He watched his opponent warily, watching the eyes, not the flickering blade that sought out a hole in his guard, the one fatal slip in every duel that cost a man his life. There! Lorne feinted to the side, the swish of the blade and opponent's frustrated snarl music to his ears. One more second added to his life. But seconds were all the difference in fights like these, time seemed to slide and warp, each sword stroke seemingly in slow motion, each move deliberate.
Lorne swung his sword, putting the whole of his weight behind the stroke, the shock of defeat in the eyes of his enemy, death realized in one sure blow-
And Lorne disarmed him easily, catching his sword in one hand, grinning widely.
"Gods, Lorne, that's three in a row!" the man shook his head, anger in his eyes. Not at Lorne, for Ronan would sooner kill anyone else than become angry at his friend, whom he had played with as a child, wrestled with as they grew, and finally fought beside in the Mage Wars, where they had never left each other's side. And a good thing, many a good soldier died before the proud mages of Ardyrinthir and their armies of Manifestations had consented to defeat.
Ronan shivered, thinking back to those times seemed to draw a shadow over his soul, the mages had come too close to winning, and for a short time they had been fighting a losing battle, fighting with the desperation that came with the knowledge of what was at risk. The mages had no love for the sluah dhe'sidhean, the race of man that devoted themselves to unlocking the secrets of science. If they had succeeded in the battle of Naramthe Plain, the gleaming skyscrapers of their cities would be no more than smoldering rubble, their research centers methodically and coldly wiped off the pages of history, and magick's rule would have been uncontested for many a year.
"C'mon, Ronan, you weren't that bad, why the long face?" Lorne teased, tossing him his sword. "You beat me often enough, when you aren't distracted." His friend waited expectantly for an answer.
"Just remembering," Ronan said slowly, drawing his fingers through his white hair. White hair, the one way to tell who had been in the front lines. Wild magick seemed to draw the color out of the people, the mages themselves had brilliantly silver hair, and fair skin. And anyone that was exposed to enough wild magick started to lose color, becoming more and more like the dalraech dhe'aon, until they could almost be mistaken for a mage. And in battles that was not a good thing. Towards the end of that bloody campaign, the two friends had been defending themselves against their own kind as much as the mages.
"Well cheer up!" Lorne said, chucking him on the shoulder. "We won, after all!" his smile was forced though, and his eyes betrayed the falsity of it.
"You know they're not beaten," Ronan said bitterly, running his thumb over his sword, eyes focused on its lethal edge. "Just suing for peace until they can conjure more of those thrice-damned creatures of theirs!"
Lorne grimaced. "You're right, of course, but when they show their true colors, we'll beat them back into their land, and then some." He smiled again, hopeful.
"Not if the Centre doesn't come up with a new weapon soon," Ronan said, sheathing his sword. "I'm going back to the Mess Hall, it's getting late. I don't suppose you'll be following?"
"No, but you know where you'll find me."
Ronan grinned. "Yeah, sparring with one of those holograms. It's no wonder you're one of the best blades we've got." And with that he turned, and walked away, his lengthening shadow stretching across the grass, its tip on one of the walkways criss-crossing the parkway.
Dawn broke golden over the shining city, reflected in the glass windows, shattered into a thousand glittering fragments, skipping across the rooftops, warming the streets below. Air began to swirl as the pavement began to heat up, the wind blowing idly away from the city, out to the plains beyond.
Nick wiped sweat off his brow, though the morning was still cool. In front of him was the central computer, the graphs and numbers telling the conditions of the experiment out five hundred paces in front of him, where three other scientists were grouped. After a moment more, they came back, most looking over their shoulders at the contraption that lay innocently under the new sun.
It was a mold for a blade, with tubes and wires twined around it, and two containers of liquid, one a light green, the other a dark red. Nick looked nervously at his approaching colleagues.
"Well? Is everything ready?"
Jim looked at Nik, and laughed. "Calm down Nik, it'll all work out."
A man behind him mumbled something.
Jim turned. "What, Jared?"
"I just need to connect my data analyzer," he said lowly, and walked off to one of the main computers.
The rest of the scientists arranged behind a protective wall, putting on shaded goggles as a precaution. Their theories were proved, the technology sound logic, but things could always go wrong. And they had to be prepared.
After a long interim when Jared tried to get the computers to hook up, they looked at each other in shared suspense, and pressed the button.
The two chemicals poured into the mold, changing immediately to a silvery grey, and Jared spoke up.
"No anomalies detected yet, material stabilized, energy output at normal levels."
"Until now," Nik muttered, and pressed a button.
A faint light flashed around the sword, then vanished.
The scientists held their breath.
Jared stared at the screen, chewing on his bottom lips, watching the numbers scroll down. "Crystallization process begun, everything seems alright.
The edge of the sword began to crystallize, its edge honing itself using technology in its infant stages. By powers of ten the sword began to get sharper, its edge now as big as an atom, still forming, now as small as a quark.
"No!" Jared shouted as he watched the numbers in disbelief. "The magnetic field is starting to fail!"
The scientists looked in horror as the sword began to slide downward, slide towards the machinery and the ground.
"How can it?" Jim stuttered in disbelief. "It's not-" he stopped, as they implications began to sink in.
"It's sharper than an electron?" he said hoarsely, and backed up a step.
"If it is and hits the ground, it'll split the atoms, the nuclear explosion."
Now the dread of their own death shone in their eyes, and they looked at the sword as the very tip lightly touched the metal and a flash of light blinded them momentarily, the concussion of sound deafening, ripping across the air as if to tear the fabric of reality itself.
When their vision cleared, they looked at the place where the sword had been. A small smoldering crater was left, no bigger than a sheet of paper. Their equipment lay melted on the ground, victim to the smallest nuclear explosion ever created.
"W-w-why?" said Jim, unstuffing his ears.
"The explosion must have shattered the blade before it could split another atom," Nik said pensively.
"If it's that sharp, it's going to be easy to break."
"Not if we can somehow make it stronger."