Damian FINUCANE's Arc

Chapter 6 of 57

The masked man stepped from the trees. He was tall, robed, his face hidden behind smooth iron. He carried a plain blade with no gems, no runes. Damian unwrapped his own sword. The blue gemstone caught the light, and the runes down the blade seemed to hum. His raven flew to a high branch and went still. Rolo backed to the edge of the grove and watched. "That sword is not yours," the masked man said. His voice was calm. "It was never yours. Your father would have understood that. He begged too, at the end." Damian's hands tightened on the hilt. Heat climbed his neck. He saw his mother's scarred face. He saw the door of the temple where he had learned to hold this rage, and he tried to hold it now. His grip trembled. They circled. The masked man came fast on the right. High cut, then low. Damian knew it. He had drilled it with Rolo a hundred times. But the taunt still rang in his skull. His block came late and wild. The man stepped inside, past his guard, and his blade opened a line across Damian's arm. Damian stumbled back. Blood ran to his wrist. "He wept," the masked man said. "Like a child." Rage nearly took him. His mind screamed to charge, to swing wide, to end it. That was the gap the man wanted. Damian saw it clearly now. The taunts were the low cut before the step inside. The man was not just fighting his sword. He was fighting his calm. Damian breathed out slow. He let the words fall away. He thought of the drills, the cold clear mind the master had beaten into him. His mother's face steadied him instead of burning him. He set his feet. He waited. "Nothing to say?" the man asked, and came again. High cut. Low cut. Then the step inside. This time Damian did not swing to meet him. He turned his blade down, exactly as Rolo had taught, and caught the low cut against the grass. The man's own step carried him forward onto the point. The gemmed sword slid deep into his side. The masked man froze. He fell to one knee. His iron mask tilted up toward Damian. "You held it," he said. "Longer than he did." Then he pressed a hand to the ground, lurched up, and staggered into the trees. Damian moved to follow, but his cut arm buckled and dropped him to the grass. Rolo ran to him. "He's hurt bad," she said. "He won't get far." Damian pressed his sleeve to the wound. The killer was wounded and fleeing. But he was alive, and now he knew Damian could keep his calm. The next time he came, he would not taunt. He would only strike.