“The Windblade?” The Emerald Guard looked down at it, showing scant interest. Nothing like those covetous eyes of Prince Raynald. “Do you take me for a Vandarian, Daecar? No, I do not want it. And I need no Blade of Vandar to best you. Simple steel will suffice.” He drew his sword from right to left, cutting a line across the sand between them. “First blood, then? Does the craven agree to that?”
“That won’t take long,” Elyon returned. “Give me ten strikes and I’ll have you cut. Don’t you want to give your audience a show?”
“This show is not for them. It’s for me. For Melany.”
“I didn’t kill her, Mallister.”
“You did. Whether by your blade or not, she died because of you.”
Elyon was much too tired to fight him with words on this. I’ll get it over quickly, cut him somewhere non-fatal. He did not hate Mallister Monsort, far from it - the man had once been a close friend of his and he had no intention of causing him any more harm than he must. For that they would need to fight with simple steel, as he’d said.
“First blood, then,” Elyon agreed. “Castle-forged steel, honed to cut and not kill. Armour for the vitals only. Limbs exposed.”
Mallister Monsort nodded curtly, turned, and marched away to his corner. Elyon went to his, removing his swordbelt, placing the Windblade aside against a wall. He was still wearing the full plate armour he had flown here in last night, so took a few moments to undress, leaving himself in only breastplate, plackart, gorget, gauntlets and helm, so that any vital organs were protected, and his wrists and hands as well. His upper arms, thighs, lower legs and shoulders would be left open, though the blades used in these sorts of contests were intentionally blunted so nothing worse than flesh wounds could be rendered. It would take a man like Sir Ralston Whaleheart to hack a man’s limb off with one of these blades, everyone knew.
By the time both of them were ready, the skies had brightened sufficiently for the fighting to begin. A few more spectators were trickling in, as word spread, taking seats here and there, yawning. It was not a large arena, nothing like the great amphitheatre in Varinar, though all the same Elyon could not help but think of his brother. Those days in Varinar when he had watched from the stands as Aleron destroyed all comers during the Song of the First Blade. No one could stand against him, Elyon thought. Even Brontus Oloran, well-fancied to prove his trickiest opponent, had been brutally swept aside by Aleron in their semi-final bout. Jonik too. He would not have stood a chance if Mel hadn’t poisoned Al’s water. And now here we are, fighting for her honour. Hers. It should be me raging mad for my brother’s death, not Mallister bleating about his sister’s…
Elyon marched across the sand in a hard step, to meet the man in the middle. “You need to wake up,” he said sharply, as those memories rushed through his mind. “Your sister…I don’t hate her for what she did. I’ve got every right to, but I don’t. She was only a tool of the king, and given no choice, but still…you need to wake up to who she was, Mallister.”
“I’ll not hear of it. Never.”
Fool. He’s a faithful bloody fool. “Haven’t you ever wondered how your father won those mining contracts? Your house was on the brink of financial ruin before then. That was Melany’s doing. Janilah raised House Monsort on the back of her service.”
“No.” The fool shook his head, loyal like a dog. “Lies.”
“For Vandar’s sake, man, open your eyes.”
“I’d sooner open your throat, Daecar. Let someone more worthy bear that blade of yours.”
Elyon flexed his sword hand. “So be it, then. When the blood comes rushing from your flesh, perhaps you’ll see the light. Let the gods decide.”
Sir Mallister nodded - “the gods” - and reached up to pull down his visor. Elyon did the same, then both men took a step back, and another, until the required ten paces separated them, as per the conditions of the duel. There was no announcer, no one to call the bout to a start, no judges to award points. First blood contests were often fierce and uncomplicated and rarely lasted very long. That suited Elyon Daecar. He had much and more to do with his day, and duelling Sir Mallister Monsort over the honour of his two-faced sister was not something he wanted to waste precious time over.
“Ready, then?” he said.
“Ready.” Sir Mallister put himself into Blockform, a hum buzzing through the crowds. Elyon switched his feet into his favoured Strikeform stance. His opponent inched forward, quarter pace by quarter pace, more watchful and wary than Elyon would have supposed. Anger typically made an opponent reckless, but Mallsiter was not of that sort.
He is a careful fighter, Elyon reminded himself. And a skilled one as well. During his days here in Ilithor before the wedding, the pair had sparred often enough, with Lancel and Barnibus and sometimes Rodmond Taynar as well, and Mallister had proven himself the equal of the others, if not quite so accomplished as Elyon. Yet he may have improved. He is an Emerald Guard, young and strong and quick, and takes his training seriously. Elyon’s last months had been spent duelling dragons in the skies, not knights afoot. It felt strange, he had to admit, fighting without the Windblade in his grasp. Strange…and yet strangely comforting. There was nothing quite like engaging another knight in single, chivalric combat. I’ve missed this, he thought. It brought him back to a simpler time.
Sir Mallister was the first to break the impasse, pressing forward off his rear foot to lunge at Elyon’s thigh. Elyon pulled his leg back, sidestepping in Strikeform, swinging in a sidecut. Mallister’s blade met his in a clang of steel, and at that the fight began in earnest, the pair trading blows. Several swings and slashes connected, steel ringing out across the yard, the knights moving well on their feet to the sound of scuffing sand.
After a short, furious flurry, the pair drew apart again, circling, feeling one another out. Elyon panted a breath, smiling behind his visor. He could not tell if Mallister was doing the same, though suspected not. I’ll have him smiling by the end, Elyon told himself. We’ll share words and wine and put all this behind us.
He went again, moving into Glideform, assaulting the Emerald Guard with a sequence of flowing strikes. Mallister parried, fended, sidestepping away. The final strike connected with his breastplate, drawing a long thin line across the metal. An ‘oooo’ went out through the swelling crowd, and a man shouted out, “For Tukor! You win this for Tukor!”
That seemed to spur Mallister on, as he spun around Elyon’s back and unleashed a frenzied attack, mixing Strikeform with Rushform. Impressive, Elyon thought, fending furiously. When he saw a chance, he blocked with his left hand gauntlet, swiping Mallister’s broadsword away, and hacked low with his own blade, trying to cut his leg. Monsort pulled back in time, Elyon’s sword swiping at nothing but air, as his opponent pirouetted out of range with a charismatic flourish. There was an appreciative applause from the crowd.
“You’ve been training,” Elyon noted, pulling a breath into his lungs.
“Not of late,” Mallister returned, taking a heavy breath of his own. “My…duties have kept me busy.” He glanced up into the stands, where Amilia was lounging contentedly on her bench, supping on her wine and nibbling on honeycakes, not a care in the world despite the fact that it was ending. Or because of it, Elyon thought. Amilia seemed resigned to the fact that they had scant time left before the whole world came crumbling down, and would enjoy that time doing as she pleased. The bard Gifford Gold-Tongue was there as well, plucking at his lute and humming a sweet melody for her, dressed in a ridiculous frilly white blouse and coloured robes that gave him the look of a preening peacock.
“I don’t like that bard,” Mallister growled. Elyon could see the narrow cast to his eyes through the holes in his faceplate. “He’s always sniffing around.”
More than sniffing. Gifford Gold-Tongue had a certain reputation, and not one limited to Ilithor either. “He used to play in Varinar,” Elyon said. “I’ve seen him a dozen times at balls and banquets. You’ll want to watch out for him, Mally. That tongue of his isn’t just for singing.”
He could all but hear the bones grinding in Sir Mallister’s jaw. “I’ve heard…rumours, of that sort.”
“They’re more than rumours. Half the highborn ladies in Varinar could attest to that.”
“Not Amilia. She wouldn’t…not to me.”
She would, Elyon might have said. There were rumours about Amilia’s licentious leanings as well, and he had little doubt that Gold-Tongue had enjoyed the pleasure of her bed in the past. He thought for a moment about using that suspicion to unhinge the man, but no, that was a little too unseemly. I’m here to cut at his flesh, not stab at his heart. And he loves her, that’s clear enough. The poor sweet fool is besotted. So he merely nodded and said, “I’m sure you’re right, Mallister. Now, are we fighting or talking? I’ve got other things to do.”
They put themselves back into their preferred stances, feet shuffling, circling one another. The crowd stirred once more, as Elyon stepped suddenly forward in a powerful dash, feigned left and went the other way, swinging for Mallister’s arm to get it done. But Monsort was good to it, parrying, twisting away as Elyon slashed again. The two men parted briefly, then drew together once more, sparks flying as steel kissed steel. Elyon could hear the murmurs in the crowd, rising and falling with each blow. Another flurry of swings, thrusts, parries and fends and the two parted, panting, for the third time. “For Tukor,” came another shout from the audience. “Show that Vandarian how it’s done!”
Others echoed him, and there were some jeers as well, Elyon heard, mostly from the common soldiers in the stands and the few lowborn in attendance, dressed in their roughspun wool and threadbare robes. The nobles were, naturally, much more reserved, old men and women sitting in their finery, all puckered lips and seamed, spotted skin, observing their courtly courtesies. But the soldiers were not so inclined, arriving in greater numbers now as word spread across the Sentinels, shouting out in support of Sir Mallister Monsort and hurling obscenities Elyon’s way.
“I didn’t know I was so misliked,” Elyon said, glancing around.
“You’re a murderer twice over,” his opponent told him. “Sir Griffin Kastor. My sister. And some blame you for Prince Rylian too. Best take the cut and fly out of here, Elyon. Else the baying mob will set upon you.”
Elyon had little fear for the mob, baying or otherwise. His reputation here didn’t concern him either. Let the commons believe what they like. He had much more pressing concerns. “There’s battle to be had at Rustbridge, you know,” he said. “If you leave now and ride hard, you might just make it in time. Win some honour for yourself, Mallister. If you can wrench yourself away from Amilia’s bed, that is.”
The knight bristled. “I’m here by order of Prince Raynald.”
“I’m sure. And you call me craven? Hiding here as the princess’s bedwarmer when your prince, who might very well be your king, fights for his kingdom and the north.”
“They were my orders!”
