Fencing Academy Part 4

Parts 1, 2 and 3 can be found on my Literotica page here.

Chapter 4 can be opened below (Warning: Large file)

A VERY IMPORTANT Author’s Note

First of all, I want to thank you guys for sticking with me so far. This story has a rather high story/sex ratio, so I’m gratified that, so far, the response has been extremely positive. I don’t typically respond to comments, but believe me I read them and appreciate them greatly.

It has been a lifelong dream of mine to write professionally, and I’ve often fantasized about publishing. Normally, with just a few stories such talk of “e-books” would be extremely premature. However, an opportunity has come up, something I can’t just ignore, and basically, I need to make a decision on what I want to do with FA sooner than expected. I’ve decided, in one way or another, I’d like to publish Fencing Academy.

I’ve talked to both my previous volunteer editors about this and they’re both supportive. However, I want to be fair to you guys. The last thing I want to do is disrespect you but cutting you guys out, leaving you wondering what’s going on, feeling like your wishes have been ignored. I hate it when authors do this to their base and I don’t plan on doing it myself. So, I want to talk to you plainly what this will entail. While your feedback is invaluable and will be taken into account, ultimately, the decision is my own and I have to do what’s best for me. If I didn’t, Fencing Academy will never finish anyway and that’s bad for everyone.

I won’t lie, there is some self-interest at stake here. At this stage of my life, I could really use the money. More intangibly, this is an opportunity to break into a career I love, something I can’t easily pass up. But, it is important to me that I write the best story I can possibly write, and I believe that this is the best way to do that. Publishing will allow me to make a far more cohesive work than I could possibly put together simply posting piecemeal to Literotica. A disadvantage of writing serially like this is that whatever you’ve written previously is set in stone. If I want to take the story in a more interesting direction, or perhaps alter something that isn’t working, I can’t. The whole story is weaker.

And I must say: personally, I'm really excited about this. I'm eager to revisit my earlier chapters and really revise them to make a strong story. I'm excited about seeing my work finally make the jump to book form. To craft a story that excites people is everything I have worked my life for.

In any case, I hope, when these stories come to a close, there will several books worth of erotic and character-based storytelling with intricate plotting. But you should know the implication of this decision would be that I could no longer post new chapters to Literotica.

Fencing Academy is something of an experiment. I wanted to see if I could write an erotic fantasy where the sexual elements were integral to the story, a plot which could have appeal to both men and women, a work that could not only stand as a good piece of erotica but as good piece of fantasy, and have neither of those things detract from one another. No matter what happens, I’m committed to that vision and I only hope you enjoy Fencing Academy in whatever form it takes in the future.

Anyways, please leave a comment. I’ll take into consideration all your feedback, I hope for your blessing in this but again, ultimately the decision is my own. I hope, even if I didn’t take the option you most wanted, we can still respect each other.

Edited by Redscaledknight. Lock your doors. Hide your daughters.

P.S. If I decide to publish FA, I will let you know in my Author's profile and my blog.

###

In her nightly walks Sara found herself wandering far from her school. At this time, even the boulevards behind the Golden Gate were dangerous, but the vagabonds took up a decidedly rakish flavor. Lounging about were gangs composed of bored nobles, ruffians of a more professional sort, streetwalkers clinking with steel beneath their dresses. But Sara’s reputation was well known. She was rarely accosted.

Night guardsmen patrolled All Saints Square, their boots echoing on the cobble road. The cathedral loomed like a gothic mountain, casting a black moonshadow. Some ways south the ring wall stood, and behind that the Ducal Palace, with all of its proud ministries dormant and dark. The gate guardsmen halted Sara.

“Papers?” he said from beneath a droopy mustache.

You know me, Tom, she thought to herself as she obediently fished her vest for a sheaf of crumpled documents.

Tom gave them a cursory look, his mustache twitching. “Looks good. How your students doing?”

Tom had a strange habit of pretending all passing were strangers until the proper documents were shown in full. It would be more annoying if he wasn’t so endearing afterward.

“Still cutting themselves on their own swords,” smiled Sara.

“That’s a relief to ‘ear. So’s my son, y’see, and it makes me hope ‘e isn’t as stupid as ‘e seems.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. If you send him over to the school, I’ll give him a free lesson. One free lesson.”

“’e'll be ‘appy with that, though it don’t make a dumb boy smart in a day methinks. Well, enough mouthboxing, off with ye.”

She knew Fiona had a private studio in the palace grounds. It was, in theory, a training hall to teach the Ducal family the martial arts, but Adriana had elected to attend a school instead: her school. Since then Fiona went there when she had nothing else to do. Fiona once told her she used it to meditate on her swordsmanship.

The air had the bite of salt and dew as always, and as she passed the tree-filled planters and tended curbs erupted a riot of cricket chirps. She strode past the barracks and entered the palace proper by a servant’s entrance. She knocked on the studio door

“Who’s that?” said Fiona beyond the door, in a huff of annoyance.

“It’s me,” said Sara to the door.

Sara heard Fiona shuffling stiffly. She had been perhaps kneeling, or reclining on the ground. “Hold on a second.”

Fiona opened the door after dragging her feet. Her eyepatch seemed a little crooked, and her remaining eye was crumpled as if it had recently been closed. The silver streak in her hair fell unfashionably across her brow.

“Got through the guards again?” she said blearily.

Sara brushed her nails on her bolero. “Didn’t need to. You were the one who was unwise enough to sponsor my security clearance.”

Fiona nodded, arms folded. “I suppose you’d like to spar.”

Sara wandered in the room. Sara at one point would have once been envious of Fiona’s studio, with the waxy hardwood floors on which her boot clicked pleasantly, to the high ceilings and broad archways. Now, Sunderland had the greatest fencing studio in Rotham, perhaps the world. Royalty would have little finer. “You supposed right.”

It took a few moments for Fiona to set up the chess set.

It was a checkered table with folding legs, beneath it two drawers with pieces. Both the women set their ranks. Sara happened to have white. She arrayed the marble pieces in front of her. Fiona’s pieces were of a veiny red color.

Sara pushed her queen’s pawn up two spaces. Fiona met her piece in the center with her own pawn. Sara played her second pawn.

“Queen’s gambit,” said Fiona.

Sara raised an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”

Fiona sniffed, appraising the move while tugging on her eyepatch. “You’re very predictable.”

“It is a good opening,” said Sara.

“It is a boring opening.” Fiona captured the bishop’s pawn, pushing it dismissively on its side.

Sara pushed her king’s pawn forward one space. “Perhaps you are predictable, in your unpredictable way.”

Fiona cocked an eyebrow, her chin resting on her knitted hands. “Hmm?”

“Your defiance for conventions means you make ‘interesting’ moves in favor of tried, tested one. It is a weakness.”

Fiona’s gaze returned to the board. “In war equal sides are rare.”

Sara smirked. “Chess is not war.”

Fiona pushed a pawn up to defend her attacking pawn.

“That’s a bad move,” remarked Sara with a frown.

Fiona winked with her remaining eye. “It is, but it’s an interesting one. Let’s see how what happens when you can’t rely on memorizing your precious openings.”

There was a flurry of exchanges, and Fiona used her lack of pawns to develop her minor pieces quickly. Sara was ahead in material, but Fiona controlled more of the board.

Fiona look pleased with herself. “Your problem, if I might say Sara, is that you’ve no real world experience. Only one of us has been an actual battlefield commander.”

Sara moved her bishop up. It positioned itself temptingly diagonal to a pawn, in capture range. “This is a game.”

“I can tell,” said Fiona, capturing the bishop with pawn, “For one, your bishop isn’t writhing on the ground, screaming for his mother.”

Sara’s fingers dangled over her knight, before electing to capture the pawn with the swoop of her queen. “You’re too focused on what you think you know, Fiona.”

Fiona smirked, and captured the queen with a leaping knight. “Some general principles apply to all games of strategy.”

“You don’t like to sacrifice your pieces, do you? You like to bring them all home, to their wives and children.” Sara pushed her remaining bishop up. “Check.”

Fiona frowned. “Even pawns deserve that.” She moved her king out of check, before tapping on the piece’s crown dismissively. “Why is the king the weakest piece? What sort of king is it that expects their queen to do the fighting for them?”

“A smart king, perhaps.” Fiona moved her bishop again. “Check. And checkmate in three.”

Fiona moved a pawn to block the bishop. Sara move a knight up to take advantage of the newly undefended space. “Checkmate in two.”

Fiona pushed her rook forward.

“Checkmate in—” Sara’s mouth suddenly twisted as she took in the move Fiona had just made. “That was a good move. I didn’t see that.”

Fiona leaned back in her chair, a triumphant grin on her face. “And you’re the one with two eyes, Sara.”

“This will be a long game,” muttered Sara, looking at the board with renewed interest.

“We will need some wine,” said Fiona

As Fiona produced two wine glasses and a bowl of olives, Sara did a close examination of the board. By the time she came back, Sara seemed to have decided on a move, but she seemed less certain than normal as she retreated her bishop behind a line of pawns.

Fiona crunched on an olive as she made her next move. “Is there something on your mind?”

Sara looked up at her from the board. “What do you mean?”

“You seem pensive.”

Sara laughed and took a sip of wine. “I would hope so, I’m playing chess.”

Fiona rolled her eyes, and said, “Don’t get smart.”

Sara’s smile faded and she seemed to accept the distraction from the game. It still took her a while to respond. “In the past five years, I’ve had a very good record.”

“Of?”

“Of students not killing each other,” said Sara, quickly moving a piece. “Before then, it seemed like every year, there’d be one, or several, death-duels.”

“That’s the nature of young people,” observed Fiona, no longer paying any attention to the game, “They’re impatient. They don’t understand anything.”

Sara nodded. “It is a sad thing, when there can only be one graduation each year, but no limit to the number of funerals… By the way, has Adriana considered my proposal to ban death-duels?”

“She’s looking at the edict,” shrugged Fiona, “but men do love their fighting.”

Sara continued after a sip of wine. “Anyway, five years ago, I undertook a new policy. A successful policy, I might add, that has reduced the number killings each year. My new policy is this: if two of my male students challenge each other to combat…” Sara popped an olive in her mouth, noisily chewed on it, then swallowed. “…I fuck them.”

Fiona raised an eyebrow. “There’s your Solissian morals, there.”

Sara might have been offended if Fiona had been Zachonian herself. But she is Svandian by blood, and a religious minority: a Martellian. In a land surrounded by strange foreigners with odd beliefs, it came to be a relief to be around non-Zachonians, even if they weren't Solissian. “They’re better than Zachonian morals,” said Sara bluntly, “In any case, you wouldn’t believe how amenable men become after they’re properly sexed.”

“Oh no, I definitely know that,” laughed Fiona.

“An unsexed man is an angry one, I’ve found,” continued Sara.

Fiona lifted an eyebrow. “Are you worried about this class?”

Sara’s mouth twisted. She made a quick sip of her wine and put it down. “Marcus almost challenged another student, Tom Hawker.”

Fiona’s face didn't twitch, but it darkened all the same. “I see. What stopped him?”

“Adriana’s fist.”

“Whoa,” breathed Fiona. Just imagining the impressive wound to Marcus’s pride caused her to sit straight.

Sara nodded with a lifted eyebrow. “I know.”

Fiona finally made a move on the chessboard. “Who is this Tom Hawker? And why shouldn’t I kick the shit out of him?”

“Tom is a commoner. A performance duelist with a sharp tongue. I’ve paired him with Marcus to get him to grow a thicker skin.”

“And it was this sharp tongue that almost got him in trouble?” asked Fiona.

Sara nodded. “And Marcus’s sensitivity. And unimpeachable pride. And his prudish morals. And everything else wrong with Marcus.”

“Marcus is a sweet boy, though,” said Fiona.

“I know. It is the sweet ones always die,” sighed Sara, putting her knight in a defensive position.

Fiona’s attention drifted back to the game for while, and it took her a long time to make a move. When she did, it was an aggressive one.

“Will you try and bed Marcus?” asked Fiona. It seemed like she had been thinking about the question for a while.

Sara seemed very uncertain, but Fiona couldn’t tell if it was about the game or the question. “I don’t think so. Marcus is not that sort of person.”

“What about this Hawker fellow?”

“Already done.” Sara made her move. Another defensive one. “The Hawker boy wants to impress Lyza Dunwall, though. He fancies her. Even though they look very alike, it sends me shivers.”

Fiona looked at the board. “Does Lyza like him back?”

Sara shrugged. “Who knows. They deserve each other…” Sara considered something, and added: “I worry about Lyza too.”

Fiona looked at Sara with interest. “Hmm?”

“Lyza has a black heart,” said Sara.

Fiona made a move. “She is a worthy successor to Margaret Fey, then.”

Sara considered Fiona's statement. “I can see that, but there are some differences. Danger made Margaret hot, she went off pursuing it so she could diddle herself afterward. Lyza, on the other hand, is full of murderous hatred, always obsessed with… killing. The other day I had Lyza and Adriana sparring. They were, on a technical level, quite good. But they weren’t fighting. Adriana just enjoyed swinging a sword. Lyza, on the other hand, she was practicing for a different sort of bout.”

Fiona lifted an eyebrow, and Sara explained:

“At any time, Lyza could have struck Adriana in quartata from an obvious opening, but she didn’t.”

Fiona leaned back and looked at Sara with interest. “Really.”

Sara looked out on the darkness outside the studio. She discovered herself biting her thumbnail. When she looked at it, it was jagged and deformed from teethmarks. “She told me later she was waiting for a killing blow.”

“She does know she only needs to bleed them, right?”

“Exactly,” said Sara. “It’s almost as if she’s an…”

….assassin.

That was the magic word. The word that would set Fiona off into Lyza’s path, and most likely into one or the other’s death. But the gravity of it made it heavy in her throat; Sara couldn’t say it. Instead, the thumbnail returned to her teeth.

“…a what?” asked Fiona.

“A fool,” finished Sara, angrily moving a piece.

“You’re the fool if you continue playing like this,” sighed Fiona, immediately capturing it.

Sara’s heart was no longer in the game. She didn’t even look down to see Fiona’s capture. Instead, she looked pensively out the window.

Fiona frowned, noting Sara’s lack of interest, and with a playful push knocked down her king.

“I forfeit,” said Fiona. “Let’s sit back, pour ourselves another bottle, and chat.”

Sara nodded. She still had a concerned look on her face, but she had brightened somewhat. “That sounds fun. What are you thinking about?”

Fiona lifted her glass, and declared, slowly and dramatically, “I am thinking about how we became the sexiest women in Rotham. To the two Furies.”

Sara finally broke a smile, and took her glass. “To the two remaining Furies.”

They both took great mouthfuls of wine, and winced as they swallowed.

Fiona rose her glass again, declaring, “To Margaret Fey. May she finally find the fight she was looking for.”

Sara followed Fiona’s toast with a bemused smile. “To Margaret Fey!”

They took another deep drink. The two empty wine glasses were set on the chessboard hard enough to knock some of the pieces over, pawns made circular orbits around the battlefield. A warmth began to permeate Sara’s insides.

Fiona poured herself a third glass. “Forty-four years old, Sara. Unmarried, no children, amazing career. And paradoxically, thoroughly fucked. My mother’s worst nightmare is come true.”

Sara smiled as she watched Fiona sip at the wine. “Funny. That’s was my mother’s dream for me.”

Fiona suddenly looked guilty. “Ah. I’m sorry I brought that up.”

Sara had a thin smile. “I was making a joke. Relax.” When it was clear Fiona was not getting more comfortable, she asked, “If you could change one thing, Fiona, what would it be?”

Fiona looked thoughtful as she took a mouthful of wine. “You’d think me selfish if I said it.”

Sara laughed. “This is a selfish topic.”

“True, true…” she repeated, looking down. She seemed to debate herself whether she should say what was on her mind, when she suddenly confided, “I guess… I guess I would have liked to have fought in a bigger war.”

Sara was surprised. “I never thought of you as someone who relished that sort of thing.”

Fiona waved her hand defensively. “No… no. I should say, I wish I fought a better war. I mean… I suppose trade routes are important to any empire. But… I don’t know.” Fiona suddenly became quite expressive, gesturing with enthusiasm. “OK, so, think of it this way. Artisia’s first female officer was against in their war against us— Lady… Dolese… I believe. What a hero she was, holding off the hordes of Zachonian scum and what not. But me…” she prodded herself insistently, “I’m Zachon’s Lady Dolese. I’m the first female officer we've ever had. But what do I get? A squabble over some icebergs with Sladost.”

Sara nodded. “A very bloody squabble over icebergs.”

“Aye,” agreed Fiona, her eyes drifting, “bloody indeed.”

Sara leaned back, recovering from the ingestion of so much wine. “Do you think Margaret could have beaten you?” she asked.

Fiona leaned down and picked up the second bottle off the floor. “You’re sounding like the newspapers, Sara.”

“You can’t say you’re not curious.”

Fiona nodded absently. She plunged the corkscrew into the bottle’s neck and began to work the cork out. “I am, I suppose. But I would never do anything to please those bloodthirsty columnists.”

Sara looked at the dregs at the bottom of her glass as she thought. Most papers had a page devoted to duels: schedules of upcoming fights, descriptions of battles won and lost, but most annoyingly, endless speculation on who would win a particular bout. Several years ago, a writer with the unfortunate name Anselmo Pottage began to write obsessively about female duelists. He identified Fiona Nyvall, Sara Sunderland and Margaret Fey as the best female fencers in Rotham, and nicknamed the three of them “the Furies”. The title itself annoyed Sara, but what incensed her was when Anselmo began to write vividly of vicious rivalry between them. Sunderland called Nyvall this, Nyvall named Sunderland a that, and a duel between them would be inevitable.

Of course, Sara and Fiona had never been anything except friends. Defiantly, the two of them refused to fight, not even to train.

But Margaret Fey… she took it seriously.

The young, impetuous woman emerged from the Great Unrest soaked, in head to toe, with blood. She had a death wish, and was drawn to danger like a fly on a corpse. In its pursuit she had challenged some very competent duelists and had emerged victorious, some of her opponents as storied as Fiona and Sara, slain. She paired with an insufferable noble, Victoria Knightling, known for challenging others to duels on reflex… always electing to use a champion, of course. The two of them became notorious. Victoria used Margaret’s fearsome reputation to bully her way into the elite social circles, and Margaret got into more death-duels than she could have gotten into alone. Occasionally, when reporters crowded around her, Margaret would make it clear: she intended to best Sara and Fiona, and she would always challenge them to meet her on the Field of Honor.

That was until that orphan arrived.

It was a joke at first. Lyza Dunwall was cast as the foolish young girl with a suicidal pride, untested and literally unwashed. Margaret Fey at least had enough shame to feel bad about challenging such an obviously outmatched girl, but not enough to back down. Fey deserved everything that happened afterward. She got herself killed in a fight she should have won in every analysis.

Sara had been watching the fight from atop the roofs, crowded as it was with onlookers. When the final blow was struck, a wave of deep shock and silence went over them. But Sara had been impassive. She had always guessed that someone would one day get the better of Margaret Fey. That day had finally come. As Margaret lay dying, Sara could not find it within herself to feel sorry for her.

The cork popped off the wine bottle, and Fiona refilled both their glasses with a greedy look in her eyes.

Fiona was curious. “What do you think of Dunwall? Is she good?”

“Middling,” said Sara. “Her control with the blade is impeccable. But she’s full of instinct. Thoughtless. No strategy.”

Fiona nodded. “What of Adriana?”

Sara would need to be more careful here. “She is technically excellent.”

Fiona looked at her. “And…?”

“…She fights like she dances,” said Sara.

Fiona huffed. “She doesn’t quite understand she might need to defend herself one day.”

“I know,” said Sara, sipping the wine and looking absently out the window. “I should get going.”

Fiona seemed bothered by that. “Why, is there a duel at dawn you have to go to?” she asked.

Sara drained her cup. “Actually, yes.”

###

Overnight a light rain had poured over the city, and from it a fog had cast the morning into a pallor. Sara found it cloying to her skin. She had to wear a hooded cloak to keep herself dry.

Crowds were already gathering on the outskirts of the city, men and women silent and grim. Sara glanced briefly at a man she recognized. Though he wore a townsman’s outfit of raw linens, his square face and serious demeanor struck her as immediately out of place. She knew she was looking at one of Adriana’s bodyguards, but in plainclothes instead of the purples and yellows of Rotham. She jerked her head away before he noticed her looking at him.

A ladder was set leaning against a building. A line of people circled it, and in front of the line a boy shouted in a cracking voice: “Good seats, a good view! Two coppers! Two coppers!”

Sara cut in line, behind a short girl with a black cloak. She leaned toward the girl, mouth to her ear.

“I didn’t know you came out to watch the duels, Addy.”

The girl spun around, the black hood almost falling from her head. “Mrs. Sara…”

The Duchess, without makeup and finery, looked to be a common, if pretty, peasant girl. Little moles dotted her slender neck and her eyes seemed more innocent than piercing. Many envious Rotham girls would love to see the Duchess as she was now. In truth, Sara thought her prettier this way.

“How… did you know it was me?”

“I guessed,” said Sara, “You were about… Addy’s height. And I recognized one of your friends. So I thought it might be you.”

Adriana said nothing. Perhaps she was impressed. Perhaps she knew not what to say.

Sara nodded. “Still… what are you doing here?”

“Same as you, Miss. I’ve come to see the duel.”

“I assumed that, but for what purpose? For entertainment, or…”

The Duchess coughed lightly, her hand covering her mouth to disguise it. The ill air was getting to her. “I believe it is important to understand my providence. That means being on the streets, seeing things as my lessers do.”

Lessers. Only the Duchess could be condescending and wise, humane and dehumanizing all in the same breath. Adriana’s upbringing was not conducive to a self-reflective, insightful human being, but it seemed that the girl always put a tragic yet heroic effort into not being the arrogant, proud person it would be so easy to be.

It said much good about her, at the least.

Sara took a quick glance at Adriana’s bodyguard. He was looking back at her, his face stony, eyes full of warning. His hand rested on something beneath his cloak. Sara looked forward and swallowed nervously. She could not get up the ladder fast enough.

“Two coppers,” the boy said, holding out a grubby hand. Sara stepped in front of Adriana and paid for the both of them.

As they mounted the ladder, Adriana seemed angry. She hissed quietly, “Why did you pay for me? I’ve got more money than you.”

Sara nodded. “True. But the boy doesn’t know that.”

Adriana seemed to accept that. They climbed the ladder. The roof was almost full. It could barely be called safe, rainslick as it was, but the enterprising owner had installed footholds to keep customers from slipping. Both women had to unbuckle their swords to give them room to sit down.

The two coppers were well spent. They had an excellent view of the Field of Honor, the two duelists and their parties already gathered. They were prim and straight in their black clothes. Standing beneath an umbrella, a woman in pink watched in enigmatic interest. Sara just wondered where their swords were.

“Why did you come to this? I thought you hated these sorts of fights,” asked Adriana.

Sara sighed. She was still searching for where the swords were being kept. “I feel like I have a duty to.”

“A duty?”

“Yeah.” She sniffed. “Someone needs to remember how these men fought.”

In truth, Sara wasn’t sure why she felt she needed to come. Every time she saw a fight she felt sick for the rest of the evening. But she did it anyway. A sense of duty pulled at her annoyingly.

The men began to take positions on either side of the field, still without their swords. Something clawed at Sara’s heart. Two other men walked up to their respective partners with slim, wooden boxes. They pulled back the lids.

“Fuck,” growled Sara, “It’s a pistol duel.”

Both men took their respective guns. The woman in pink, large brimmed hat sitting inclined across her head, looked impassive.

When Sara turned to Adriana, she found her looking at her.

“It’s the… the damn woman,” she spat. “They’re going to shoot each other for a woman.”

Adriana was bewildered by Sara's anger. “What do you mean?”

Sara was fuming, she could barely control the tone of her voice. “She could have chosen one. Or neither. Or both. It’s because of her indecisiveness that these men will be killing each other. And… and in a pistol duel… of all…” Sara was out of words. She bit her lip instead, and cursed silently for the mood had been spoiled for the day.

Adriana said nothing. Her eyes went back to the approaching fight. Meanwhile, Sara boiled quietly, her face curled in a snarl even as her eyes affixed on the scene.

As the men prepared themselves, Sara couldn’t help herself. “Pistols take no skill,” she raved as quietly as possible, “it is random, whether you get shot or not. So there’s no victory to the most skilled. It’s all about rolling the dice. Men love rolling dice.”

Adriana stared ahead; clearly she didn’t want to say anything. Sara got the message, so she put her thumbnail between her teeth and angrily bit down on it. It was still a jagged mess from what she did to it yesterday, but the feel of the serration against her tongue distracted her.

She stared at the lady in pink, her face hidden behind a wide-brimmed hat, looking so demure beneath the umbrella, so innocent, so guilty. When the lady in pink turned suddenly, Sara thought she saw herself for a brief moment. That feeling soured her.

I live in a glass house. I throw stones.

Sara suddenly realized the duel was on. They faced each other proudly on that hill, turned to their sides with the backs straight. The challenger lifted the large pistol and fired the first shot. The gun gouted and rang. There was a collective wince. The defendant still stood. He lifted the pistol and took his shot. The challenger didn’t move. From this distance, no emotion could be discerned on the men’s faces.

Sara found herself detached from the outcome… it was a selfish thought, but Sara wanted them to shoot each other quickly. The display had become both tedious and heart-wrenching.

But they were far from their next shot. The challenger busied himself plunging a ramrod into the pistol. The defender was measuring powder from a horn. Both men lost their proud composure completely. And who wouldn’t, when in mortal combat you are expected to do alchemy? thought Sara.

The challenger lifted his pistol, aimed carefully at the sweating opponent, and fired. The opponent twisted a bit… Sara thought he had been hit, but in truth it was just a flinch. The challenger turned a different shade as the defending party lifted his pistol. He fired. There was no doubt about the result of this shot: the challenger twisted in the air as if punched in the stomach by a titanic fist.

There was a wail from the women on the challenger’s side… mothers and sisters rushed to him, fathers and brothers stepped forward in disbelief, but the lady in pink did and said nothing, her hands weaved piously together. Sara had seen enough of the farce.

“Come, Addy, we are leaving.”

The show having finished, a line already formed to descend from the roof. It annoyed Sara that she would have to watch a little longer, as the priest came forward and said a few prayers over the fallen one. The defender did not seem overly pleased with his victory, his head hung low and moodily. A friend of his put his hand on his shoulder and whispered something comforting into his ear.

When the opportunity came, Sara clambered down the ladder as quickly as possible.

On the street again, Sara turned to Adriana. “You see why I want death duels banned, Addy?”

Adriana said nothing, and simply cast her gaze down the street. That pestered Sara.

“Did you hear what I said?”

Adriana glared at Sara, lifting her nose proudly. “Do not use that tone with me. I’m your Duchess.”

“So you’re a Duchess now that it’s convenient for you?” Sara shook her head in disgust. “What a way to rough it, Your Highness.”

Adriana’s mouth twisted in anger.

Sara was about to say something, but she noticed two things. First, Adriana’s bodyguard gave her a murderous gaze. And behind him, up the street, a knot of journalists and cameramen began to form. If one of them spotted her, they would ask for her opinion of this travesty. That would be a true waste of time.

Sara twisted her head in a direction. “Come. I want to show you how your subjects eat.”

Adriana’s anger faded. She followed Sara down the street, Adriana’s bodyguards stalking behind. It was a ten minute walk to a street corner far from the commotion, Leper’s Bridge in sight. A street stall stood there, seven empty stools in front a long, uneven counter.

Adriana wrinkled her nose from the acrid smell wafting from the inside; she hoped it wasn’t the food.

Sara rapped her knuckles against the counter.

A large, hideous man with fat, sausage fingers waddled out from the back. His skin was jaundiced to the color of old parchment, covered with rough spots and greenish miscolorations. The bags beneath his eyes were deep and dark, and seemed to sink into his cheeks. He slowly rubbed his frayed, unevenly balding head. He seemed to be trying to recall Sara.

Adriana wrinkled her nose again. It wasn’t the stall that stunk. It was the man.

“Oi. Sara,” the yellow man laughed. He spoke slowly. “How good id is to see you. Long time, long time.”

Sara nodded with an uncomfortable smile. “You too, Guille. You look… great.”

“Don’t lie, Sara. I look like a living boil wid legs ‘n arms. I caughd liver worms from the river.” As if to prove his point, Guille made an impressive phlegmy cough into a handkerchief. “I’m dying,” he said glumly.

Sara laughed. “Don’t say that.”

“’Tis true, though. Two munds, the doctor says.” Guille scratched his chin “How’s id going wid you?”

“I run a fencing school now,” said Sara.

Guille’s eyes brightened with a memory. “Aye, aye you told me that. I’m glad you got your dream. Id does me heart good, id does me heart good.”

“I don’t know what I’ll do without your meat pies,” said Sara.

Guille nodded slowly. “You want to buy this place? For you, half a pound.”

Sara was surprised “You’re not leaving it to your son?”

Guille shook his head. “No, he was never one for charcuderie. He preferred butchery of a different sord.”

Sara looked confused, so Guille clarified, “Donovan works for the Lady Picod now.”

Sara remember Donovan as an eager and innocent youth, whose eyes went starry upon seeing Sara’s sword. When she drew it for him, he would ask desperately if he could touch it. It was a sad thing the boy had fallen with a bad crowd.

“I’m sorry Guille, I have no use for a street stall. I’m sure you’ll find someone though.”

Guille nodded sadly, before saying, “I ‘spose you wouldn’d wand a dying man to serve you, then.”

Sara knew that liver worms were passed through stool. “It shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll have beef stew with rye and headcheese. My friend will have the same.”

Guille leaned forward to look at Adriana’s face, blinking at her with custard eyes. Adriana tried to pull the hood further over her head, but after a moment he suddenly jolted back, his chin jiggling and eyes wide. “My Saints, I would have never thoughd the Duchess herself would grace me stall.” Guille reached to doff his hat that wasn’t there.

Adriana blushed hard, and Sara stepped in. “It’s alright, Guille. She’s just a customer.”

Guille gazed at the armed men loitering around the stall with fresh understanding. “Alrighd.” He turned to the Duchess with a flash of pride. “I may be dying, poor and old, but I will make you the best beef stew that your fancy cooks would never dream up.”

If Adriana feared for her hygiene, it was misplaced. Guille dipped his meaty, yellow arms into a soapy basin and tenderly washed his forearms. Then he set to work, first vigorously scrubbing his counter, then plopping a heaping of vegetables and expertly chopping at them with a cleaver.

Sara leaned to Adriana and whispered, “Guille was my favorite vendor when I first arrived in Rotham. He used to serve me free food when I had no money.”

Adriana nodded. “He seems a good man.”

“He is,” agreed Sara. “It is a shame about his son, though. Street dueling is a deadly lifestyle.”

Adriana said nothing. Her silence began to grate on Sara’s nerves.

Sara spoke calmly, but she could not completely suppress her impertinence. “Are you aware, Your Grace, of the number of men who die in duels each year? Dozens, in good times. Men who could have been productive citizens, who could have taken care of wives and children. Dead. And for what? A little honor?”

Again, she said nothing.

Sara cleared her throat. “You seem to have little to say on this subject. Have you not read my—”

“Yes, I’ve read your petition,” said Adriana. She seemed transfixed by Guille’s expert knifework. “It is not as simple as issuing an edict.”

“Then enlighten me,” said Sara, a little more brusquely than she’d intended.

“You seem to forget often you can only speak to me like that in the classroom, in your capacity as my fencing instructor,” said Adriana curtly, “but I shall ignore it for right now. As for how my power works, I cannot simply issue edicts. I have a council of nobles. I have a legal responsibility to take counsel from them before I create new law. And that council would oppose such a ban.”

“But… Your Grace,” Sara added 'Your Grace' quickly, “you could persuade them.”

Adriana nodded. “I could try.”

“But you won’t.”

Adriana looked uncomfortable. “No, I won’t.”

Sara sighed. “…Because you support death duels.”

Adriana turned to face Sara. “I respect your opinions, Sara, I really do. But this is a position I cannot hold.”

Sara spun in her seat. She couldn’t disguise her passion any more. “Why not?”

Adriana narrowed her eyes. “Tone,” she quietly reminded her, before continuing. “Because in Rotham, two men are free to fight, to the death if they wish, if they both agree to do so. It is one of Zachon’s treasured rights. For me to intercede in that would be tyrannical.”

Sara’s face twisted, and she slammed her fist against the counter. “How… how dare you speak of tyranny, when my homeland of Soliss is a slave to Zachon!”

Adriana didn’t raise her voice. “The people of Soliss are as free as they ever were. Freer. You, of all people, should appreciate that.”

Sara went pale. She knows. Had Fiona told her? An indecipherable feeling pervaded her. Shame, anger, a lingering indignity over Adriana’s obstinacy, mingling together, marring her mouth in a tight twist. How long had she known?

If it had been for a while, then it was clear Adriana looked at her, not as a woman soiled, but as her instructor, with respect and an appreciation for her knowledge. Even as she had every reason to treat her with pity and discomfort, as Fiona herself sometimes did when it was brought up.

By the Saints, the food was finished with perfect timing. The man served two plates with some great bowls of beef broth with sides of rye bread smothered with chunky head cheese. Adriana looked at the head cheese with apprehension. It was not something nobles often ate.

In any case, the tension seemed to break with the bread.

Guille watched Adriana with bated breath as she bit into the black bread. Adriana chewed it over a few times, before a pleasant expression passed over her face.

“It pleases Your Grace?” asked Guille hopefully.

“It does,” said the Duchess, “It is an odd texture, but the flavor is excellent.”

Guille bowed his head multiple times. He was so appreciative he began to trip over his words. “Oh, Your Grace— I am— overjoyed!”

Sara quickly scarfed down the bread. The head cheese had a jelly texture with meaty chunks in it. Sara chased it by sipping directly from the beef broth. Adriana mimicked her, also putting the bowl to her lips and slurping it up. The broth was pleasant and hot, meaty with the sweetness of the vegetables.

“This is delicious,” commented Adriana as she wiped her mouth. It was not so much praise as it was an observation.

“You honor me,” said Guille. He seemed to hesitate, and then he said, “You probably don’d remember me, Your Grace, bud I was there when ye was made Duchess. That was three years ago, methinks.”

“Yes… yes I do seem to recall you,” Adriana said diplomatically, “Were you in the crowd?”

“Aye. And ye was… fifteen, methinks. I always thoughd you’d make a fine Duchess, if ye don’d mind me saying. I weeped with ye family when ye brothers passed, aye.”

“Your sympathy is appreciated,” said Adriana.

Sara idly turned her head towards the street, and almost threw herself over the counter over what she saw. It was Massimo Ferrone, in his bloomy silks and greasiest smile, a muckraker and gossiper armed with a pen and printing press. His columns were often alongside luminaries such as Anselmo Pottage, giving gruesome details of human combat in sensual detail. Sara pulled her purple ponytail over her shoulder to make it less noticeable from a distance, and stooped over her soup.

Adriana seemed to sense something was wrong, and she suddenly went quiet, and she adjusted the hood over her face.

It was too late. Massimo glided over to Sara’s side and pulled a stool.

“Sara, my friend,” he bleated nasally, “I was surprised I didn’t see you.”

Sara sighed and swallowed a mouthful of soup. “That was because I saw you first.” She tried very hard not to look at Massimo.

Massimo looked as though he was about to order something, but stopped himself as he looked at Guille’s skin tone. Instead Massimo sneered and preened his greasy black hair back and wiggled his cratered nose.

“Sara, all these years and I still do not know what I’ve done to offend you.”

“You make money off human carnage,” said Sara, “and you don’t even kill anybody.”

“What does that make you, then?” said Massimo, his hands wriggling together. The humid day had given him a sheen of sweat. The sound of his palms squeezing wetly sent a gross feeling in Sara.

“I teach people a honorable and challenging sport,” said Sara.

“Ha! You sound as the Humberts do,” said Massimo. He moved on. “Do you think Lyza Dunwall should be a Fury?”

Sara gave Massimo a sidelong glance. “I don’t know about Lyza, but I nominate the Weeping Maiden.” Sara added quickly, “That was a joke. Don’t write it down.”

Massimo looked disappointed. “And the duel today? What do you think of that?”

“Pistol duels are a little out of my sphere,” said Sara.

“They say in ten years most duels will be fought with pistols…”

Sara knew Massimo was trying to bait her into saying something interesting. And Sara knew he had succeeded.

Sara twisted in her stool, fully facing Massimo. “In ten years there will be no dueling. I will put an end to it.”

“How?”

“I will convince the Duchess to pass a ban on death-duels.”

Sara faced away from Adriana, though she became acutely aware of a pair of eyes drilling into her back.

“You intend to use your position as her fencing instructor... for political purposes?” asked Massimo.

“Do I intend to do it? No, I already have,” she said. “I’ve already drafted an edict to the Duchess… She told me she shares my position on this. It is only a matter of time.”

Adriana would not like that in the least. But the flash of fear on Massimo’s face was worth it.

Massimo quickly disguised it with a smile and a mocking whistle. “Oh my. Perhaps I should be worried?”

“You should be, especially since it also says the last death duel will be between you and me. I’ve already written the column for it. Sara Sunderland, legendary fencer, penetrates Massimo’s heart with a forceful thrust. Massimo gargles on his own blood, his eyes wide and full of fear. Before he dies, he tells the world, ‘I must make my confession before I die: I’m a huge cunt.’”

Massimo was laughing now, revealing a set of crooked teeth. “That would be something. I think I have enough from you now to write a nice, long piece. If you excuse me…”

He pushed the stool back into the stall and sauntered down the street. Sara watched him go down the street, partly out of hatred, and partly from dread at seeing Adriana’s face. When she could no longer wait, she turned. She got the look she feared from her.

Adriana’s eye were pure ice, her eyebrows curled sharply. “You’ve put me in a very awkward position,” she said, “and not just me, you. What do you think they’ll write of you when they find you’ve been lying?”

It had been an impulse. No matter who died on the Field of Honor, Massimo was always emerged victorious. His career was built squeezing shillings and pence from the corpses of young men. For once, she wanted to win. If only for a moment.

It was her stomach, now, that felt heavy. She might have ruined her career for but a moment of emotional satisfaction.

I do not normally act this way, Sara thought to herself.

Adriana told Guille, “We’re done here. Thank you very much.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a pound note.

Guille was shocked. “Your Grace… I couldn’t…”

“Take it,” insisted Adriana.

With a guilty expression, Guille swept up the money. He gave them both steaming meat pies to take home and thanked them profusely.

###

It was a minor miracle that Lyza was absent that day. Sara was drained, and had no energy to deal with the rebellious, violent eighteen year-old. More worryingly, Marcus was absent too. Adriana striking him was an unimaginable insult, particularly for such a sensitive, idealistic youth. Sara imagined him curled up somewhere dark, unable to face the day.

Adriana’s performance in class was purely perfunctory. She performed well, but Sara couldn’t help but think it was to avoid comment from her. Without a Lyza to impress or a Marcus to embarrass, Tom was lazy. Only Sona the Spider-Eater seemed to have her heart in the class. The exotic girl’s height and long arms made her a intimidating fencer, but she was used to the fighting styles of her home, making cuts typical of a falchion that didn’t quite work with the rapier.

The class dragged on unmercifully long. Things after that were hazy. Sara didn’t even remember how she ended up in her study, head lolling strangely on her armchair, eye blinking heavily and tiredly. Her eyes traced a shelf along the wall.

She pulled one of the books at random. It was The Manual of Practical Fencing: A Survey and Assessment of Styles Common and Exotic, and below it, it read in elegant gold lettering: By Sara Sunderland.

She opened in the middle of the book and began to read aloud. “Around the year 100 the art of fencing was largely influenced by military applications. Hacking weapons were more prominent in this period as it was necessary to pulverize shields. Civilian dueling was largely performed with the ax. Even as swords became more prominent there was much emphasis on parrying with heavy counter-cuts and disabling opponents with singular blows, in stark contrast to the lighter, faster styles of the east.”

Her throat was getting dry. She paused to pour herself a goblet of wine. She swallowed it, unconcerned about the flavor, and continued. “There is a second reason for the persistence of heavy weapons in civilian battle. The warrior culture peculiar to that era of Zachonian history eschewed inflicting unnecessary pain against honorable opponents. The more swift and painless a kill, the more honor to both the slayer and slain, it was said. This persistent belief led to a period of Zachonian military weakness from a growing rival Artisian kingdom in the east, who had no such particular compunctions.”

“That changed with the invention of the Hirschfanger, a Wellenstien innovation readily adopted in Zachon. The Hirschfanger gave Zachonian knights and soldiers the ability to euthanize a dying opponent painlessly in combat, and thus Zachonians finally felt able to adopt Artisian military tactics and weapons without compromising their honor. The code, while no longer influential in the Zachonian military, is very much alive in Rotham’s dueling culture. The Hirschfanger has raised the art of death-dueling to something civil and honorable. Concerns about the prolonged and torturous death of an opponent no longer apply. The duelist need only concern themselves with one thing: winning the duel, and slaying their opponent.”

When Sara reached the last few lines, her voice trailed off. It had felt like another hand entirely had penned it, but as her fingers traced the words she knew they were hers. The black ink was indelible.

Did I write this before Yohn and Richard, or…

It was so long ago, long enough where memories jumbled and it was difficult to discern which order events occurred. She couldn’t remember how she met Yohn and Richard. As far as she could recall, they had simply apparated from Rotham’s mists.

They were both handsome, each in their own way. Yohn was dapper and charming, lithe and musical. Hawker reminder her of him. Richard was more morose, larger, and bearded. In the good times they were all friends. But new feelings smoldered slowly and unexpectedly. Sara found herself simmering at night with the thought of either of them in her bed. They had come under a similar spell for her. Men do not share well, she heard often from many, and their friendship turned inexorably into rivalry.

She did as any young woman wanting for sex and attention from men would: she juggled them both. She flirted with each of them as the other looked away, made them both feel special, as if they were the only one. But she wanted didn’t want to choose, she never intended to: she wanted them both. And she did, if for but one night.

They had finished a night of drinking. Sara had let her hair down that night, her purple locks spilling over her shoulders. Her cheeks were reddened and body hot with the intoxicants that coursed through her. She had been entirely charmed by the two men sitting in front of her, and she was ready invite either of them to her bedroom for the night. Which one, she cared little. Except as the night wore on it became clearer things would be more complicated than that. Richard didn’t want to leave Yohn alone with her, and the feeling was mutual for Yohn. They chose to wait it out, a decision Sara found immensely boring.

She had given up. She stood up from her seat and said, “Well, I don’t know about you boys, but I’m off to bed.”

“Let me escort you,” said Richard quickly, in his low, quiet voice.

Yohn was irritated that Richard had beaten him to it. “I’ll come with you,” he said, glaring at Richard.

They left the tavern, and only Sara was happy. As she hooked her arms around the two men’s waists, she wondered how she would lure one into bed without invoking the envy of the other. There was something about having the two men compete over her that aroused her immensely. She often indulged in a sexual fantasy that involved Yohn and Richard wrestling each other on the ground, barechested and sweating, bruises spotting their muscular backs, their abdominals squeezing together almost sensuously…

Another memory intruded on her. She was transfixed to a piece of yellow parchment, like an aged newspaper clipping. She couldn’t seem to look away. She read it against her will. The title read:

YOHN TRAVERS VS. RICHARD GREY

By Massimo Ferrone

She returned to her home. The three of them had walked silently, but Sara had used the opportunity to feel the muscular clefts in their stomachs. In Yohn it was smoother, more shallow and wiry. In Richard it was deeper and hard, like rocks with just a little pleasant give. They both had a musky, manly scent, when mingled, evoked something animal in her.

The journey was over, they stood by her front door facing each other, like two battalions of pikemen squaring off. Sara rationally knew she should send them both home.

She hadn’t planned on saying it. It just sort of came out… she huskily said, “Why don’t you guys come in?”

…Travers and Grey, both esteemed duelists, met of the Field of Honor. Their motivation, to win the heart of fellow fencer Sara Sunderland. The young beauty, already known for her encyclopedic knowledge of the deadly art, is the object of many a man’s fancy, though only the most talented fencer will conquer her heart. Her face was inscrutable as both men drew their swords for battle…

The steps that lead up to it were lost to her. The three of them were simply crushed together by the bed. Sara’s fingers began to tug and pull at Richard’s breeches, her finger coming into electric contact with the hardness just beneath the cloth. At the same time, she leaned her head back to accept Yohn’s tongue in her mouth. Their chests were squeezed against hers from either side, both hard as washboards… she could barely remember to breath, she sniffed up as much air as she could, taking in the intoxicating scent of male arousal.

Richard’s thin beard and lips tickled her neck. His cock, finally freed, hit insistently against her still clothed belly. Two sets of hands, from both the men, eased the bolero off her shoulders. She loved how smoothly they did it, how Richard’s heavy hands pushed beneath the leather, gliding over her breasts, and how Yohn helpfully tugged each sleeve out.

Richard’s lips were deliciously unoccupied. She pressed her mouth against his, lips easing each other open. Her fingers skinned Richard’s chest hair, traveling further and further down, until she could playfully tug his hardness. He was already hot and wet, the skin moved over cockhead easily. As she kissed Richard, Yohn’s long-fingered hands slid up and down her stomach, grasping at her tunic so that her breasts could spill out from the top. Two fingers pinched a nipple. The sensation made Sara groan and smile into Richard’s kiss.

…As the bout started, the two men paced back and forth, the main-gauche at the ready to intercept any sudden lunges. Tension hung thick in the air, their breath even and steady, determination to win deep in their eyes. At this point, all knew only one of the men would leave the duel alive…

Their clothes were finally discarded. She leaned against Richard, pressing and grinding her back into this hard cock and heavy balls. He held her shoulders as, by her feet, Yohn knelt, his fingers sliding and preparing her netherlips, his own cock so stiff it practically reached his bellybutton. When he was satisfied by her wetness, he gave her a broad, seductive smile. She did nothing but watch with anticipation as he knelt into her, the knob of his dick descending beneath the curly pubic hairs of her pussy. A jolt shivered through her as she felt herself peel open. She gasped and undulated against Richard, whose heavy hand continued to pin her.

When Yohn was fully inside, he gave her another, teasing smile, almost as boyish as it was roguish, and he started to pump. His dick was narrow but long, it reached deep inside, almost enough to press against her womb. The sensation was extraordinary… but it was not the size, nor Yohn’s thrusting, nor Richard’s tender, brown eyes looking down at her, but the two men she was with. The two men that had meant the most to her in the world, that had been her rock as she endured the dark city of Rotham.

Yohn was reaching a pitch, his crotch now making a slapping sound with each thrust. Her legs tightened around him. She pressed her hand against Richard’s cock, the tip slick with precum. Knowing that his cock would soon be in her too made her feverish with excitement. She was no longer aware of her gasps and moans. It was the scents and feelings that gripped her now.

She would not let him cum though. Not yet. The night was too young. There were too many things she wanted to do, and have done to her.

…It was Yohn who lunged first. A twist from Richard turned what should have been lethal blow into a minor scratch. Richard’s riposte was equally skillful, but anticipated. Yohn dodged out of the way, his wiry, agile body serving him well. The fight went back and forth for quite some time, with neither opponent dominant. It seemed the air had left the world…

Richard had her on her hands and knees, his fingers delicately stroking where Yohn had just penetrated her, heat radiating from his erection. Occasionally, it would prod into the flesh of her ass, sending a jolt of arousal as she nuzzled against Yohn’s cock. She didn’t have it in her mouth, she simply held her lips against its base, her nose buried in Yohn’s curled pubic hairs. His hand came to press her deeper into his chest, into the trail across his stomach. His chest was smooth and knotted, his muskiness overrode any senses she might have.

Even before she was penetrated, her body began to undulate in anticipation, her wetness grinding against Richard’s muscular thighs. Richard got the message, he stooped forward, and with a thrust pushed a thick cockhead into her. His deep groan made Sara’s mouth water. Sucking Yohn’s cock became an expression of how she felt as Richard fucked her. With hard thrusts her lips would tighten around it, in an effort not to bite down, and when he slowed she would lick at it sensuously, admiring the taste of sex.

It was difficult to blow Yohn and get fucked by Richard at the same time. But, it would be such a waste if she didn’t give it her best effort.

…Richard was breathing hoarsely. The larger man who moved with surprising alacrity had used all his energy in the first half of the fight. He found himself too slow to evade Yohn’s rapid, lightning attacks…

They now squeezed her between them, her breasts crushed against Richard’s chest, Yohn’s pecs and cock at her naked back.

It was beyond her wildest imagination that she’d be like this, between two of her favorite men, Yohn pressing against her ass, Richard her pussy. Amazingly, there had been no negotiation, no begging on her part. She wasn’t even aware of the name for the act they were about to do.

Yohn and Richard lifted her, adjusted her, and lowered her onto them. Both of their members slid into her front and rear entrance. The sensation was exquisite and thunderous, she threw her head back and screamed her approval.

As she was, she was too jammed up to even move… the men had to do the work. They undulated experimentally… she felt movement in her ass and pussy. She was open now, completely exposed and split from every angle. Her emotions and senses became one: she was vulnerable, in pain and pleasure, and yet so safe and warm.

She wondered how she could have normal sex after this.

They were awkward at first. Despite that, Sara enjoyed the fruits of their experimentation, even as it stung, unpredictable thrusts and pullings as they adjusted themselves inside her. The men quickly got the hang of it. They had to work together, thrust together. At peak entrance only a thin layer of flesh prevented the cocks from touching. It would be exciting to imagine how close their dicks were to one another, but sensation occupied every part of Sara’s mind. All she could manage was to hold on. She wrapped both her arms around Richard’s back, and gripped tightly…

…In a daring strike, Yohn sidestepped Richard and struck him in his back. Steel sank into his flesh, and he twisted before it could go deeper…

The men continued to pump into her. Their rhythm had almost completely matched, and it was as though a great weight drove in and out of her with every thrust. She was entirely insensible, she sweated and groaned and clawed, she allowed Richard to suck the dew forming on her nipples, his beard tickling her. Tears stung her eyes.

…Richard slowed, stumbling back. Yohn saw his opportunity, and pushed forward. He took every cut he could, and all Richard could do was minimize the damage…

Her body would give out eventually, but she wanted to stay like this for as long as she could. She wanted to feel them both inside her, as if they had both meant to be there. She held on to Richard’s head possessively, her arms wrapped around his neck, squeezing him against her.

Their cocks throbbed inside. Were they close? She hoped not. She wanted this a little longer. Just a little longer.

…Suddenly, a lunge from Yohn plunged into Richard’s stomach. Blood dripped down the edge of the blade, splattering in the grass. As Yohn looked into Richard’s eyes, he saw not anguish but determination. Richard grasped the sword in his belly and held it tight…

“No, no… not yet,” she voiced. They’d orgasm soon, and after that they’d be gone. Their seed would stick inside, but they themselves would be gone. She didn’t want that.

But came they did. Both men gasped and groaned, their faces full of adorable ecstasy. They thrust together, one final one, something hot and wet filled her insides, in her bowels and her womb together.

…Yohn suddenly realized he had been fooled. Richard gripped the sword tighter with his right hand, pulled the Hirschfanger with his left, and pulled it across Yohn’s throat. Lifeblood spurted from his split neck. He gurgled helplessly as his jerked unevenly to the ground.

They were gone then. All that was now was blackness. Only a few snippets of conversation remained, floating ephemerally in this void.

“If you expect me to cry over you,” said her own quivering voice, “I won’t.”

Richard’s dying voice echoed. “We did it for you…”

She had tried to reason with him, to understand why they did what they did.

“Men do not share…” he had said simply.

You had no problem sharing me that night, she thought. That was the greatest moment of my life… yet I would trade it a thousand, million times if I thought I could bring you both back.

His last few words echoed. “Would you hold my hand?”

They were rasping, desperate words. Words in want of kindness and comfort. And they had received but one word, the cruelest response Sara could imagine.

“No,” she had said.

###

Sara came to wake with a start. Her chest was rising and falling, breath shallow, sweat staining her shirt and arousal slick in her crotch. Her head crookedly flinched as she saw the new day’s sun.

Blearily, she pushed a book from her lap to thump closed on the ground, and stepped toward the front door of the school. She needed the sun to jolt her awake.

On the street was a boy with a messenger bag stuffed with newspapers. Sara ran over to the boy and pushed a shilling into his hand. He gave her a paper and ran off, but not before telling her, “You’re in the paper, miss!”

Sara was confused for a moment, then she looked at the paper. The by-line jumped out at her faster than the headline. “By Massimo Ferrone”, it said. His very name made her sick. She wondered why the duel yesterday warranted a front-page article.

Then she read the headline: “DUCHESS TO BAN DEATH-DUELS, SAYS SUNDERLAND”.