Weight of the Crown

by A. C. Cobble

  “Ben,” said a calm voice behind him.

  He lost his grip and pitched forward, falling one story to the grassy lawn. In years past, he would have panicked. His arms would have flailed wildly, and he would have landed flat on his face. He’d fallen a lot in the last year, though, and his body acted on instinct.

  His feet hit first, and he allowed his knees to flex with the impact, falling forward and dropping into a roll, letting the momentum of the fall expend itself as his body followed his shoulder down and he tumbled across the dew-damp grass. He kept the motion going and rolled to his feet, spinning and drawing his longsword. He backed away from the building, toward the fountain.

  On the roof, clearly illuminated by the rising sun, squatted a bald-headed man with a longsword at his hip.

  “Saala?” asked Ben.

  He heard a snicker as the shape dropped to the balcony Ben had just been leaning from. The man hopped onto the stone balustrade, balancing easily on the balls of his feet, towering above Ben.

  “Who else would it be?” asked Saala, his smooth voice sending a shiver of familiarity and fear down Ben’s spine. “Did you invite someone else to this little reunion?”

  “I-I… You just surprised me,” stammered Ben. “What were you doing up there?”

  “Waiting for you, of course,” said Saala, still standing on the railing and looking down, one hand resting comfortably on the hilt of his longsword, the other hanging relaxed as his side. “I knew Amelie would send you to this balcony. I spent years in her family’s service, and I can’t tell you how many nights I spied her up here looking over this courtyard. I figured lying in wait on the roof above it was the easiest place to spot if you’d planned an ambush. You didn’t, though, did you? I watched you squirm through that hedge maze, and you were alone. No one came behind you.”

  Ben stared up at Saala speechlessly.

  “I spent years in this palace with Amelie, Ben,” reminded Saala. “Did you really think you’d surprise me? What would you do if you did? Attack me?”

  “No,” mumbled Ben. “I want to talk.”

  “Good,” remarked Saala. “If you wanted to attack, you should have brought some more men. I suspect you’ve been training hard since we parted, and perhaps you’ve become quite skilled with that sword. I’ve been practicing, too, and you’re still not as good as me.”

  The blademaster leapt off the balcony and Ben stumbled further away, putting two-dozen paces between him and his former mentor.

  Saala landed lightly on the manicured turf and stood slowly. His longsword lay in its sheath at his belt, but Ben knew from experience the man could draw it in the blink of an eye.

  Ben, eyeing the blademaster’s longsword, kept his own weapon in his hand. “How do you know I’m not as good as you?”

  Saala smirked and let his eyes fall to Ben’s exposed blade. “I know it the same way you do, Ben. If you don’t think I’m better, why do you look so nervous?”

  Frowning, Ben stole a glance behind Saala where pink and yellow light was falling across the marble of the wall. It was dawn, and if all went well, Lord Jason would be arriving soon. Arriving alone, Ben amended, if all went well.

  “You gambled Rhys to get me here,” said Saala, his voice even and calm, the opposite of the way Ben felt. “He’s got to be the best blade you have, your best asset outside of any mages lurking in the shadows. I thought at first Rhys aimed to assassinate me, but he allowed himself to be captured. Without his weapons, clapped in irons, even that rogue is no threat to me. I couldn’t believe it until I saw it. I knew there had to be a trick, but you are alone. You don’t have one of your pet mages nearby, do you? Why the gamble? What’s your play?”

  “I’ve learned a lot about you,” said Ben, stalling for time. “We went to the South Continent and found out about your past.”

  Saala’s arrogant smirk curled into a frown, but he mastered his face a moment later, and he stared at Ben with condescension. “Surely you don’t mean to shock me with my past and convince me this is all an error?”

  Ben shrugged. “You failed to overthrow the emperor. What makes you think you will succeed here? What makes you think your failure in the past can be assuaged by victory today?”

  “Ben,” said Saala, his stance wide and ready. “I’ve been crowned King of Whitehall and the leader of the Alliance. My realm covers almost half of Alcott. I’ve already achieved more than what I set out to do. I’ve already won at contests I didn’t even realize I was playing. I’m a king!”

  “Then why are you pursuing this war!” shouted Ben, losing himself.

  Saala grew a genuine smile. “I’m enjoying the challenge of it.”

  “This isn’t some simple duel between blademasters,” growled Ben. “Lives are at stake, Saala! This is about more than your ego.”

  “It’s always been about ego, Ben,” chided Saala. “Whether it was me or Argren, it was never any more than that. I control Whitehall, one of the most powerful cities on this continent. I’m certain that once the war is over, it will only be a headache. Between us, I have very little interest in actually administering the place. Once I win, I suspect I will grow even less interested, and I’d be willing to gamble that Lord Jason feels the same. Like me, he would probably have his ministers take over as soon as he’s able.”

  Ben was hit with the sudden realization that Lord Jason had told him exactly the same thing so many months before.

  “It’s not about acquiring more wealth or land for either of us,” continued Saala. “It’s ego, plain and simple. I may not be a wise man, but I’m wise enough to understand my own motivations. Not some simple duel between blademasters, you said? You are wrong, Ben. That’s what this war is. That’s all it is. I rule Whitehall. Jason rules Irrefort. Which one of us can rule it all?”

  Behind him, over the tinkling sound of water falling in the fountain, Ben sensed a presence and glanced over his shoulder. In the shadows of the palace, he saw a flicker of light and smiled.

  “My gamble, Saala,” responded Ben, “was to give you an opportunity to find out who is best. You and Lord Jason can settle this without armies, without costing hundreds of thousands of lives. Here and now, man to man.”

  The sound of splintering wood and shattering glass broke the spell in the courtyard. Lord Jason calmly sauntered through the door he’d just kicked open, smiling at the surprise on Saala’s face.

  Ben backed across the lawn, his eyes darting between the two men, trying to make himself the third point on a triangle instead of a piece of meat standing between two wolves.

  “Well played,” admitted Jason, sliding a slim, rune-carved mirror behind his waist. “I assumed this was an ambush and that you’d callously sacrificed my brother to make it happen. I couldn’t believe it when I far-saw this courtyard and saw just the two of you.”

  “Did you come alone?” asked Saala, his hand nervously resting on his longsword.

  Jason mimicked the gesture and admitted, “In a sense. I have several hundred of my best men outside, but they’ll let us play.”

  “Why?” asked Saala, clearly surprised.

  Jason winked at him. “You were right about me, blademaster. I want to see who is better. If my men had rushed in here, they could have easily taken you both. I wouldn’t need to dirty my hands or clean your blood off my blade, but where is the fun in that? Like you, I crave a challenge.”

  “Let’s settle it here, then, between us,” said Ben.

  The Black Knife turned toward him. “You won’t survive this, Benjamin Ashwood, but you’ll get your wish. I’m content to handle you and the blademaster myself. I don’t need an army for either of you, just like I didn’t need one for King Argren. If it’s any consolation, your death will help buy peace for Alcott.”

  “Peace under your rule,” accused Saala.

  Jason merely shrugged. “Of course.”

  Saala’s fist closed around the hilt of his sword, and in response, Lord Jason smoothly drew his blade. A burning path of yell
ow light crept down the length of steel, bright geometric patterns forming like fire scorching across a prairie. The shadows in the courtyard made it look like there was no steel, only light. Ben knew different, but it still sent a shiver down his spine. He wondered if he should have sent Adrick Morgan in his place, but then, the two kings of Alcott would not have walked into the trap if someone other than Ben had appeared.

  “Nice blade,” acknowledged Saala before drawing his own sword.

  Ben gasped as he saw silver light flowing along the razor-sharp weapon. Sparkling smoke boiled off of it as Saala swept it in a lazy circle.

  “That sword belongs to Rhys!”

  “It used to.” Saala chuckled.

  The three men watched each other, and then Jason asked, “Ben, didn’t you have a mage-wrought blade the last time we met?”

  Cursing under his breath, Ben admitted, “I lost it.”

  “How did you lose a mage-wrought sword?” wondered Saala.

  “Well, it’s complicated…” Ben stammered before trailing off. He felt foolish explaining himself.

  Jason, taking slow steps out onto the lawn, admonished, “That was rather stupid of you, Ben. You’re at a serious disadvantage with just plain steel in your hand.”

  “Do you think to stand back while we battle it out and hope we injure each other enough that you can defeat the winner?” Saala asked Ben.

  “Something like that,” muttered Ben.

  “You are a brilliant idiot,” said Jason, shaking his head and grinning.

  “If neither of you wants to talk about peace, then let’s stop talking,” said Ben, raising his Venmoor steel blade.

  “Very well,” agreed Jason.

  “I’m sorry, Ben,” said Saala, “you’re a good man, but the good guys never win.”

  The two blademasters stepped closer to each other, feet falling on the dew-damp grass. A cool breeze stirred the leaves in the trees and bushes around them. The fountain tinkled like rain on a lake. Jason and Saala eyed each other, watching footsteps, sword grips, and the set of each other’s shoulders. Their carefully placed steps started to circle, two apex predators understanding they were meeting their match. Ben was forced to circle with them, the three men forming a slowly spinning triangle.

  The time for talk was up. These men were not going to settle their differences without bloodshed. They wanted it. It was the only way to answer the one question they cared about. Who was best? They were done talking. It was time to fight.

  Ben swallowed nervously and adjusted his grip on his longsword. Saala and Jason were moving in time with him, the three of them easily pacing across the trimmed grass. The other two men moved with preternatural grace, their feet seeming to float over the bright green blades. Their faces were calm, their movements unhurried.

  Despite the cool air, beads of sweat popped out on Ben’s forehead, and he could feel them sliding down his back. His heart hammered within his chest and his throat was dry. He forced his concentration to his footwork, looking down at his worn boots and then cursing himself and instead studying the two swordsmen in the courtyard with him.

  His plan had worked. He’d gotten the two of them alone in a quiet place where they could settle things without involving the armies camped outside. All he had to do now was beat two of the best swordsmen alive, two swordsmen who had easily defeated him the last time he’d seen them. He was fairly certain he’d made riskier gambles, but he couldn’t recall when.

  Suddenly, Jason sprang forward and Ben yelped. The blond, pony-tailed killer landed a dozen paces away, brandishing his longsword.

  Ben stepped back, his own blade coming up, but his foot caught on a thick clump of turf. He flailed wildly, losing his sword and flopping over to land on his back. The soil was soft and damp, and he felt it soaking into his clothes while he lay on his back staring at the glowing clouds above them. It was a beautiful sunrise, and he was lying on his back in the middle of a fight to the death.

  He rolled to the side and scrambled on his hands and knees to where his sword had fallen on the grass. He grabbed it and tucked into a roll, replicating his move from when he fell off the balcony. His body followed over his shoulder, and he continued the momentum until he was on one knee. He sprang to his feet, blade raised in defense.

  Both Saala and Jason were staring at him, shaking their heads. Neither one had attacked or bothered to come closer to him while he was thrashing around on the ground.

  The swordsmen looked from Ben to each other. Jason shrugged. Saala drew a deep breath and then flew at Jason, his new mage-wrought longsword boiling silver smoke as he swung a blindingly fast slash at the blond man’s head.

  Jason parried, meeting Saala’s longsword with his own blade and easily turning the attack away from him. He swept back a counterattack, but the bald blademaster had already stepped out of reach.

  Jason pressed, his weapon darting at Saala, leaving glowing yellow imprints burned in Ben’s vision as it thrust and jabbed. Saala, swinging the rogue’s old blade like he’d been using it for years, parried and retreated, his face calm and his body flowing fluidly around Jason’s strikes.

  Ben’s mouth fell open as the two men battled, both of them completely ignoring him.

  Against each other, the two swordsmen unleashed everything they had, all of the speed, strength, and skill that they hadn’t needed against Ben. He found he could barely follow the violent maneuvers, and only the lights from their blades gave away each subtle shift and strike.

  Suddenly, Saala dropped to a squat, and his longsword flashed in a sweeping crescent at Jason’s legs. The wolf-like Jason leapt over the blade and slashed down with his own, the tip of his longsword missing Saala’s shoulder by a finger.

  Jason landed lightly, but Saala continued to spin, pivoting on one leg and kicking out with the other. As he came full-circle, his extended leg crashed into the side of Jason’s, knocking the man’s legs out from under him and dumping him on the turf.

  Saala’s leg tucked back under him, and he stood, his longsword, still moving, came over his shoulder and flashed above his head to where he brought it down in a sweeping arc onto Jason’s prone form.

  Jason, lying on his back, crossed his own blade across his body, one hand on the hilt, the other palm-up underneath the flat of the blade.

  Saala’s longsword crashed down on Jason’s, and an explosive ring of steel against steel filled the air.

  Jason grunted, and Ben’s eyes grew wide. Saala’s blade was half a hand from the leader of the Coalition’s face, the razor-sharp steel a breath from splitting the man’s skull. Silver smoke drifted down, gently settling around Jason’s head.

  Then, it was Saala’s turn to gasp, and he was launched backward from Jason’s booted foot kicking him in the gut. Saala fell back and rolled over his head, coming to a standing position.

  Jason rocked back on his shoulders then pushed off the turf with his hands, flipping forward and landing on his feet, sword rising in front of him. Saala feinted, and Jason spun into a defensive posture. Ben stood, jaw agape, barely able to process what he’d just seen.

  The men were completely ignoring him, solely focused on each other.

  Jason jumped at Saala, strikes coming high in quick succession and then a brute force swing with his weight behind it. Saala met the attack, and their blades sang with fury.

  Ben shook himself and stared as Jason relentlessly pursued Saala with vicious, deadly swings. Saala barely met them, but none got through. The South Continent blademaster fell back, uninjured.

  They looked like they could fight all day, both of them too talented to make a mistake, but sooner or later, one would, or they would tire if Ben let them.

  After seeing their full prowess, it was clear to him that he wouldn’t survive facing either man one to one. His path was obvious. He had to ensure that somehow, they both got wounded. Against one of them wounded, he might have a chance. He had to disrupt their duel and put them both off-guard.

  Lightning fast clas
hes of blade against blade snapped him back into the moment and he saw the swirling silver sparks flying in the air from the furious slashes Saala was directing at Jason. The blademaster had turned the battle, but the Black Knife had gained a maniacal grin. He was enjoying it, and in a heartbeat, Ben saw why.

  Saala pressed, swinging hard at the pony-tailed man. Jason ducked it, apparently anticipating the next blow in the sequence, and he rewarded Saala’s predictability with a thrust of his own.

  Saala twisted, his body like smoke on the wind, but Ben could see he wasn’t fast enough, and the tip of Jason’s sword scored Saala’s side. Grunting, the blademaster threw himself clear, a thin streamer of blood following him as he danced away.

  “First blood,” remarked Lord Jason calmly.

  Saala’s only response was to raise his blade.

  From his position, Ben could see it wasn’t an inconsequential wound. It wouldn’t stop Saala immediately, but it would pain him, and over time, the blood leaking from his side could be the difference in the fight. The blademaster shifted, and the two men began to circle again. Ben could see cold realization growing on Saala’s face. Jason was the better swordsman.

  Ben knew what he had to do.

  Tentatively, the men tested each other, Jason probing to see just how much Saala’s injury hampered him, and Saala striking to keep the Black Knife back.

  Ben whispered a quiet hope and waited until the two were engaged again. Then, he charged. His mouth open in a silent battle cry, Ben raced at Lord Jason’s back. Half a dozen paces away, he pulled back to swing. He reached the combatants and launched a strike at the back of Jason’s neck.

  The man ducked, and Ben’s blade whistled cleanly over his head. Jason’s glowing sword stabbed back at Ben, and with a yelp, Ben dodged out of the way.