And I’m not certain about this. Not at all. I know my skills are on par with his. I know that I’m in the best physical shape of my life. I also know that I’m capable of defeating him in perfect circumstances.
But I’m not certain.
The referee waves a triangular yellow flag mounted on a short, striped pole as he calls for the first bout to begin. Our squires begin handing us our equipment, and then Adam places a hand on my metal-encased shoulder. Looking at me through the grill of my helmet, he says solemnly, “Good luck, Liam.”
I nod to acknowledge his words with a thumbs-up, and then I turn away to face Doug. With narrowed eyes, he says, “This time I beat you cleanly. You’re a goner, Drake, you hear me?”
“I do hear you. But you’re wrong. You’ve already lost the girl, and now you’re going to lose the duel.”
His face flushes a deep red and then he slams the visor down, muttering to himself. I know there are probably obscenities peppered amongst his rant, but he can’t say them too loudly. If the referee hears him, Doug could be penalized for unchivalrous language.
I don’t want him to, though. He’s done so much to hurt Jenna that I really want to hurt him. I want to beat him down, and I’m going to do it under the watchful eyes of the tournament judges. No losing or winning on technicalities…not today.
Our first bout is long swords only, which we both wield two-handed. As is customary with European martial arts, we both hold our swords high, two hands gripping at the hilt in order to chop downward. We must hit with what would be the sharp edge of the blade—the side closest to the opponent—in order to score a hit. Each bout is played until one contestant gets three hits.
In our previous duel, I won this particular bout. But this time, the minute the yellow flag is lifted, Doug comes charging at me like a ferocious bull. I bring my sword down just in time to block his first onslaught.
The crowd is loud and distracting, and I can’t help but look over at them. I decide to go on the offensive, knowing in the back of my mind that it’s too early. I know Doug’s fighting style well enough to know that he’s long on aggressive tactics in small bursts, but short on stamina. Last time I just tired him out that first bout, blocking his onslaughts and letting him come at me until he got winded. My plan was to do the same thing this round, but I can’t curb these anxious feelings for long.
I continue glancing at the crowd, trying to catch a glimpse of Jenna. She’s leaning forward intently, her hand tightly gripping the railing in front of her. And that’s when Doug charges and clips me on my upper arm pauldron with the outside edge of his blade.
The flag comes down between us. The ref watching for hits raises his hand and points to Doug, indicating that the first touch has gone to him.
Gritting my teeth, I narrow my eyes and swing—hard—the minute the flag lifts again. Before Doug can react, I clip him on the top of his bracer, just below his elbow. He shouts the f-word and the whistle blows. My hit is registered, and Doug is warned about his language.
Meanwhile, I’m noting that I hit him on his left arm. In this first bout, where we are both wielding a weapon with each of our hands, it’s not an issue. But I wonder if I clipped him enough to cause some pain for the next bout. He swore, so that tells me that it hurt. He’d never risk a warning otherwise—not even in anger. So it likely came from pain.
I’ll use that to my advantage.
But while I’m working it out, Doug comes at me again, pushing me back. I’m beating off his blows, but he’s not relenting in his offense. Soon he’s scored another hit, this time on the greaves of my armor, which covers my upper thigh. I note that he’s left a slight dent, though my padding underneath has protected me.
After the flag lifts again, Doug starts with a low feint, pointing the tip of his sword directly at my codpiece, like he wants to chop my dick off. Asshole. I think it without actually saying it, fortunately.
I swing low to push his sword away from my crotch, and he starts laughing loudly behind his helmet. This just pisses me off more, so I swing around in a wide arc to land on his favored arm, but he deflects it just in time.
I’ve studied Doug’s style. Due to my ability to recall things in great detail, I can slow things down in my memory and analyze them. Therefore, I have a good handle on his strengths and weaknesses. His advantages are speed and short bursts of energy, while mine are stamina and consistency. Also, my hits land harder than his, so I beat him in the strength department, too.
But my overanalysis of his approach has worked against me. I have anticipated a move and he makes a very convincing feint, only to quickly shift and swing up, landing a hit squarely in the middle of my chest piece. That’s his third, and now this first bout is over.
Doug has won. For now.
I inhale and close my eyes, taking a moment while Adam switches out my long sword for my buckler and one-handed sword. I don’t want to look at Jenna right now. I know what her worried face looks like, and I don’t want to see it. She’s thinking she might lose her tiara—that she shouldn’t have put her trust in me to win it for her.
Doug is trying to rile the crowd again under the pretense of grabbing a drink from his water bottle, just like last time. Adam, on the other hand, is muttering encouragements to me. Neither one of them is helping the situation.
I wish that I could erase the crowd—I don’t even want to look at them. Then I recall being at the mall last week, imagining the people as a rushing river of water. I imagined people in the lunchroom at work as a herd of animals, munching popcorn like those zebras or gazelles munched on dry savannah grass.
It occurs to me that I do have the power to erase this crowd. I can tune them out and picture something else in their place. So instead of a roaring crowd, they suddenly become a roaring dragon. An evil beast that threatens to destroy the countryside. Doug is the dragon’s defender—a dark knight. And I have to get through Doug in order to defeat the dragon and save everyone. It’s actually a lot like playing D&D, except I have a sword in my hand instead of dice and a character sheet.
With every bit of concentration and imagination that I have, I visualize that dragon, steam rising from its nostrils, claws scraping the air, wings generating a mighty wind that threatens to blow me back, were I not the strongest, bravest knight of the land.
Pretend isn’t just a game for kids. I can do this, too. And I have to. Because she believes in me, and I will not let her down.