Broadswords - 6. The Ranking

Broadswords

Chapter Six
The Ranking

Though it hadn't changed in quite some time, Elan always kept a copy of the most recent ranking list tacked to the wall in his weapon room. It was near the door, so every time he exited the room he'd be reminded of where he stood. Number one. It had been that way for a long time.

As he studied the list now, he paid more attention to the fourth ranked. Daegon.

When Daegon had first entered the world of dragonslaying, there were only five other slayers in Jhirdyr. He was automatically ranked sixth as a result. Being fresh to the sport, he hadn't exactly had applicants knocking down his door to become his squire. Most hopefuls preferred to seek out a position as a knight's squire, of which there were more slots available.

As there was not as high of a demand for dragonslayers across the kingdoms, many boys didn't even consider it. While each kingdom had room for hundreds or even thousands of knights, it was because there were far more battles to enter than there were dragons to slay. Even with Jhirdyr only having six slayers at the time, it was still higher than the regional average. The king, however, felt that their location on the map gave exception to have more slayers than normal.

That led to the hiring of Daegon, when he was a fresh 20 years old. He'd squired from the age of 14 in a kingdom far to the east, along the coastline. After six years in the role, his slayer had recommended him to the king of Jhirdyr.

For the first two years, he was squireless. It wasn't unusual; brand new slayers hadn't had enough time to build up a reputation. Aside from not having many vacancies, a dragonslayer's squire position was also a dangerous one. In war, knights could often predict the opponent's next move. The same couldn't be said for dragonslayers. The beasts were erratic. One misstep or hesitation could cost a life. That's where Saldric came in.

After the two years of going solo, one day Daegon had received an untidily scrawled letter in the mail. It was from a 15-year-old boy wishing to meet with him to discuss the possibility of being considered as his squire.

Daegon had accepted, writing the boy back immediately and sending the response letter the very next day. He could have simply walked to the kid's house, surely, but it was evident that the potential squire found an excitement in the formality of it all. Back then, Daegon was more upbeat and wanted to add to the boy's enthusiasm.

When it finally came time for their meeting, Daegon was greeted by a short, chubby teen with a bad sweating problem and a case of the shakes. What was the result of nerves and what came natural to the kid wasn't clear. Uncertain about what stood at his doorstep, but without any other prospects, Daegon opened the door to him.

His name was Saldric, and he had been following Daegon's career since he had arrived in Jhirdyr. He knew his kill count, where each kill occurred, and the length of each journey. He even knew details about Daegon's time as a squire. While the kid didn't look fit to be a squire, Daegon was impressed by his dedication. The stamina, skill, and knowledge could be taught over time. But the passion? That was something that couldn't be found in everyone.

So Daegon had taken him on, and over the next five years had developed him into a decent squire. While in those five years they only moved up one spot in the ranking, to fifth, it was worth noting that three other slayers had also joined the rank and were all still below Daegon.

Then one day, a few weeks after Saldric's 20th birthday, tragedy struck. They were on a routine mission, tasked to kill a Great Grey, one of the most common and easily defeated dragons. Daegon had slayed countless Greys over the years. At least two dozen. He could battle one with his eyes closed. And that was his big mistake.

Great Greys were rather tame as far as dragons go, not moving much and focusing most of their energy on microbursts of fire. This particular one was different, though. It forwent the paltry breathing of flames and took a sharp swipe at its attackers. While it missed Daegon, the claws dug deep into Saldric's gut.

He was on the grass instantly.

The slayer let forth an unearthly yell as he jumped over the body of his fallen companion and stuck his sword deep into the dragon's chest. With what seemed like no effort at all, he pulled the blade down into its stomach until it broke through the thick skin on its underside. The dragon and the sword hit the ground at the same time, both drenched with blood and intestines.

He fell to his knees before his squire. Saldric was still, silent. A rose-tinted foam played at the corners of his mouth. One of the three gashes across his torso was so deep that bone was visible. He was unequivocally dead.

Daegon didn't weep. He didn't emit another scream. He sat there, angry. Not at the dragon. Not at Saldric. At himself. He had let himself get too comfortable during an encounter with a dragon. That was the first rule learned during squireship, to never rest on one's laurels.

He had vowed that day to never allow himself to be that careless again. It took a few months before he had felt ready to select a new squire. When he did choose, it was Birten. After only a year and a half, Daegon was able to accomplish with Birten what had taken him five with Saldric: moving up a rank. It could have something to do with Birten's abilities, or that he was definitively more logical than his predecessor. But Daegon didn't attribute it to either of those reasons. He saw his rising success as his the result of his newfound unfaltering focus.

While Elan had known the majority of the story, as anybody privy to the happenings in the dragonslaying realm did, Daegon had filled in the rest for him the morning after the royal feast. They had slept in the same bed after their night together, but there were no emotional ties the next morning. The remaining details weren't recounted as pillow talk, but rather as Daegon dressed himself.

Elan wasn't sure why Daegon was revealing this information. It wasn't solicited, and it was far from post-sex talk. Yet he didn't stop the story from being shared. Daegon was a pretty damn good lay, but he was still competition. Any information on the inner workings of the other Jhirdyrian slayers could only help him keep his position at the top.

He himself never provided any details of his personal life or anything that had transpired on any of his journeys. Even his own squire knew next to nothing about him. The only thing he was willing to give up, when asked, was how he had gotten his scars.

The night before, as Daegon had run his hands up and down his arms and chest, he had asked that very question. "Sword mishaps. Dragon scales. A few bar fights," Elan had disclosed between grunts. Revealing the basics of how he had received the injuries wasn't going to do him any harm. In fact, it made him seem more intimidating and impressive. But revealing what had led to them – that would provide the listener way too many details about the mistakes he'd made and potential weaknesses. It could all be used against him. He hadn't stayed atop the leaderboard for this long by making stupid mistakes.

Patting the ranking list for good luck, he stepped over to the opposite wall. The two perpendicular walls held his basic weapons: daggers, short swords, longswords, and the like. But the wall furthest from the door, that was where he kept his best weaponry. Expensive swords, such as the pure gold one he received upon reaching the number one rank – it was worthless in battle, but flashy. Rare and unusual finds, including the axe made from the unrustable sea-steel and the five-bladed dirk he'd scored from a peddler just outside of the badlands. The one that held the deepest meaning, however, and the one at the center of the display, is the one he lifted from its pegs.

It was heavy, expertly crafted from a mixture of sturdy metals. Some felt that mixing metals didn't allow for a durable weapon, but it depended on the blacksmith. If the person making it was skilled in alchemy, it could be stronger than the solidest of steel. This particular sword was proof of such.

The sword Elan had used to slay his first dragon lay at its core. The original wasn't the best sword out there, but it had been the only thing he could afford when he had first been starting out. It had done the job, continuing a slaying streak after that first kill for at least a year. Once Elan had begun climbing in the ranks and the money started rolling in, he chose to have the sword smithed into a stronger version of itself versus investing in a whole new sword. After all, it was central to who he was.

He had found the blacksmith with the best reputation, which was two kingdoms over. It had taken longer than expected, especially considering the commute, and he had to use alternate swords in the meantime. Eventually, however, when it was completed, he knew it was well worth the wait. His slays were effortless, simple. They were quick. He rose up the rankings faster than anyone in Jhirdyr history.

And after all these years, the sword in his grasp seemed almost like an extension of his limbs. Though heavy, it never seemed so when he held it. It flowed seamlessly with every thrust, sliced neatly with every swing.

He moved it with ease, digging it through the air that filled the room. With each spin of the blade, a soft but sharp noise sounded. It was relaxing to him.

He spent quite a while in the weapon room, practicing his swordsmanship. He didn't even realize how much time had passed until he noticed the shadows had shifted significantly throughout the room. He decided it was probably best to get something to eat as it had been since the prior night's dinner that he had done so.

As he left the room, he shot another glance at the list. This time as he saw the narrow gap between his name and Daegon's, he couldn't help but feel that it would soon continue to shrink.