I hold my sword in front of me, my eyes darting from Trevor to Adele, and then back to Adele. Always back to Adele. In her dark body-hugging fighting tunic, she’s a vision, as beautiful as she is dangerous. With a practiced flick of her hand, she pushes her long, black hair away from her face and behind her head. Then she moves toward me, her strides graceful but strong.
She swings her sword and I move to block, bracing myself for the blow, but it never comes. Instead, she stops mid-swing and whirls on Trevor, closing the distance between them in two springing steps, slashing hard at his right shoulder, her sword leaving an arc of black long after it passes through the air.
Although the attack was swift and surprising, Trevor is up to the challenge, managing to parry and then go on the counter-offensive, pushing Adele back toward me, their swords making dull thuds as they connect with each other. Her back is to me. I’ve got her.
A surge of adrenaline races through my blood.
Launching off the balls of my feet, I leap toward her, planning to tackle her from behind. Just when we’re about to collide, she drops hard to the ground, air rushing against my body as I fly past her. I barge into Trevor, slipping past his outstretched blade and ramming into his stomach. He grunts and stumbles back, taking my full weight on his chest.
I’m no stranger to unusual fighting positions. My mind cycles through the situation in an instant, determining the best course of action: Trevor beneath me, unprotected; Adele nearby, unguarded and within striking distance; me, vulnerable to an attack from my girlfriend, who, for some unknown reason, seems to want nothing more than to beat me senseless with the broad side of her sword. Only one option: get the hell as far away from the kill zone as possible, as fast as possible.
Using the momentum from our fall, I push off hard from Trevor’s chest, feeling him squirming beneath me, and duck my head, rolling forward in a somersault. My sword is flailing about, but I manage to tuck it at my side, keeping it from impaling me or my opponents. There’s a bone-jarring thud as my back slams off the rock floor, sending shivers through my already sore muscles.
Ignoring the pain, I come out of the roll, twisting around to face whoever might be charging. The scene before me is frozen in time, motionless and expressionless. Trevor’s on the ground, struggling to get his breath. Adele’s standing over him, the dull tip of her protected sword at his neck. It reminds me of an old statue in the National Museum depicting the Sun Realm’s crushing defeat of the Lower Realms during the Uprising. The statue shows a sun dweller soldier in a spotless red uniform standing over a gray-coated moon dweller revolutionary, a foot on his chest and a sword through his throat. It even came complete with a gushing stream of crimson blood pooling around them. My father told me that he requisitioned completion of the statue by the finest sun dweller sculptor just after the end of the Uprising, as a reminder of what happens to those who rebel. The blood was his idea, and if he’d had it his way, it would have been real moon dweller blood, but the sculptor informed him that due to the congelation that occurs with air-exposed blood, water with red food coloring would have to suffice. The President grudgingly agreed. According to him, the field trip to the museum was all part of my training. I hated that trip.
For a moment I think time might really be frozen, as Adele stares at me unblinking, but then she smiles. “One down,” she says. “You’re next.”
I grin back, feeling a slight flutter in my chest at the prospect of a one-on-one anything with her, even if it’s a fight. “Bring it,” I reply.
Her smile drops away, replaced by an animalistic snarl. The snarl is directed at me, either for something I’ve done, or something Roc’s told her. I wish I knew what it was.
Stepping off of Trevor, who’s still gulping at the air, Adele moves to my left, her steps slow and methodical. Stalking her prey. Me. Although I shouldn’t be intimidated because I’ve been in plenty of fights, I am. Because she’s a girl. Because she’s my girlfriend.
Faking a confident smile, I follow her movements, striding to the left, as we circle each other. My stomach swirls with a mix of trepidation and elation. Trepidation because I’ve seen her fight before. Elation because she looks so damn hot when she’s like this.
We circle once, twice, then a third time, both of us content to wait patiently for an opening. I playfully stick the tip of my sword out toward her and she slaps it away with her own blade, the sound thumping dully through the cavern. I sense movement to my right: Trevor drags himself away, toward the fire pit, where Roc and Tawni have stopped their own sword practice to watch the fight. No pressure, right?
I stick my sword out again and she smacks it away, twice as hard this time. Her anger radiates from her in waves. What have I done? I consider stopping the fight now, but I know both Trevor and Roc will never let me live it down. Although we all might die anyway, so maybe that’s not the worst thing.
To my surprise, Adele sticks her own sword out, grinning slightly. Was the whole angry girlfriend thing all an act? My muscles relax as I relish the thought. Lazily, I swing my sword to knock hers away, an act of humor, but at the last second, she pulls her blade back and whips it two handed at mine, connecting solidly and fiercely, shooting splinters of pain through my fingertips.
Trying to fight off the numbness in my hand, I sling my sword back to the left, barely blocking Adele’s next slash attempt. She moves in close, the only thing separating us a bit of air and our locked swords, a gleaming X between us. Adele’s piercing green eyes bore into mine, and I feel like dropping my sword and hugging her. She licks her lips as she redoubles her efforts, pushing with all her strength against me. It just makes me want to toss my sword aside and kiss her.
I ignore the urge, and instead, shove her back as hard as I can. Her eyes widen as my larger frame wins the short-term battle, lifting her off her feet slightly as she’s thrown back. Lithely, she lands on her feet, almost like the way the palace cats used to jump noiselessly from the china cabinet to the table to the floor.
She moves forward again, waving her sword back and forth in a fury-filled attack. I block to the left, to the right, and back to the left again. She attempts a jab but I swat her sword downward, ringing it off the ground. I try a new strategy: distraction. “Nice moves,” I say.
Ignoring my comment, she slashes again but I knock it away. “I can do this all day,” I say.
“So can I,” she replies. “But I’d rather end it now.”
“Good luck with that.”
She swings high, forcing me to raise my sword to repel her blade, but before our swords connect, she ducks in low, simultaneously swinging a roundhouse kick at my exposed hand. Shards of pain sweep through my hand and wrist as her thick-soled boot slams into the point where my limb meets the hilt of my weapon. Reflexively, my fingers open up, dropping my sword with a clatter.
Her own weapon in an awkward position, she flings another kick, this one aimed at my head, but I duck and am able to grab her foot with my uninjured hand as it flies by. She bucks her leg, trying to dislodge it, but I know just what to do in this situation.
I throw her leg upward, as hard as I can. The momentum pushes her entire body back and up, her head snapping backward, her leg rotating high over her head. Trying to maintain control, she releases her own sword, using her arms to keep her balance as she performs a perfect back layout, once more landing on her feet. But this time, she’s weaponless. We’re back to even.
Sweat drips from my forehead to my nose to my chin. A disgusting trail of liquid meanders beneath my tunic, too, flowing down my spine. Suddenly I feel confined and trapped beneath my shirt. I pull it over my head, wipe my face, and toss it aside, immediately relishing the feeling of the air against my sweat-sheened skin.