strategies his father had taught him.
Slade used a scimitar, so Elias could count on him slashing
primarily and thrusting rarely, if ever. Elias decided to adopt a high guard as
Slade would most likely strike at his head and throat to end the battle
quickly, and a wide front-facing stance to keep his legs from becoming easy
targets. With a rapier a strike to the forward leg proved a deadly gambit, for
while it wounded the recipient, the defender could still muster the strength to
run the attacker through. A scimitar, however, could cut your legs out from
underneath you, and the fight would be over in short order.
The scimitar was a heavier weapon, favored by the desert
tribes and principalities of Aradur. To properly wield the weapon required more
strength than the duelists of Peidra needed to make effective use of the
rapier. As such, Elias assumed Slade would come in fast and hard and try to
overwhelm him with brawn and a heavy-handed, offensive style. This left the
distiller with a couple of counter strategies to consider. Slade would tire
quickly wielding the heavy scimitar, so Elias could assume an evasive style and
wear down Slade’s stamina, or he could do the unexpected and launch an aggressive
attack himself.
While the rapier was the fashionable weapon of the day in
Galacia, it was not always so, and Padraic taught his son styles for the long
and broad swords as well. Padraic’s own, exotic blade was somewhere between a
rapier and a scimitar in design, though Elias had only espied the elegant
weapon a handful of times. His father kept his past tidily locked up in a trunk
in his room.
Elias snapped out of his musings as he thundered across the
open prairie that preceded his family estate. The sight of his lifelong home, a
glaring symbol of all he had lost, brought his blood back up, but beneath his
fury lay a scarcely restrained hysteria.
Elias dismounted before his horse came to a full stop and
bounded into his house. He didn’t pause in the sitting chamber where he and his
father had enjoyed passing the time with an idle game of cards or a glass of Knoll
and a smoke. His father only had life in his memories now, and to dwell on that
fact would be too painful. The slim chance that Danica might yet live kept the
breath in his lungs and one foot stepping in front of the other. Where he went
next, though, it would prove hard not to face the ghost of Padraic Duana.
Elias opened the door to his father’s room. Keeping his eyes
focused on his feet, he walked to the foot of the bed and dropped to a knee. With
a grunt of effort he pulled out the chest that had hidden under the bed for the
better part of two decades. The lid and the brass bands of the oak chest swam
with flowing, archaic runes.
He had seen his father gazing into the chest shortly after
his mother had died. When he asked what was in it, his father answered, “The
past, son, and that is where it is best left.” Despite his father’s evasive
answer, Elias had always known what the chest contained. Pausing momentarily to
wonder if his father warded his effects, Elias threw open the lid.
He heard a sharp snap, like the crack of a whip, and an
electric tingle rushed up his fingers and to his shoulder before dissipating
across his back. He eyed his hand and shook it, but it seemed no worse for the
wear, so he dismissed the occurrence and looked into the trunk.
First, he withdrew Padraic’s hat. Crafted from well-worn
brown leather, the wide brimmed rancher hat was reminiscent of an earlier era. Viewed
as a rustic accoutrement, the rancher hat fell out of fashion in Peidra and the
more urbane areas of Galacia. Similarly, the Marshal had largely gone the way
of the rancher hat, viewed by many as a vestigial office necessitated by a more
lawless time. The crown still retained Marshals in its service, but enforcing
the law of the land presently fell largely into the purview of the more
bureaucratic and less militant constabulary.
Elias donned the
Slade used a scimitar, so Elias could count on him slashing
primarily and thrusting rarely, if ever. Elias decided to adopt a high guard as
Slade would most likely strike at his head and throat to end the battle
quickly, and a wide front-facing stance to keep his legs from becoming easy
targets. With a rapier a strike to the forward leg proved a deadly gambit, for
while it wounded the recipient, the defender could still muster the strength to
run the attacker through. A scimitar, however, could cut your legs out from
underneath you, and the fight would be over in short order.
The scimitar was a heavier weapon, favored by the desert
tribes and principalities of Aradur. To properly wield the weapon required more
strength than the duelists of Peidra needed to make effective use of the
rapier. As such, Elias assumed Slade would come in fast and hard and try to
overwhelm him with brawn and a heavy-handed, offensive style. This left the
distiller with a couple of counter strategies to consider. Slade would tire
quickly wielding the heavy scimitar, so Elias could assume an evasive style and
wear down Slade’s stamina, or he could do the unexpected and launch an aggressive
attack himself.
While the rapier was the fashionable weapon of the day in
Galacia, it was not always so, and Padraic taught his son styles for the long
and broad swords as well. Padraic’s own, exotic blade was somewhere between a
rapier and a scimitar in design, though Elias had only espied the elegant
weapon a handful of times. His father kept his past tidily locked up in a trunk
in his room.
Elias snapped out of his musings as he thundered across the
open prairie that preceded his family estate. The sight of his lifelong home, a
glaring symbol of all he had lost, brought his blood back up, but beneath his
fury lay a scarcely restrained hysteria.
Elias dismounted before his horse came to a full stop and
bounded into his house. He didn’t pause in the sitting chamber where he and his
father had enjoyed passing the time with an idle game of cards or a glass of Knoll
and a smoke. His father only had life in his memories now, and to dwell on that
fact would be too painful. The slim chance that Danica might yet live kept the
breath in his lungs and one foot stepping in front of the other. Where he went
next, though, it would prove hard not to face the ghost of Padraic Duana.
Elias opened the door to his father’s room. Keeping his eyes
focused on his feet, he walked to the foot of the bed and dropped to a knee. With
a grunt of effort he pulled out the chest that had hidden under the bed for the
better part of two decades. The lid and the brass bands of the oak chest swam
with flowing, archaic runes.
He had seen his father gazing into the chest shortly after
his mother had died. When he asked what was in it, his father answered, “The
past, son, and that is where it is best left.” Despite his father’s evasive
answer, Elias had always known what the chest contained. Pausing momentarily to
wonder if his father warded his effects, Elias threw open the lid.
He heard a sharp snap, like the crack of a whip, and an
electric tingle rushed up his fingers and to his shoulder before dissipating
across his back. He eyed his hand and shook it, but it seemed no worse for the
wear, so he dismissed the occurrence and looked into the trunk.
First, he withdrew Padraic’s hat. Crafted from well-worn
brown leather, the wide brimmed rancher hat was reminiscent of an earlier era. Viewed
as a rustic accoutrement, the rancher hat fell out of fashion in Peidra and the
more urbane areas of Galacia. Similarly, the Marshal had largely gone the way
of the rancher hat, viewed by many as a vestigial office necessitated by a more
lawless time. The crown still retained Marshals in its service, but enforcing
the law of the land presently fell largely into the purview of the more
bureaucratic and less militant constabulary.
Elias donned the
Similar Books
