would not forget me again.

I was no man’s slave.