‘Caveil,’ I said out loud. I felt as if I had to say the name to prove it didn’t fill me with fear. ‘Your father was Caveil-whose-sword-cuts-water.’
Shuran’s eyes drifted to mine. ‘I always prefer to think of him as my teacher. He was never very good at being my father.’
‘But how . . .?’ My voice sounded weak and strained to my ears.
‘Even a Saint as – well, shall we say limited in his interests? Even one such as Caveil beds a woman once in a while.’
‘But I thought the Saints could produce no offspring—’
Shuran laughed. ‘Really? Falcio, you must learn to be more discriminating in which old stories you choose to believe. Although I suppose that might be true if they’re bedding normal people. Fortunately for me, the issue was moot: apparently two Saints can do just fine together where producing children is concerned.’
Birgid: his mother was Saint Birgid-who-weeps-rivers. The union of mercy and violence is only more violence. She’d tried to temper Caveil’s violence with her own mercy and instead their offspring was Shuran, a man of pure violence. His whole life he’d trained to become the Saint of Swords, and he would have been, except that Kest, against all probability, had managed to defeat Caveil to save our lives.
But Shuran had been born for this.
‘So,’ Shuran said, turning his gaze back to Kest, ‘how many moves do you think it will take to defeat me now?’
*
I’ve been a swordsman since I was a child. I’ve practised nearly every day since I first picked up a rapier. I’ve read every book on fencing, no matter how old or obscure or esoteric, ever written. I’ve fought with swords, been bruised by swords, cut by swords, and on many occasions, nearly died by the sword. When you spend your life in this manner, you become accustomed to the fact that you can’t hope to see an experienced opponent’s blade move; it’s simply too fast for the eye to catch. So you watch other things: the bend in their elbows, the stance of their feet, the tension in their shoulders. It’s these things that tell you where they’ll move next. And if you’re a real expert you can simply watch your opponent’s eyes. That’s what Kest and Shuran were doing.
Their swords flashed briefly in the air, only to return to a guard position before my ears had even heard the tink of the blades in contact. When they attacked it was like a hummingbird swooping in for a red berry: not much, just a tiny cut here, a few drops of blood shed there – enough to slow the other down, if only by a fraction of a second.
‘Do you find it makes you faster?’ Shuran asked as their blades settled after what I’d counted to be five exchanges but might as easily have been fifty.
‘Does what make me faster?’ Kest asked.
‘Your Sainthood: you’ve started to glow red. Does it give you greater speed?’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’
Shuran tilted his head – a natural act, but not a wise one, for Kest’s blade spun in and the tip reached for the big Knight-Commander’s throat. Shuran whirled his blade to knock Kest’s away, but by then it was no longer there.
‘Does it make you stronger?’ Shuran asked, as if nothing had happened.
‘I haven’t noticed any increase in the strength of my sword arm.’
‘Well then—?’
‘To be honest with you, I haven’t noticed that Sainthood makes much difference one way or another. Perhaps it’s because I’m still new to it . . . but I didn’t get the impression it did all that much good for Caveil either.’
A flicker of anger crossed Shuran’s face and he launched his attack, delivering a flurry of blows that, despite the force behind them, were surprisingly graceful. He shifted effortlessly – or at least that’s how it looked – between a diagonal slash that would have severed Kest’s jaw from his head to a powerful thrust to his kneecap. His blade swept high, then low, at one moment flicking for a small cut and at the next coming down from on high with enough force to cut his opponent’s body in half. Kest evaded each blow, sometimes parrying, sometimes neatly sidestepping the strike, letting the blade pass a hair’s breadth from his face.
‘That won’t work, you know,’ Kest said.
‘What’s that?’ Shuran’s reply didn’t betray even the slightest bit of strain, let alone the exhaustion most men would feel after so much effort.
‘You won’t trick me into giving you the extra two inches of ground you want.’
Though both men were fighting with broadswords, Shuran’s was the longer, by three inches. If he could widen the distance between them, just slightly, he would have the advantage.
Shuran smiled. ‘Well then, we’ll just have to try something else, won’t we?’ He feinted towards Kest’s exposed left side and I knew it was a feint because it was far too obvious a move. Kest parried the attack anyway, because an expert swordsman can turn a feint into a genuine attack if he senses at the last instant that his opponent isn’t going to block the strike. In this instance Kest thrust his blade towards Shuran’s right hip, forcing him to step back, then Shuran brought his sword back into guard just a little too stiffly; tightening his grip he exposed his own left side, just a fraction – all Kest needed to do was advance half a step and strike him down—
‘That won’t work either,’ Kest said, remaining exactly where he was.
‘What was I doing now?’ Shuran asked innocently.
‘The pebble on the ground, balanced on top of that stone? You think by pushing to get me to step there, I will lose my balance.’
‘I am just full of devious ploys today, apparently.’
Now Kest began his own attacks, each one varying not only in target and tempo but in style as well, and he slid seamlessly from classical fencing styles to the harsher forms used by warriors on the battlefield. Sometimes he even threw in one of those back-alley brawler moves that works not because of its efficiency but because of its sudden and unexpected ferocity – but Shuran evaded and parried and anticipated and counter-attacked, and all in all the exchange lasted barely twenty seconds and at the end of it they had moved less than two feet in the dirt.
When they both returned to guard positions there was a tiny bead of blood, just above Shuran’s brow. ‘Bravo,’ he said.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the drop of blood enlarged and began to move down Shuran’s forehead. In a matter of moments it would drip into his right eye, and he would be forced to blink. In that instant he would die.
‘I was close that time,’ Shuran said conversationally. ‘In the fourth movement? I nearly had you. Just for a second your weight shifted.’
‘There was a patch of loose dirt. I expect you knew that.’
‘And yet you noted it and adjusted for it,’ Shuran said. ‘You’re remarkable.’
‘You’re good yourself,’ Kest acknowledged. ‘But you’re no Saint.’
The Knight-Commander smiled. ‘That’s for certain. I could never beat you fairly. I know that now.’
The word fairly set me off. I looked around to see if this was some trap – if one of Shuran’s men might be hiding out of sight, readying a crossbow – but I could see nothing. Perhaps this was simply the final, magnanimous admission of a man who has truly met his better.
A drop of blood was resting on Shuran’s eyebrow. In a second it would be over.
The talk of pebbles and loose dirt made my gaze drift down to the ground, just to see if there might be anything else that might impede Kest finishing Shuran, but I saw nothing. Despite Shuran’s manipulations, Kest had always moved carefully, ensuring he stayed on solid ground – every time he had tried to lead Kest onto poor footing, Kest had worked around the hazard. My brain started itching. Why then had Shuran kept following a failed strategy? And for that matter, how had he known so well where every single rock and pebble was sitting? It was as if—
Of course, he’d placed them all there himself, I realised. The sneaky bastard had studied every miniscule pebble, every mote of dust on the ground before the duel so he’d know exactly where to move. But Kest
was too smart – and too observant – for Shuran; he’d moved between and over everything the Knight-Commander had set in his path, and now he stood on . . .
Oh, hells . . .
‘Kest,’ I said, ‘move back—’
‘Too late,’ Shuran said. He shook his head, just slightly, and beads of blood sprayed from his forehead. Kest brought up his sword to strike Shuran’s head free from his neck. Blood droplets hit the ground – and Kest’s blade stopped where it was.
Kest tried to move but couldn’t. His legs were shaking as if a giant hand were trying to push him down to the ground.
‘I had a cleric consecrate the ground.’ The Knight-Commander scuffed away the dirt in front of him to reveal a carefully drawn circle. Kest was standing in the middle of it. ‘It needed only a drop of blood to complete the magic. I would have preferred for it to have been yours, of course, but mine will work just as well. You should probably bow down: that’s what the Gods expect from a Saint standing on consecrated earth.’
I raced towards them, intent on knocking Kest out of the circle, but Shuran’s sword was up and I only just managed to stop myself from impaling myself on the sharp end.
‘I think not,’ Shuran said, his attention still focused on Kest. ‘If it makes you feel better, I can’t kill you while you’re in the consecrated circle, Kest.’ He took an idle swing at Kest’s head and his blade bounced back as if it had hit a stone wall. ‘All this religion is so bothersome, don’t you think?’
Kest fell to his knees, his head involuntarily bowed. ‘You couldn’t beat me before, Shuran. Whatever you do now, I’ll kill you when this is done. You will never be the Saint of Swords.’
‘Of course I will.’ Shuran flicked his sword towards me and I lurched back, but not quite far enough: I felt a slight sting on my cheek and when I pressed my hand to it, my fingers came back with a trace of blood.
With great difficulty, Kest managed to turn his head towards me and I saw the fear and concern in his eyes.
‘You’re so controlled, Kest,’ Shuran said. ‘You’re so very logical. You think everything through, every move. I don’t think anyone can beat you when your mind’s on the game.’ At last he turned his gaze to me. ‘That’s why I’m going to kill your friend Falcio here, right in front of you, and quite horribly.’
‘If you really wanted to shock Kest then you probably should have tried this plan before the Dashini tortured me for nine days,’ I said.
Shuran ignored me. People were doing that a lot lately. ‘And after I’m done with him I’ll have my men go and retrieve the others. I’ll kill Valiana first. I think she’s a lovely girl, so that will be a great pity. I’m not sure how much you care about Dariana – if at all; she doesn’t appear to be all that likeable, does she? – but whatever your opinion of her, I’m going to do the same to her.’
He stepped forward and looked down the line of his blade, which was still aimed at me. ‘Then I’m going to bring little Aline over here and Trin and I are going to— Well, to be honest, she’s only a young girl and I would really rather not have to do such things, but needs must.’
‘You would commit such acts of useless cruelty,’ Kest said, struggling against the unseen weight holding him down, ‘and yet none of this will make you a Saint.’
Shuran smiled. ‘And that’s where you’re wrong, because after destroying your friends and letting Trin desecrate innocent little Aline right in front of you I’m going to get my cleric to deconsecrate the circle. And do you know what’s going to happen then, Kest? You’re going to come at me with black rage in your heart. You’re not used to fighting with anger, are you? So that’s how I’m going to beat you; that’s how I’m going to kill you – that’s how I’m going to become the Saint of Swords.’
Chapter Forty-Six
The Duel
There’s an old saying – and, very handily, it’s written inside the front cover of one of the many books on fencing that King Paelis kept in his personal library – and it says, The most important fights are never won on skill. This is considered by most master swordsmen to be a bit of a mistranslation, since the whole point of spending a lifetime studying the sword is precisely that: to develop your skill until you’re unbeatable.
Some have argued that the quote is missing a word, like ‘alone’: as in, The most important fights are never won on skill alone. I’m sure this would be enormously reassuring to swordmasters everywhere, but I’m afraid it’s simply not true.
Kest and I used to sit and stare at that quotation for hours on end, trying to figure out what it really meant. Did the author truly believe that a combination of greater strength and speed and a longer reach – all of which are obviously hugely important factors in sword-fighting – could overcome skill? If so, that was obviously going to do me no good at all, since Shuran was not only stronger and faster than me but he also had several extra inches of reach on me too.
I couldn’t help but keep repeating that quote in my head as Shuran stood before me, his sword in a high guard, waiting to cut off my head. He looked over at Kest, who was still kneeling on the ground. ‘Well, Saint of Swords, how many moves do you judge it will require me to take your friend’s head off?’
Kest tried to rise to his feet, but instead fell back to his knees, looking for all the world like a bent-backed old man who’d had too much to drink. He looked at Shuran and then at me. ‘Seven,’ he said.
‘Seven moves,’ Shuran repeated. ‘What a shame your Tailor betrayed you to those Dashini; they must have done some real damage. Come, Falcio, my friend – how much value do those seven moves really hold for you? Wouldn’t it be better to make it easy on yourself, just for once? Maybe you could sit and make peace with the Gods? Or, if you prefer, I can have the Tailor brought here and you can kill her for her betrayal. Either way, isn’t it better to enjoy these final moments, just let death come for you?’
‘No,’ I said.
Shuran looked genuinely confused. ‘Why not?’
For once in my life I had no ready answer. Even if, by some extremely timely miracle, a very large tree fell out of the sky and landed on Shuran, killing him instantly, I would still lose, for a few hundred yards away a thousand Knights were waiting for us. The battle had already been lost.
The fights that matter most aren’t won on skill.
Then how in all the hells are they won?
I heard footsteps behind me. ‘Stay back,’ I said, assuming it was Valiana or Dariana.
‘Well, now, and who’s this then?’ Shuran asked, and when I turned my head to see who he was looking at I felt my heart break in my chest. She looked exactly as she had the first time I saw her, with her long dark hair framing her pale face, her otherworldly beauty set off by a long dress made of gauzy material that caught the last feeble rays of sunlight and reflected them like a thousand little stars.
Ethalia.
I reached out to her, but she evaded my touch. She ignored Shuran’s blade too, instead walking past us to stand just a few feet away from him. She clasped her hands in front of her.
‘And who are you?’ Shuran asked.
‘I am the friend in the dark hour,’ Ethalia said. ‘I am the breeze against the burning sun. I am the water, freely given, and the wine, lovingly shared. I am the rest after the battle and the healing after the wound. I am the friend in the dark hour,’ she repeated,’ and I am here for you, Shuran, son of Caveil.’
Trin ran Aline’s body, with her black heart deep inside Aline’s soul, forward and tilted her head sideways. The vicious wooden frame around Aline’s head listed as she did it. ‘She’s his whore,’ she announced helpfully. ‘One of those Sisters of Mercy Fucking, I believe they’re called.’
Shuran smiled. ‘Have you come to offer yourself to me? Have you come to beg for Falcio’s life?’
Of course she has, you bastard. She’s all love and compassion and sacrifice, and she has no idea what she’s doing! ‘Ethalia, come back to me, very slowly,’ I called softly.
She
ignored me and kept her focus on Shuran. ‘I have indeed come to offer myself to you – but not to beg for Falcio’s life.’
Shuran looked at her for a moment, his eyes wide, and then his head went back and he laughed so loudly it filled the whole of the green gauntlet. ‘Oh, my sweet lady. I am very nearly overwhelmed by your offer. But alas, even I can’t do that to Falcio. Hasn’t he suffered enough?’
‘No,’ Ethalia said, her voice as calm and quiet as still water, ‘I wish it were not so, but he needs to suffer just a bit more yet.’
‘You stupid bitch,’ Dariana said, and stepped forward to grab her, but quick as lightning Shuran brought his blade up and struck Dariana with the flat of the blade, first on one side of her face and then the other.
As she reeled backwards, as much from the shock as from the pain, Shuran said, ‘That is no way to talk to a lady.’
Trin was still looking at Ethalia. ‘I want to know what the whore wants,’ she demanded.
‘My offer is simple,’ Ethalia said, turning her attention to Trin. ‘You performed a ritual with the Dashini to make him relive the death of his wife. You were with him in those moments, weren’t you?’
‘I was,’ Trin said, her lips twisting into a smile that was hideous to my eyes. ‘It was . . . invigorating. I recall every second; I can still feel every time she was beaten; I can still see every bone breaking, and her flesh coming apart, her teeth falling from her mouth . . . I remember the feel of each of those men’s—’
‘You needn’t continue,’ Ethalia said. ‘You’ve made my point.’
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