58 The Evening of the Duel

"What in the world?" Jacob heard Provost Thomson's disembodied voice from somewhere above him. He sat up as fast as he ever had, surprised that she had come back so quickly.

"Did you forget something, Provost?" Jacob stared blankly at the bewildered woman, shaking the grip sleep held on him.

"It's seven, Jacob. I came in to make sure you weren't going to miss the duel, but I find you sleeping. This is precisely why we don't train all day! We need all our mental faculties when we're going into a duel," she berated him, all but dragging him out the room by his arm.

Too shocked, or sleepy, Jacob was powerless to resist her iron grip. She had to have trained her grip strength by using some forbidden technique. There was no way that anyone's fingers were meant to have rippling muscles of their own. As his journey through Relentless' main building progressed, passing many amused students, Jacob woke up enough to force his arm out of Provost Thomson's hands. The march of embarrassment over, Jacob sprinted to the training grounds. He didn't have a moment to waste.

The training grounds were simply adorned, especially compared to the relatively state-of-the-art training rooms Relentless boasted. It had a rack under an overhang, protecting the weapons from the elements. The dirt was smooth and without any dips or divots. It was as good as an outdoor arena could be, short of one being built of stone. Jacob had fought on much worse; the Golden Gizzard's backyard was a mess and was hardly smooth enough for an average scuffle. He had bruised his ankles many times from an improperly placed foot. That fixed his footwork right fast.

"Here he comes!" a horde of students surrounded the patch, watching as Jacob ran into view. Sweat dripped from his forehead, noticeably enough for people to see just how much he rushed to get to the training ground.

"I'm sorry for my late appearance," Jacob panted, selecting a spatha as he neared the weapon's rack. Cynthia already stood at the ready in the center of the circle, her longsword at her side. It didn't look like one of the College's; the longsword was still on the weapon's rack, untouched. If she had her own blade, it meant that Provost Thomson hadn't been exaggerating when it came to his opponent's skill. Not many of the students, wealthy as most of they were, had their own weapons. It was something of a right of passage around here, he had gathered from the Provost after one of their training sessions.

Cynthia turned to watch him select the spatha, her eyes widening as she saw his choice. It wasn't a popular weapon. Not flashy enough to draw many eyes and smaller than a longsword, it just didn't make for a solid duelist's weapon. Jacob could definitely understand, but the weapon just felt right to him.

"That's a stupid choice of weapon, mage," she spat, drawing laughter from her cohort. Jacob let the insult slide; he'd prove himself in front of all the of assembled warriors. He was not to be made light of, even if was a mage and a slave to the crown.

"Prove it. Let's begin the duel. Will anyone arbitrate the duel?" Jacob asked, scanning the crowd for a volunteer. One of Cynthia's friends - one of the three that had originally entered his training room – was raising her hand until Jacob glared at her to put it back down. A rigged referee was not something he would deal with. A familiar figure cut through the crowd.

"I'll do it." Provost Thomson made a surprise appearance, though Jacob shouldn't have been too shocked. She cared enough about the duel to make sure Jacob was present for it. Were the problems with her niece truly great enough for her to put aside her responsibilities as the head of Relentless Blade College, even temporarily? "Fighters ready."

"Begin!" came the call. Neither warrior was eager to attack, but Jacob was not one for overwhelming patience. He knew when to play back, but he would not play a waiting game. He'd seen enough standoffs to know that the person who shot first won more often than not.

His spatha remained close to his body, a careful tactic to not telegraph his intention before he even made a movement. It was a frequent issue of his, and he knew he would need to rectify it if he wanted to avoid it being taken advantage of. Then, at the very last moment, he swiped his blade upwards, taking Cynthia's longsword up for the ride. Jacob had successfully entered close-quarters combat.

His spatha, shorter than the longsword by a small margin, was better suited for these types of situations. If he couldn't win at range, he would need to do it from right next to his opponent. Unfortunately, he hadn't practice much with this style. The heavy sword techniques Will taught him did not include much in the way of defending oneself this close to the enemy. Finesse was now required where sheer might would have once been enough.

Cynthia was every bit as good as Provost Thomson warned. Her blade flashed almost as quickly as her aunt's, blocking every attack Jacob attempted. She rarely went in for a counterattack, as though she was reluctant to offer Jacob a chance to break past her guard.

Jacob, likewise, did not wish to overly commit to any one plan. Once he was in the thick of things, there'd be no extricating himself from it. It was much better to just dance around each other with the hopes that one of them would make a mistake in their positioning. He was the first to err in the combat.

The suns, just now setting, lay directly in front of him. Their blinding light forced him to squint to be able to make out Cynthia's shape. She realized that he was incapable of seeing nearly as well as she could, and so she took the opportunity to go on the attack for the first time in the fight.

The audience gasped, the sudden turn in the tide of conflict a great shift in the status quo. Jacob was now on the defense. Now the question was: how long could he last?