This is Chapter 7-2 of a serial fantasy novel.
The group of Tel boys led the crowd away from the Rainroot, heading back towards camp. As they moved, the news of the coming Seedwind duel spread, and the procession grew. Its size attracted more onlookers as they moved through the woods.
“I’m sorry Frix,” Callum said. They were heading up the rear. Frix was happy that it kept them out of the spotlight. For now.
“I should have just let you fight,” said Frix. “You woulda got vine-whipped but it was only slingers. Some scratches or bruises at worst.”
“I don’t know how to fight though. Like, not in a duel.”
“Yeah, that’s why you woulda got whipped,” Frix said, smiling despite the situation.
He tried to remember his last bona fide duel, one where it mattered. It had been almost a year ago, some tussle with a bruiser from a small, independent triad. Frix had recently started Seedwind training, and the other guy had very much wanted to prove he could best someone from the Bit family. Frix had walked away with a thin victory and minor damage.
A legal duel only required two parties from different families with seedblessed weapons. A good duel featured an even skill match, or a legitimate dispute. It was even better if the participants came from within the same triad or if the dispute was between families from triads with very different prestige. It was all about the drama.
Vebba had taken up the showrunning; Frix could hear him and his mates selling the Seedwind vs Seedwind, Bit vs Tel rhetoric even from back here. The nature of the dispute was probably going to get lost in the hype. No matter the outcome, he was going to get flak from his family for sowing intertriad theatrics, and he was definitely going to get flak from Mossa for involving Seedwind reputation.
They were about an hour outside of the main camp. Frix hoped the parade wouldn’t have to go that far before someone found his match, else this would escalate from a spectacle to an all out event.
Thankfully, his match found them first. Frix could sense several people following the procession in the woods all around them, choosing to stay off the main trail for whatever reason. His training tuned him into the different patterns of footfall; he could tell who was casually forestwalking and who was actively trying to be quiet about it. But one of the casuals was off. Their steps seemed practiced, subtle, precise. The pace rarely faltered. It was a Seedwind’s gait, the kind of forestwalk he would be using if he wasn’t concerned about stealth.
They were getting closer to the fringes of the outer camp. Frix listened to the distinct walker for a while, then when he was convinced, he came to a halt.
Callum stopped too, a questioning look on his face. Frix stood, arms crossed, looking out towards the trees to where he figured the Seedwind was. Eventually, folks in the parade noticed the stoppage, and people started to filter back, necks craning and eager conversation buzzing.
Before the throng could properly assemble, Dreff of Tel sidestepped onto the path and stood several paces away. His head was tilted so the brim of his black hat hid his eyes.
“Dreff,” said Frix.
“Frix. Heard you’ve been antagonizing my family.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I set out to do on my day off. Bother children and start fights.”
“Someone told me you’d challenged Vebba.” Dreff brushed some pine needles off his arm.
“Vebba challenged Callum, who was doing nothing to provoke. I was subbing.”
Dreff looked up, eyes like chips of ice. “Why sub?”
“Callum isn’t trained. Vebba is.”
“You’re a Seedwind. Well, a sentry. A half rate one, admittedly, but that’s still a league above my little cousin.”
Frix bit back a retort. “Look, it just sort of happened. There wasn’t even a real dispute.”
The blob of onlookers grew. Frix could hear Vebba and company cheering as the news of Dreff’s arrival reached them.
“He was defending his little brother!” someone shouted.
Frix wheeled about, looking for the commentator.
“Yeah!”
“His brother was being attacked!”
“I saw it!”
“Buncha Tel thugs!”
Someone threw a pinecone in Dreff’s general direction. It barely missed him, but he ignored it as one would ignore a cloud drifting overhead. It seemed the crowd had picked up more than a few Tel critics. Vebba arrived, pushing through this new mob of spectators. He shot a dirty look at Frix, then turned to Dreff.
“Dreff of Tel,” said Vebba, “your cousin, Vebba of Tel, requests assistance in the matter of this duel.”
Dreff ran a hand along his brim, and worked his jaw. He spat, then took a large stride to stand in front of the boy. He stooped so their eyes were level. “You attack the Bit kid?”
Vebba took a tiny step back, blinking fast. “I… he was running from a duel challenge… it was just mud.”
“Hmph.” Dreff stood tall, surveying the crowd. After a moment, Frix realized he was holding his breath. He let it out slowly. It had grown pretty quiet.
Dreff spat again, looked at Frix, and said, “I’ll substitute.”
A coolness swept over Frix as the crowd cheered. People started scrambling up trees, hoping to get a good spot. He felt Callum squeeze his hand. He squeezed back, and tossed his chin at his brother: get outta here.
The space along the path cleared. The duelists stood still, waiting for people to situate themselves. Only the crossdart marksman remained nearby, hovering near the edge of the path.
“Here’s fine?” said Frix, after a moment.
“Nothing like the woods,” agreed Dreff.
“Slingers still?”
“Challenged’s choice.”
“I’d prefer the cudgel.”
Dreff snicked out his blade. “Shortsharp for myself then.”
Frix swallowed. “Three small, or one large.”
“Fine. Limbs?”
“And non-vitals.”
Dreff nodded, and flipped his weapon to his other gloved hand. Frix tightened some of his straps, shifted his weight, took in the shape and character of the ground, and drew out his cloudwood club.
“Okay,” said the marksman. “Go.”
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