Originally hosted on https://illoria.wixsite.com/annamittower/anthology-of-speculative-scribbles
The kingship of our country hung in the balance and all I could do was think about how hungry I was. I hadn't eaten since before dawn and my stomach had been grumbling ever since. We were all required to fast in hopes that it would spur our men to victory. So far, it hadn't worked. Our men kept losing like fools. Always they lost to the one man, the challenger to the throne. He had come, with his long, bright sword and in fine clothes, from another land. He sought to bend our country to his will upon the death of our king who left no heirs.
Oh, the fights were exciting at first, as we cheered our brave men, but the fights lost all their charm after the same fight replayed itself over and over. The challenger always dealt the same stroke and every time his opponent fell dead, sprawled on the ground. With each man we lost a little more hope.
When the sun sank so low as to almost touch the horizon, he called out, "The day is nearly at an end. Only one more may challenge me and if that one fails, like so many others have, I will claim the throne. Are there any men who will challenge my right to the throne?"
I heard the murmur that swept through the crowd. All of us looked around trying to find another man to fight him. There were none left. All had fought. I was surprised at this, for I had only counted two score fights, but at least four score men had been present that morning.
"Cowards," I muttered to myself.
The challenger seemed to understand that there were no men left. He called out again, "Are there any others who would dare fight me? Any at all?" He paused and regally surveyed the crowd.
I clenched my fists. The nerve of him to act as if he's already won the crown. He opened his mouth to speak again but I cut him off.
"I'll fight you. I'll need a sword, though. Mine is at home."
He raised his eyebrows and nearly laughed, but he composed himself quickly enough. Doubtless he thought I would be easy to beat.
He smirked. "Let us fight then, m'lady, and see to whom the crown will go." He took up his position as I had seen him do all day—one foot forward, the other to the side and both hands holding the sword out in front. A sword landed in the dirt at my feet, thrown by one of his sneering men at arms. Stooping, I retrieved it and measured its balance.
"This will do." I sprang at him.
He was so used to dealing the first stroke that he hesitated, confused. He recovered in time and countered my lunge with one of his own. We matched our strength for a time before we split apart, circling. I knew now that I was no match for his strength so I stayed away from direct attacks that would give him a chance to overpower me. Even tired as he was, my strength after a day of fasting would not support me in a direct engagement. I kept on the move, darting this way and that, making him work to keep up with me. The fight dragged on and I could feel my arms becoming like lead. With each stroke and parry my sword became harder to lift. Finally, I knew that I was at the end of my strength; I only had one chance left. He lifted his sword to deal the final killing stroke. Gathering my remaining strength, I leapt out of the way of his sword and in the same movement sliced my sword across the back of his neck with a backhanded swing. Once he fell, I overbalanced and also fell to the ground. He lay still in the dust and didn't move.
Hands dragged me upright and patted me on the back. Voices filled my ears congratulating me on my victory. My head swam in the cool, night air as strangers guided me to the castle. There my wounds were bandaged. Right before exhaustion overtook me for a second time, I felt a cold, metal circlet pressed onto my brow.
"All hail Queen Edana of Wendheim!"