A Perverted Path to Victory

Evie Brown

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Every duel had layers. This was true of every form of conflict, from marital disagreements to grand sieges, but in Evie’s opinion, it was the duel which could claim the greatest degree of complexity. A duel, or more specifically a formal duel, was not a simple conflict. In Sporatos, duels were the climactic product of two individuals who had so deeply insulted the other’s honor that there was no recourse available to them save violence. A duel did not begin with the crossing of blades or the dropping of a hanky. It began far, far earlier, with the prodding of socialite sensibilities and half-hidden motivations.

In this instance, as Evie took her place some fifteen paces away from Mayaran, she spent the brief preparatory time analyzing not her opponent, but the circumstances which led to their conflict. Duels, when they occurred off the battlefield, were inherently political affairs.

Why did Master arrange this conflict?

The simplest and most obvious answer was that which Master had already stated: it was practice. Evie hadn’t faced a mage in single combat since her mother had forbidden her illicit training sessions with the Knight’s Eye, and it was a challenge she’d sorely missed.

If that was the case, however, Evie did not think Master would have chosen an elf as her opponent. Mayaran was a highly successful combat mage, almost certainly the most competent in the First Imperial Blackpowder Army, and had a considerable likelihood of winning the bout. Further, Mayaran had, on two occasions now, subtly aligned herself against Master’s interests. Not overtly, of course, but she nonetheless had deliberately utilized her station in society to undermine Master’s agenda. It was one thing for Master to have her decisions honestly criticized, as she held any Imperial who dared to do so in high esteem, but it was another entirely to bring doubt to her motivations themselves. Mayaran clearly did not agree with the introduction of blackpowder weaponry, and had thus far dedicated considerable effort towards developing spells which nullified their advantages.

In some respects this was wise; her Empire’s enemies would inevitably produce a great deal of muskets, and mages such as Mayaran would be required to adapt. Yet, rather than speak of how she could use her spells to aid the Imperial Army, she seemed determined to prove her personal superiority over the Powdered Lead in particular.

Master doubtlessly had a better read on the situation than Evie. If they’d had more time to prepare, Evie would have spent a great deal of time asking after the motivation for this “practice” bout. What Master wished to achieve with it could be many things. Did she wish to humble Mayaran? Prove Evie’s prowess before the Imperials? Study the spellforms Mayaran used so she might replicate them or describe them for the University of Tulian? Measure a prospective enemy’s strength? Perhaps she wanted to use Mayaran’s spells to predict possible Sporaton firearm countermeasures? The list went on, and Evie wouldn’t have the chance to discuss it further.

Thankfully, she knew her Master well, and Master understood her in turn. In only the most dire of circumstances would Master not expect Evie to fully exert herself. Capitulation on the field of battle, unless explicitly ordered, would never be expected of her.

Thus, she concluded, the political impetus which prompted the duel was irrelevant. Her task was simple:

Win.

With the political aspects of the duel confirmed in her mind, Evie began studying her opponent. Mayaran was an idealized portrait of what a combat mage should be. Her voluminous robes glittered with enchanted gemstone dust, preferring— unlike the mages Evie had trained against in the Knight’s Eye, who wore true armor— the traditional garb of a spellcaster. Most mages eschewed protective steel in favor of the flexibility of enchanted robes, allowing for a more adaptive set of defenses. Under Graf’s command, the Knight’s Eye were unique in expecting their mages to be front-line combatants, not deeply-sheltered specialists. Ordering his spellcasters to take risks was a luxury afforded to Graf only because he, unlike the nobility, did not rely on mages for tasks outside of battle.

How well protected will she be, then? Evie wondered. Mage’s robes possessed an impossible degree of variation in their enchantments, with most practitioners intentionally disguising their designs from prospective opponents. Evie, who lacked magical senses, quickly concluded she had no hope of predicting the weakness of Mayaran’s defenses.

Her offensive capabilities, then.

This, too, was something Evie lacked knowledge of. Mayaran had thus far acted defensively in both battle and training, summoning shields to defend others. Normally, Evie would assume the mage preferred fire as her main offensive element; the psychological effect alone of seeing comrades burning alive was enough to make flames a nearly universal choice for combat mages. A single mage could rout many times their number, so great was the fear they created.

Mayaran would not be using flames, however. Though she’d said it offhandedly, Evie seized upon her earlier comment: ‘so long as I do not put a pillar of ice through your skull, the only consequence you suffer will be pain’.

Few had the wherewithal required to maintain lies while snapping in frustration. Being an insult rattled off in supreme irritation, Evie felt certain Mayaran was going to use ice-based projectiles. It was a common choice for mages who wished to use pure force to overwhelm powerful armors. With the preponderance of enchanted armors on the battlefields of the Empire, it only made sense.

Evie’s continued analysis was interrupted by Master walking up to her. Her wife treated her to an encouraging, cocky grin.

“Alright. From what I’ve heard, Mayaran is-”

Evie held up a hand. “No thank you, Master. I wish to go into this conflict without forewarning of my opponent. You were right. Since the introduction of firearms, I’ve had no opportunities to engage a mage directly. Unless it affects a political plan you have made without my awareness, I would prefer to take this contest honestly.”

Master’s eyebrows raised. “Alright. It’s up to you. Just do your best to win.”

“I can make no assurances. You have pitted me against an elven mage with decades of combat experience. Were it not for your bolstering of my Levels, I would be utterly helpless. Even still, I doubt I can win.”

“Yep. You’re welcome.”

Evie flicked her eyes away from Mayaran. “I do so very much love you, Sara.”

“Love you too, Evie.”

Evie began divesting herself of her firearms, handing each to Master. It was a considerable collection. Her belt held four two-and-a-half pound pistols, alongside several containers of pre-packaged lead ammunition. Her blacksteel Walker revolver weighed four pounds, and it was attached to her custom-commissioned cuirass, a far heavier design than most. Knowing that she would be facing firearms on the battlefield with increasing regularity, Evie had abandoned her old, lightweight cuirass, a traditional form which had encompassed her entire torso, in favor of a far thicker version which covered only the front of her chest. The cuirass, half an inch of steel at its thickest point, could repel any conventional musketball, but that came at the cost of a debilitating forty pounds: more than an entire suit of armor. Topping it all off was the rifle on her back, which weighed nine pounds unloaded, its ammunition adding another three pounds. Altogether, despite being lightly armored, she usually went into battle carrying two-thirds of her bodyweight in equipment. That would not do for this duel.

Once Evie finished divesting herself of everything save her cuirass, Master retreated gracefully, leaving the space between Evie and her opponent clear.

Evie took a deep breath.

And activated her Duelist’s Skills.

The world went black. Every blade of grass, lump of dirt, and stray stone vanished to nothingness. The crowd of eager spectators faded to a pallid, near-invisible gray, becoming a blurry, indistinct mass. The only pieces of the landscape which remained visible to Evie were the few pieces of terrain large enough to be a hazard, such as loose rocks and grass-covered ditches. Her hearing also became dull and muffled, to the point that she could hear her own breath sweeping down her throat and into her lungs, then blowing out past her lips.

This dulling of her senses was not without reward. Her elven opponent became a bonfire of vivid detail, a thousand times more colorful than the empty world around her. At fifteen paces, Evie could track her body as if she were staring from a foot away. She did not have to choose her focus; her eyes focused on every limb simultaneously, observing her chosen opponent in totality. Every rustle of her robes, every twitch of muscle fiber beneath her dark skin, the exact line of her gaze, Evie could see it all.

Without her Master’s help, Evie never would have acquired such a unique set of Skills. A Duelist’s Class was earned only by those who unerringly sought out opponents of equal or greater skill to themselves, then engaged them in single combat. Though Evie may have earned the Class at some point, it was unlikely she would have kept it. A Duelist was not the kind of Class which predisposed one to a long, healthy life.

But Evie’s Class was not, thankfully, that of a pure Duelist. Turning to her right, she looked upon the second flare of color remaining in the world.

Her Class was Supplicant Duelist.

If Mayaran had become the focal point of all the senses Evie had lost, Sara Brown was a lighthouse’s blazing fire on a freshly fallen night. She was not simply resplendent in the manner which came naturally to a Champion of Amarat- she was the central nexus of countless lights, a sea of glittering dots shifting behind her. Evie’s augmented senses did not see the crowd as anything more than blurred, inhuman shapes, but she could see their eyes. Evie was deeply, intensely aware of anyone who had the gall to so much as look upon her Master’s unguarded flanks. The figures in the dark blinked in and out of existence, brightening and darkening as they moved closer or farther away. Evie knew from experience that, should any of them get within a blade’s length of Master, they would be lit as if standing in the center of a lightning bolt. Though few realized it, every person who had ever come within an arm’s length of Master had done so only with Evie’s tacit permission.

“I am ready,” she announced, turning back to Mayaran. “What is the Imperial custom for beginning a duel?”

“This is not a duel,” Mayaran reminded her. “It is a practice bout between allies. As such, you may begin whenever you see-”

Evie launched into a dead sprint, rapier appearing in her left hand. To her credit, Mayaran did not waste breath on surprise. Her hands shot up fast as a snake, lips forming an incantation.

Evie raised her rapier overhead and, with all the force she could muster, threw it.

Mayaran’s eyes flashed in surprise as the silver steel whirled toward her. One hand broke off its twitching to make a flicking gesture, a wordless spell knocking the blade off-course.

The conflict occurred at the pace only Irregulars were capable of. Evie had closed twenty feet in a fraction of a second, a few short feet away from lunging distance, when Mayaran finished her spell.

The air formed crystalline clouds above the mage. A gust of wind unlike anything nature had ever produced ripped out of the miniature thunderhead, billowing out Mayaran’s robes as she thrust her hands forward.

An agonizingly bitter wind ripped across Evie’s skin, pelting her with razor-sharp shards of ice. Her forward momentum was entirely arrested in an instant, and she began to wheel backward, the blood of her wounds freezing before it had time to be flung off her skin.

Evie dropped to her stomach, summoning her rapier in the same motion that she thrust downward, impaling it into the soil. She was pinned in place, but she was no longer being blown backward.

One of Mayaran’s hands went up, a new word forming on her lips. The wind did not abate as the cloud above her head began to collapse, a long, frozen spike floating in midair.

The instant before the pillar of ice shot forward, Evie threw herself into a rightward roll, drawing her belt knife as she went. Mayaran’s aim adjusted itself, tracking Evie, but the mage failed to account for the sudden release of Evie’s grip, which had her scraping backward across the soil.

Shards of ice exploded a mere foot above Evie, lacerating the top of her head and bouncing off her armored shoulders. She stabbed the ground once more with her knife, preventing herself from losing further ground.

Over a full second had passed. Another ice spike began to form over Mayaran’s head, but it was not taking shape as quickly as the first. Casting two spells at once was not something that could be sustained for long. The brutal wind began to slacken.

With an effort that had her joints screaming in protest, Evie dragged herself to all fours. Using her dagger as one might an icepick, she began clawing her way forward, steadily gaining ground as Mayaran’s wind-driven spell began to fail.

The second spear of ice launched. Evie pushed off with her legs as if she were diving into a lake, barely avoiding an impalement. The frozen pillar embedded itself several feet into the soil with a ground-shaking thump.

Not holding back all that much after all, are you, Mayaran?

Evie’s rapier flashed itself into her hand as she charged against the wind. She’d almost closed the distance. A few feet more and she’d run the woman through.

Mayaran knew it. Her fingers twisted into new arcane symbols, abandoning the wind. Evie threw herself at the mage with all her might.

Only to find herself sailing up and over the woman. She twisted, trying to prepare herself to land, only to be nearly overwhelmed with nausea. She flailed helplessly in midair, the blackened world spinning senselessly around her.

If Evie had been anyone else, the duel would have been over. She wouldn’t have been able to understand what was happening to her. She could not tell up from down, left from right, and any movement of her body served only to disorient her further. It was as alien a sensation as she’d ever known.

But Evie was not anyone else. She was the wife of a Champion. And, through her Master, she had gained a great deal of otherworldly knowledge.

Namely, she had watched countless films which took place beyond the bounds of a planet itself, where gravity held no sway.

Evie flipped her dagger in her hand and brought it to her back, slashing downward, ignoring the burning pain as she severed the leather straps which held her cuirass in place.

Down below, the lone speck of color that was Mayaran raised her hands. She was taking her time as she aligned her next spell. The thick pyramid of ice from her first two spells was replaced by a thin, sleek needle, compressed to a razor edge.

The straps of Evie’s cuirass snapped. Her cuirass began to float off her chest. Twisting in air, stomach rebelling against the perverse weightlessness she was gripped by, Evie placed her feet on the cuirass, aligning herself with Mayaran.

The needle blurred forward.

The words of Evie’s father-in-law echoed in her head. A simple maxim, obviously true the moment one first heard it, but something most never considered.

Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.

With all the strength brought to her by the seventeen Levels of a Divine Champion, Evie kicked off her cuirass.

The icy needle did not miss. It slid neatly through the meat of her right shoulder, punching an inch-wide hole.

It was not enough to knock her off-course.

Evie hit the ground a mere foot in front of Mayaran, still weightless. She took a twisted pleasure in the elf’s involuntary gasp of fear.

Grinning, the tip of Evie’s rapier lanced towards the woman’s neck.

Pain.

Evie’s left arm slammed into a wall, the rest of her body following behind, crushing against something that hadn’t been there an instant before. Motivated more by instinct than thought, her feet dug trenches in the mud, trying to drive her blade the last few inches between its tip and her target.

She went nowhere.

A solid wall of ice had appeared between Evie and Mayaran. Her arm had not just been stopped— it was embedded. Through the hazy, translucent frost, she could see her left arm pierced through in a dozen places by blue spears. One pillar jutted through her forearm, another through her bicep, and several more wove in and out of the thinner layers of her skin. Her entire arm, from fingertip to shoulder, was completely trapped. The wall itself was perhaps five feet wide, eight feet tall. She could not reach around it to attack Mayaran.

“You did well,” Mayaran began to say, her form shimmering and indistinct behind the frozen barrier. “But I am untouched, and you are-”

With a snarl, Evie curled her right hand into a fist. Drawing it back as far as she could, she slammed it against the wall in a vicious uppercut.

She felt things crack in her hand. A small fracture appeared in the ice, but that was it.

Gritting her teeth, Evie changed her position, bracing her feet and free hand against the ice wall. She began to pull as hard as she could, trying to retrieve her arm from its imprisonment. Flesh visibly began to rip and tear within the ice, shredding the limb to uselessness, but she didn’t care. So long as she could move, she would fight with her offhand.

“Ah,” Mayaran said. “I suppose I haven’t won yet, have I?”

A block of ice broke itself free from the larger whole, crashing against Evie’s forehead. It impacted hard enough to send her reeling back, stars dancing behind her eyes.

“There,” Mayaran announced. “I could have killed you with that. The match is over.”

With an agonizing throbbing making its way through her head and down her neck, Evie stopped struggling. Mayaran was right. Blood continued to bloom in the diorama of ice, pouring out of her arm in great gushes. Even if she freed herself, the ice was all that was keeping enough blood in her body to maintain consciousness. She had lost.

Mayaran kept saying things, but Evie paid them no mind. Releasing her mental grip on her Duelist’s Skills, she allowed color to seep back into the world. Graf’s training took its place at the forefront of her mind. She began going over the duel step-by-step, analyzing her mistakes.

Could I have anticipated this wall? She wondered. Yes, she decided almost immediately. Mayaran has shown herself to be a defensively-oriented mage, and her chosen element is particularly suited to rapid creation of obstacles. I should have known better.

Evie cursed herself viciously. She had relied too much on her opponent being surprised by her ability to recover from the spell of weightlessness. Mayaran had clearly thought the advantage was absolute, and couldn’t have anticipated Evie’s prompt reaction to it. That meant the ice wall was a reflexive spell, cast in a panic, but the haste in which it was cast had made it no less effective. Evie never would have anticipated a mage to have such incredibly quick reactions.

“Here,” a voice said. Evie glanced to her right, at first frustrated for being pulled from her analysis, until she saw who it was. Sara was holding out a healing potion.

“A moment, please,” Evie said, though she took the healing potion. “I would like to inspect my wounds first.” She raised her voice. “Mage Mayaran! Would you please release my arm?”

The only answer was a bloom of mist. The icy wall began to disappear, not melting into water, but simply dissolving into nothingness.

As soon as it was free, Evie’s left arm dropped, hanging uselessly at her side. She tried several times to lift it, but her body didn’t respond.

“Please administer a potion if I pass out,” she absentmindedly said to Sara, reaching over to lift her arm for inspection. It seemed two of the fingers on her right hand had been broken by punching the ice, but the pain was meagre.

If this had been a battle to the death, which would have been better? Using my rapier to cut the limb free of the ice, or severing the arm at the shoulder? As if in answer, a sympathetic pain throbbed in her forehead. The shoulder, certainly. She killed me easily once I was trapped. I would not have time to free myself. If I find myself in a similar situation on the battlefield, I will have to act swiftly. Any hesitation is likely to cost me much more than an arm.

A deep, dangerous chill raced through Evie’s body. Not the product of cold, but of blood loss. She uncorked the healing potion, drinking it quickly.

“A good bout,” she said, finally turning to address Mayaran. She gave the woman a respectful nod. “I do not think a Sporaton mage would have reacted so adeptly once I had closed the distance. They are too used to relying upon Knights for their protection, and few ever see the need to develop such a rapid, close-range defensive spell.”

Though the statement was honest in regards to most Sporaton mages, Evie did not fully extrapolate on the statement. The mages of the Knight’s Eye wouldn’t have reacted as Mayaran did either, but their response would have been even more adept. Those trained by Graf would have drawn a blade and engaged Evie directly.

“Is that so?” Mayaran asked, genuine surprise in her words. “I did not expect such praise from you.”

Evie sniffed. “You bested me in single combat. A life lived beside my wives has changed my perspective on the value of honor, but I am not so greatly changed that I would spurn a worthy opponent after a duel. There are few mages who would have survived in the manner you did.”

Mayaran’s gaze darted down to Evie’s wounds. The tendons of her left arm were ripped apart, more resembling the bent iron tubes of a burst steam engine than any living creature’s anatomy. Blood soaked the entirety of her left leg, running in thick rivers to the dirt beneath her boots. A lesser amount of blood caked her right shoulder, gushing from the place where the thinnest spike had speared her clean through. If one crouched to align their head properly, daylight could be seen from either end. A myriad list of other minor wounds ran up and down Evie’s skin, shards of wind-blown ice having left long, bloody lines on her body.

“And I must commend you, too,” Mayaran said, meeting Evie’s eyes once more. “I suspect there are equally few who would still be standing at this moment.”

“I have suffered worse. And,” Evie added, smiling wryly, “I believe your spells numbed me to the pain. If I were not hypothermic, I suspect my voice would not be nearly so strong.”

Mayaran laughed at that. “A brave confession to make, My Lady, and one I am most certain no Imperial would make in your place.” The mage raised a hand, waving to the crowd of mages. “You! The girl who claimed to be skilled in healing magics. Come, help this woman’s potion along.”

A younger mage scurried forward out of the crowd of spectators. The magelings were regarding Evie with a sort of horrified awe, clustering together like a herd of anxious livestock. Whatever they were whispering to each other, Evie could not hear, but she felt certain Sara’s Blessings would catch it. She looked forward to hearing what the next generation of Imperial mages thought of her duel.

In contrast, the soldiers of the Powdered Lead’s third squadron were raucous. Many of them had hoarse voices, as if they’d been cheering during the duel, though Evie of course hadn’t heard them doing so. There was a dense, frustrated crowd surrounding one woman, who was smugly accepting handfuls of coins from her fellow soldiers.

Only one of twenty bet against me, Evie thought, grinning in satisfaction. It is good to know I have the common soldier’s confidence.

Evie wasn’t concerned about her loss affecting the Powdered Lead’s faith in her. If anything, the injuries she’d sustained would likely be the talk of the next several days. More than anything else, Sara had taught her, soldiers valued the ability of their commanders to stand strong in the face of adversity. That Evie had held a conversation with her arm mangled to unrecognizability could only enhance her reputation, regardless of her overall loss.

The healer mage reached Evie, nervously hovering several feet away. Evie waved her forward, turning to offer the girl her injured arm. With the potion restoring her flash-frozen nerves, the pain was beginning to spread. She’d rather have herself healed before her body became fully aware of just how much it had suffered.

“So,” Sara said, walking up to take her place at Evie’s side, her attention on Mayaran. “That was a pretty good fight. From where I was standing, it looked like Evie was only a couple inches away from slashing up your throat. Close fights are always the best ones, aren’t they?”

“Perhaps for entertainment or practice,” Mayaran said, “but on the battlefield, I much prefer overwhelming victory.”

“I’m pretty much the same. Which is why I was wondering if you’d want to do a second little bout with Evie, if you don’t mind?”

Mayaran hesitated, looking at Evie’s arm. “I am not sure how wise it would be for one so injured to push herself forward.”

“Isn’t that what healing is for?” Sara reached down, grabbing one of Evie’s pistols and spinning it around a finger before dropping it in Evie’s good hand. “Besides. I think this one will be a bit shorter.”

Mayaran’s lips pursed as she looked at the pistol. “I see. And I assume that I would not be casting any preemptive spells before this second bout?”

“I’ll count it down this time. When I say go, you can both move.”

Ah, Evie thought, lips quirking. Here it is. The real purpose of the first duel.

Mayaran would never have accepted a duel against Evie’s pistol under normal circumstances. Though her defensive spells were impressive, they were also elaborate. The mage knew that the flick of a wrist and twitch of a finger, especially from an Irregular, was not a speed she was capable of equaling.

Yet Evie had lost the first “friendly bout.” What’s more, she had lost with dignity, freely complimenting the victor, who had graciously accepted said compliments. She’d done so honestly, without ulterior motive, but of course Sara had known she’d do such. It was now widely known that Evie and Mayaran had, despite their widely publicized disagreements in the past, acted honorably towards one another.

Honor that would be terribly sullied by Mayaran refusing a second bout.

“Of course,” Mayaran said, her smile losing what little authenticity it had so briefly gained. “Please, inform me when you are ready. I will entrust the countdown of the duel to you, Honored Chosen.”

“I am ready now,” Evie announced, holding the pistol in her right hand. The potion had set and healed her bones easily enough. “At fifteen paces once more?”

“If you so wish.”

There was far less build-up to this duel. They had both taken their measure of one another already. Evie took her place quickly, a single cryslock pistol holstered off her right hip. Mayaran stood opposite her, arms hanging a touch from her sides, hands hidden within her robes.

“Three!” Sara called.

“Two!”

“One!”

CRACK.

A spray of dirt leapt into the air between Mayaran’s feet, the lead ball audibly ricocheting up and away to smack against the walls of Ta-Pet a hundred yards behind. Evie lowered her pistol and, in a selfish indulgence she could not resist, spun it around her finger before slipping it back into its holster.

The first glint of spellcraft had not yet broken the air around Mayaran.

“My father,” Evie loudly announced, referring to David in the traditional form, “has a phrase he oft repeats. That ‘the gods made man, but it is the pistol which has made them equal.’ I do not yet believe that to be true, but it certainly seems prophetic. I thank you for the contest, Honored Elven.”

Evie turned away, searching for Sara.

Her wife was already speaking to a man dressed in noble clothing, making passionate gestures as she extolled the virtues of Tulian-built firearms. The man began to nod at Sara’s eager murmuring, and as Evie approached, she caught Sara speaking of prices: two pounds of silver per pistol.

The noble man did not so much as blink at the price.

The Powdered Lead, Evie suspected, would not be struggling to pay its wages.

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