Her morning had begun simply enough.
Every morning in her life had started with the rising of the suns, Teyra, the viridian-hued globe that signified spring and Omarona, a bright orange sun that provided heat and light. This morning, she watched them rise, her work clothes already wet with sweat and her arms aching from her chores. It was always the same. Milk the cows. Water the new shoots. Clean the stalls. Feed the animals. Every morning, she performed these tasks as if she was a robot.
Every morning, except today.
This morning, Morganya arose an hour early and snuck out of the cottage she shared with her father and stepmother, creeping into the goat pen. The animals bleated in welcome but she didn't have time to acknowledge them. She stumbled in the cold darkness, her hands searching for the watering trough. When her roughened fingers found it, she knelt in the thick mud and shoved her hand underneath.
Where is it?
The mud clumped around her searching digits, the cold bleeding into her flesh.
Then she felt it. The rounded hilt of the sword. She wrapped her frozen fingers around the burlap-covered item and dragged it out. The heavy steel weapon bore her to the ground temporarily and she hefted its filthy length. It took her a few minutes to get to the well but after a few moments, a sleek, slender blade emerged from dirt and dust. She grasped the handle and raised it to her face, placing a wet kiss near the base.
"I give ultimate prayers to the Creator. I ask for his Blessings this day and his Guidance always."
Today would be a different day than any other in her life. Today, if she won the Championship, she would rule her life.
She spent an hour working through the exercises that the smithy, Gorone, had taught her and once, satisfied, hid the sword in the tall grass outside the barn, waiting for now. Soon, they would go to the castle and her dreams would come true. ***** Morganya watched the parade with interest, her dark eyes drawn to the columns of armor-clad warriors. Her mother, Mirine, eyed her daughter, unable to wipe the mistrust that ran through her veins. The chores had been done and the animals tended to but Mirine knew something was wrong. Morganya ate more this morning than she had the prior morn. Indeed, it had become a pattern. Each Wednesday, Friday and Saturday, the young woman ate heartily. Mirine didn't really pay attention, but today, every puzzle piece fell into place.
The Championship.
"Morganya, you are not going to do this, right?" Her daughter remained silent as the other warriors passed, then arose, the sword at her side.
"I have to, Ma."
"You can't! You could be killed!"
I could be killed if I spend one more day on that farm!
She thought, sliding the helm onto her head. "I must go, Ma. Please pray for me."
Morganya ignored the desperate pleas of her mother and hurried to catch up with the column of young men. The helm's faceplate was pulled down so that her face was unseen. It was important that she remained a nameless, faceless warrior, working hard to win the Championship prize. The column stopped at the gates to the parade grounds and each warrior was asked for his name and country. She stepped up and in her gruffest voice, gave her name as Morgan.
"You're awfully small,
Morgan
." One of the King's Guard laughed, dutifully writing her name down.
"Better be careful that someone doesn't pick you up and use you as a mace!" Another laughed, clanging her on the helm. The blow reverberated down to her feet and she gritted her teeth against the pain.
"Do that again," She said curtly. "And I'll use your balls for one!"
The second Guard's face wilted in anger and the first laughed heartily. "Good luck to you, lad!"
Morganya moved off, seeking a quiet place to warm up. Her muscles had gone cold from this morning's exercise and Gorone had stressed the importance of being limber as an aid to winning a battle. She made sure that the shirt was bloused out and began working her shoulders, wrists and fingers. It was nearly thirty minutes before the first group of battles was called. Thankfully, she was not in this first set, giving her the opportunity to observe those who lost, to make sure not to repeat their errors and to watch those who won, to note their style.
Since there were a great number of warriors competing, the first battles were called in a set of six. Twelve warriors strode forward, dipped their swords to the King and Queen and took up positions. Within moments, four of the matches were done and one had ended in death. There were no gasps of astonishment from the crowds. All present knew that death and dismemberment were possible consequences of the Championship. The fallen warrior was covered with a crude scrap of burlap and dragged to a waiting litter.
The next two battles finished and the next group was called. One strode forward who suddenly made her go weak in the knees.
Simon!
Her childhood friend looked a little worse for the wear, his glorious blond hair clumped with dirt and gathered at his neck with a leather thong. His once smooth skin was riddled with scars, especially one that almost neatly bisected his upper lip, giving him a perpetual snarl. But the worst were his eyes. The beautiful light brown eyes that had always danced with laughter were now furtive and jumpy.
Morganya watched in fear as he flexed his muscular arms and legs, licking the furrow in his lip as if it was a ritual before raising his broadsword and plunging forward. His opponent was unprepared for Simon's attack. The berserker in Simon overtook him and he hacked at the man, grinning evilly when his opponent's hand, still holding a sword, went flying. Simon slid his fingers along the flat side of his sword, collecting the man's blood and wiped it on his cheek.
First blood.
She thought.
"Morgan Halberdson!"
The sound of her name made the breath leave her throat but she forced herself to walk forward, her legs unsteady. She didn't know why, but she glanced over her shoulder at Simon and saw something that she was unprepared for. He had recognized her name and his eyes met hers, filled with terror.
