Chapter Text
The Wylder shivered as he stepped onto the sparring grounds. The night was crisp, unlike the oppressive muck that fell over Limveld. He pulled his tabard closer against the chill. The only other layer he wore was his undershirt, as he fully meant to go to sleep, but he found it impossible. The Iron Menial’s words about the silver tear continued to swirl in his thoughts. It was fairly clear as to how it would help him, but would the plan work? Would it even be enough?
He shook his head. He’d hoped that the stroll would clear his mind, but he was already losing his optimism.
“Can’t sleep?”
He nearly jumped at the sound of the Ironeye’s voice. He swung around, trying to locate its source in the dim moonlight, and found him sitting on the wooden stairs behind the dummies. It was remarkable how well he melded with the shadows; had he not called out, Wylder wouldn’t have noticed him.
“That’s right,” he replied, somewhat uncertainly. He hesitated before deciding to make his way over. Coming from the man, the words might as well be an invitation. By now, the inhabitants of the Roundtable Hold were close; they knew about each other’s pasts and laughed together in the downtimes between battles. Ironeye was the exception. He didn’t isolate himself, but he kept his personal affairs tightly under wraps. Maybe that was part and parcel of being an assassin, Wylder thought, though it still bothered him that he felt the need to remain so closed off.
He sat down by his side. The archer had removed his hood but was still in his mask and armor. He was occupied with polishing what looked like arrowheads. For a while there was silence, save for occasional plink of one being set down. Wylder had no idea what to say. He was starting to think he should have just been on his way.
“I haven’t had the chance before,” Ironeye finally spoke. “Thank you for your help against the centaur. It wasn’t your obligation.”
“Ah — that was no trouble. We are allies, after all.”
He really would have done the same for any other Nightfarer. But admittedly, the prospect of learning what stake Ironeye had in the fight was partly why he’d volunteered himself. Though he never did find out, in the end. Maybe this was a good time to task.
Before he could speak, Ironeye continued. “But there were too many close calls. You’ve never exactly been cautious, but you were almost reckless. And now you’re awake at this hour.” He put down his tools and faced him directly. “Something’s going on.”
Wylder tensed. He knew denial would be pointless, so he opted for a partial truth: “It’s just that I’m anxious. We’re so close to our goal.”
“Hm,” Ironeye considered. “I suppose it’s only natural.” Wylder breathed an inward sigh of relief. “But that’s all the more the reason we can’t lose focus now.”
The words were more of a reminder than a rebuke. Wylder felt a stab of guilt. The last thing he wanted was to cause his companions concern. “I know,” he muttered, as much to himself as to Ironeye. He stared down at the ground, knitting his fingers together. “I’ve managed to stay alive until now. I can hold out for a little longer.”
He sensed the archer looking at him. “You do have good instincts,” he said. “Exceptional, in fact. I haven’t seen anything like it.”
Despite the somber mood, Wylder felt a current of thrill run down his spine. He figured it must be the novelty. After all, when had he heard any sort of praise from this man?
“Still, the Nightlord will be unlike anything you’ve faced. Don’t rely too much on intuition.”
He gathered the arrowheads into his pouch and stood. Wylder did the same, preparing to bid him good night. Then Ironeye turned to him. “Well, words can only do so much. Care to spar? Might help you sleep, too,” he added.
Once he processed the sudden offer, Wylder shot him a skeptical look. Spar, with an archer? He wasn’t exactly keen on being riddled with arrows.
“I won’t be using my bow,” Ironeye said. He sounded amused, as if he’d read his thoughts. “There’s no point in injuring each other. We can use those.” He gestured towards the crates under the worn-down tent. When they reached it Ironeye began rummaging through the one that held wooden training weapons, fishing out a curved dagger similar to his own. He adjusted his hold on it a few times, testing the weight and length, then turned it deftly to settle on a reverse grip. Wylder caught himself staring at the intricacy of the motions. Hurriedly he pulled out a greatsword.
They stood in the tiled circle, about ten paces apart. Wylder assumed his stance; so did his opponent. The familiar mix of tension and excitement began coursing through his veins. “Ready,” he heard, and darted forward.
It wasn’t long before Wylder realized he was at a disadvantage. He was not accustomed to the way the darkness limited his perception, unlike (he assumed) the assassin. Not only that, his opponent knew how he fought, while he had no idea how the archer engaged in close quarters.
He clearly lacked the mastery he had over the bow, but he was still observant, and fast. Owing to their respective choices of weapon, Ironeye made no attempt to trade blows. Instead he ducked and sidestepped around Wylder’s swings, waiting for an opening during which he could strike safely. Once he caught on, Wylder began using the greatsword in ways he rarely needed to in Limveld. He feinted a thrust into an upward slice, jabbed with the hilt before a sweeping slash, but the archer seemed prepared for those tricks as well. He continued to land a precise hit, then dart out of range before Wylder could capitalize on his proximity. It’s like trying to catch your own shadow, he thought, brows furrowed as his frustration mounted.
He disengaged, distancing himself by several steps. As he steadied his breath he took stock of the bout’s progress. He had caught the other by the tail end of several swings, but was yet to land a solid blow. On the other hand, he’d suffered quite a few: a cut under the forearm, one across the chest, and a jab below the ribs, most recently. He eyed his opponent, who was pacing carefully, conserved momentum on his heels. He showed no signs of tiring. It occurred to Wylder that if the dagger were real, and if it had been poisoned, he would be halfway to death by now.
He had to change his approach. What was it that the archer was in the habit of saying — that one good blow was enough to punish a fleet-footed adversary? If there were no openings for such a blow, he would have to create one.
Wylder grabbed the hilt with both hands and charged forward. For a while he continued as he did before, but then, after a few quick swings, he committed to a wide overhead strike. Ironeye dodged to his left; as the sword completed its downward arc he came in close, delivering a deep cut across his stomach. Wylder winced at the impact — but he was expecting it. He twisted his torso to the right, then slammed his left shoulder into his opponent with the entire weight of his upper body. With a yelp of pain and surprise the archer stumbled off balance. There! That was his chance.
He lunged at him, tackling him to the ground. They went down tumbling in an inelegant pile of shouts and limbs, each trying to simultaneously push off and also subdue the other. Somewhere in that process Wylder lost hold of his sword, but that didn’t matter because after rolling in the dust for a good minute, he managed to end up on top. Before the other could regain footing, he pinned his dagger arm to the ground and pressed his knee to his thigh, rendering his adversary’s left side immobile. His other hand he clasped around his throat. He positioned himself so that most of his weight fell on his forearm instead, so as to avoid asphyxiating his sparring partner; but the message was clear.
“I win,” Wylder gasped. Ironeye pried at his wrist and fingers, but soon seemed to concede its futility and let his free hand fall to the side. “Do you yield?”
He contemplated the question as he allowed his breathing to return to normal. “What if I refused?” he eventually said, looking up at him. It was spoken slowly, deliberately; like another challenge.
“I thought we agreed not to harm each other,” Wylder replied quietly, and pressed down on his windpipe, not enough to choke but enough to cause discomfort. It drew a strained noise that made his heart skip a beat. Regardless, he stood by his decision.
A long stretch of silence followed. Wylder kept his hold firm, but with every passing second he became more and more aware of how they were positioned. He could feel the other’s pulse in his hand, hear the quiet sound of his breathing as his chest rose and fell under his forearm. The night chill at his back was stark against the warmth of his body. All the while, the man’s uncannily blue eyes remained fixed on his own. Wylder couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Was this his strategy — maintain this impasse until he became too uncomfortable, too embarrassed? If so, he could not let it work as a matter of principle. In fact, this shouldn’t even be affecting him; he’d cheated death more times than he could count, stared off against countless horrors of the Night–
Then he felt a leg hook around him, and his mind went blank.
“Wha–“ was all he could manage. A lean calf rested across his lower back, impressing on it the outlines of buckles and straps. As if to dispel any doubt that the contact was intentional, Ironeye pulled him closer. Wylder could hear his own pulse pounding in his ears. In half-panic he searched the other’s eyes for answers, and found nothing. They were completely impassive. Heat and confusion and frustration crowded into his head and the coherent thought that emerged was: he had to see his face. His gut told him that it would resolve whatever was happening, even though he didn’t know exactly how. Slowly, he tugged at the mask. It slid down without much resistance, down the contours of his nose, to the outline of his lip–
Something sharp was at his neck. Wylder flicked his gaze in its direction. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw a throwing knife pressed against him. He looked down, and noticed a row of identical knives hanging from a leather band at the archer’s right hip. The topmost one was missing.
“Didn’t I tell you? Don’t rely on your instincts.”
Ironeye’s voice was low, almost a whisper. Delayed realization dawned on Wylder and Ironeye watched it unfold across his expression, eyes now glinting with obvious mirth. Yet, even as a vague corner of Wylder’s mind urged him to laugh it off and salvage whatever dignity he had left, he couldn’t look away. Maybe he just wasn’t thinking straight, but he had the sense that the other was finally, if unwittingly, revealing something true hidden behind the layers of calculated distance and professionalism. The moment felt like it could shatter at any second, and it kept even his breath trapped in his lungs.
Then abruptly, the knife was withdrawn, the leg untangled, and the trance was broken. Wylder let go of the mask like it burned. He stood hastily, and after it occurred to him, extended a hand. To his relief, Ironeye took it. When they were eye to eye, Ironeye simply nodded. His mask once again covered his face. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he said.
“I’ll see you,” Wylder repeated dumbly. Ironeye turned and disappeared in the direction of the dressing room. Now alone, Wylder slowly came to his senses. He stood there, and as he gradually processed all that had happened, he felt a flush spread across his cheeks. Only now, he couldn’t blame it on the adrenaline.
He touched the spot where the throwing knife had been. A trace of blood came off on his fingertips. “So much for no injuries,” he grumbled out loud, hoping to dispel the heat from his face. It didn’t. He resigned himself and trudged back inside the Hold, head spinning with more thoughts than when he left. This would be a sleepless night.