This is part if the second chapter of the novel i'm writing, and i'm somewhat reluctant to let anyone look at this. It may not completely make sense, because it is part of a fantastical world, and the story had already started by the time this scene happens. Please do not pound my baby.
The old armory was a low stone building in the west side of the city, long since abandon and claimed by nature. The courtyard behind it was disused and only slightly overgrown. Large and flat as the desert, it was perfect for a duel.
Artemis sat a low stone bench by the courtyard gate and waited for his opponent. I wish it could turn Cerian into a toad. He thought sulkily as he steeled himself for what was to come.
The gate creaked, admitting three dark figures. “Speak of the devil, and the devil shall appear.” Artemis muttered under his breath. “Let’s get this over with.” He said to Cerian. They drew and crossed sword, the razor-sharp steel glinting in the moonlight. Cannon and Syron, Cerian’s companions, stood guard.
“On guard!” Cerian shouted, and Artemis’s doom began. They parried and slashed, and a web of steel quickly wove itself around Artemis’s sword. The sound of metal on metal filled the courtyard. Action. Reaction. With no time for thought. To win or to die by the sword.
Artemis felt the sting of steel biting into his arm, and warm blood ran down his wrist. He furiously tried to block Cerian, though every blow jarred his hand. The sword was growing heavy, and he was having trouble keeping a secure hold on it. His blows slowed, and Cerian pushed through his guard.
The flat of Cerian’s sword smashed into Artemis’s side, and he fell to his knees. He bowed his head, and tried to accept defeat. “I’m sorry, Araminta.” He whispered into the unforgiving black of the night.
A belated surge of adrenaline rushed through his blood as Cerian raised his sword for the final blow. As the blade came down, Artemis involuntarily fastened his hand around the other boy’s ankle and yanked as hard as he could.
Cerian twisted around as he went down, dragging Artemis with him. Artemis caught a quick glimpse of the sword, deadly-sharp edge facing up, before Cerian fell on top of it. He gave a gargled, desperate cry, then was still.
Artemis tugged his hand out from under him, cutting his wrist on the edge of the sword, but feeling no pain. He stared in uncomprehending horror at the boy beside him, thick, wet blood staining the ground scarlet. It wasn’t his own. No. No.
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