Too Much 8

When the fencer furthest from them, on the referee’s left, scored her fourth touch, recognition finally woke in Rune from its slumber.  Her build, the mask — if he could see her hair he’d know her for sure, yet it was tucked tight, hidden under her gray metal face. She was from the Academy, they were the only gals who wore regulation pants; her last name would be written on the back of her lame and down the outside of her back leg, but neither was visible from where they were sitting.

Fence. The other fencer closed the distance quickly, arm extending his foil in a line threatening his opponent’s chest, legs coiling for a lunge. Yet before he could execute his action the Academy fencer caught his blade, the stout base of her weapon binding against the slimmer upper portion of her opponent’s; the chiming of metal followed by a subtle flick of the Academy fencer’s fingers, her blade pivoting so its tip threatened, then landed, on her opponent’s front shoulder.

 Halt. A bind in six, riposte in opposition, just like Coach Dan had showed them last week in practice. Attack right, is parried. Riposte, left. The competitors stepped back to their starting lines, and as the Academy gal removed her mask and her flaxen curls tumbled onto her shoulders, Rune immediately recognized her. But again, he drew a blank on her name; as if on cue to bail him out, Annie called out to her.

“Nice job, Wanda!”

Wanda. He’d fenced her last spring, at regionals. His only victory in the pools. 

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