Sword Fight

by Nathan Van Coops

  “Yes, I suppose I should start looking.” Charlotte took a sip from the cocktail. “It’s just so much to handle all at once.”

  “We’ll get through it together.” Jasper raised his glass. “To our new life.”

  Charlotte clinked her glass against his and took another drink. “This is delicious. You do know how to make a good gimlet.” Her shoulders relaxed. “This is helpful. I suppose I really should be working on our plans. Valerie will be okay, won’t she?”

  “She will be. All she has to do is call.”

  Charlotte nodded. “We’re still on for dinner tonight, aren’t we? You promised to take me to that VIP club you like.”

  “Anything you desire, my dearest,” Jasper said.

  Charlotte smiled and kissed him, then carried her drink toward the bedroom. “I’d best think about what to wear for that too. So many social engagements in this city. I don’t know how I’m supposed to keep up.” She vanished around the corner, and a few moments later, the music from the stereo turned on.

  “You want me to keep your usual girls off the list at the clubs tonight?” Blaise asked.

  “No need. A few more drinks and I doubt she’ll be conscious past nine,” Jasper said. He picked up his glass. “Perks of dating the geriatric.”

  Blaise glanced toward the bedroom hallway. “You do realize that if things don’t go your way at the tournament, you may actually end up married.”

  Jasper finished off his drink. “Good thing your job is to make sure it does go my way.”

  Blaise rose from his chair, and the two men walked onto the balcony together. A container ship was steaming into the port. Blaise puffed his cigar and nodded toward the ship. “And it’s a good thing I always deliver.”

  15

  Train

  The deserted shoreline didn’t look like much, just a thin stretch of coarse sand, tide pools, and a few large rocks covered with sunbathing sea lions. The giant, fleshy animals also occupied an old fishing pier that jutted into the surf about thirty yards.

  Damon was standing near a tide pool with a canvas sack over his shoulder. He tossed it to the sand. “Good morning.”

  Over the last few days, Valerie had spent every non-working hour drilling on footwork and pell exercises, but this was something new.

  “What are we doing down here?” she asked.

  “It’s time to start your specialized training.” Damon opened the sack and let Valerie have a look.

  She peered into the bag and discovered that it held a suit of dueling armor. She pulled out a breastplate and gauntlets as well as a gorget and helmet. The armor wasn’t steel but some manner of lesser alloy. There were multiple welded repairs to the breastplate. It was rusted in places, and the attachment straps were brittle and cracked, but it looked as though it would fit her.

  “Where did you get this?” Valerie asked.

  “Did a bit of bartering at the smiths’ market. I think the armorer would have been happy to unload it for free any other time of the year. But the tournament on the horizon must have sent him scouring the attic for whatever bits of old junk he could sell. Made it sound as though it was his prized possession now.”

  “I hope you didn’t trade anything too dear.”

  “I’ll survive,” Damon said. “Put it on. Let’s see how you move in it.”

  Valerie put on the equipment and did her best to get the straps secure. Damon helped in places that were difficult to cinch. When she was done, she donned the helm. “Now what?”

  Damon flipped the visor of her helmet down. “Now you run.”

  “What?”

  He pointed down the narrow beach to a ruined lighthouse that sat atop the cliff. “Up to the lighthouse and back. I’ll be timing you.” He judged the distance. “I think you should be back here inside of . . . five minutes.” He checked his watch.

  Valerie gauged the distance over the uneven sand and rocks. “There’s no way I can make it all the way up there and back by—”

  “Clock’s already started,” Damon said.

  Valerie cursed and turned, adjusting the balance of her helmet and breaking into a run.

  The first few steps weren’t terrible. Then she had to breathe.

  The visor partially obscured her vision as well as her breathing, especially when she lowered her head to see her feet. She started along the water’s edge where the sand was hard-packed, but when the first wave caught her ankles, she shifted directions and moved to the dry sand.

  That was a mistake.

  She stumbled through the loose sand and fell, crashing to the ground face first. Grit and shell permeated the visor, and she found herself spitting out tiny granules. She couldn’t rid herself of them while still wearing the helmet, but she didn’t have time to take it off. She climbed back to her feet and kept running.

  After what felt like forever, she reached the lighthouse and turned to locate Damon. He was out on the fishing pier staring at the water.

  She scrambled back down the rocks to the firm sand, well aware that she was never making it back on time. She ran anyway, keeping a steady pace that at least allowed her to stay upright the entire way back.

  When she reached the base of the pier, she looked down the length of it to where Damon was standing and wondered if she was supposed to run all the way out to the end.

  The pier was still dotted with sea lions, but somehow, Damon had managed to get past them. A heavy bull barked at her the moment she set foot on the wooden planks.

  “How did you get out there?” she shouted.

  Damon turned to watch her progress. “Just ignore them. Show them who’s boss.”

  Valerie took a few cautious steps.

  A female sea lion slid off the pier and into the water, but the big bull was standing his ground.

  “I don’t think this is a great idea,” Valerie said. “Shouldn’t we just let them have it?”

  When Damon didn’t reply, she cursed under her breath. If this was some kind of test, she was failing.

  “Come on, Val. Get it together,” she muttered. She took a few more deliberate steps, angling toward the narrow route around the big bull, not looking him in the eye.

  The sea lion continued to bark and bluster, but as the females abandoned the pier one after another, the bull finally eased himself toward the water too. With one last, angry bark, he launched himself from the pier and splashed into the surf.

  “Thank God,” Valerie muttered. She worked her way to the far end of the pier and finally joined Damon.

  He consulted his watch. “Ten minutes.”

  “I didn’t know you were counting the sea lion part. I thought it was just the running.”

  “The knight I learned from used to call this terrain training,” Damon replied. “Getting used to operating in all manner of environments in your armor. It’s important to problem solve.”

  “Terrain training,” Valerie repeated. “Okay. What’s next?”

  “Glad you asked.” Damon shifted to the side and revealed a heavy-looking rock sitting on the railing. He scooped the rock up with both hands and held it out to Valerie. “I need you to carry this back to shore.”

  “Um. Okay,” Valerie replied, cradling her arms and accepting it. It weighed around twenty pounds. Awkward but manageable. She took a step toward the beach.

  “Uh-uh,” Damon said. “You need to go this way.”

  He shoved her with both hands, sending her crashing through the flimsy wooden railing.

  Valerie screamed.

  Gray, overcast sky filled her vision—then she hit the water.

  Saltwater.

  Cold.

  Up her nose.

  Down her throat.

  She immediately dropped the stone, coughed once, flailed wildly for a fleeting second above the surface, then sank.

  A wave rolled her over, sending her end over end.

  Bubbles raced from the crevices in her armor, rippling past her in the semi-darkness.

  Valerie fought to swim bu
t her feet touched sand.

  Her mind raced. Panic made her freeze. What was she supposed to do?

  The current wrenched at her, threatening to turn her over again. She flattened out on the seafloor and dug her fingers in, fighting for equilibrium.

  She was at least eight feet below the surface. She got her legs under her and leapt, trying to swim. An air bubble escaped her mouth in her panic, erupting through the eye holes of her visor in its rush to the surface. She stretched and kicked, but her feet bumped sand again. The light remained impossibly far above her.

  The current toppled her, and she bumped across shell and coral.

  It was so dark. Which way was shore?

  The helmet restricted her vision, and she fought to get it off.

  Her armor was too tightly cinched. She struggled to escape it, but she could barely see, let alone find the latches.

  Her lungs ached.

  Where was Damon?

  Was he trying to murder her?

  She wanted to shout. To scream for help. Only bubbles escaped her mouth. Saltwater trickled down her throat.

  Every movement she made was depriving her of oxygen.

  Her stomach clenched as she concentrated on holding her breath.

  She caught the vague outline of the pier pilings through the water and crawled toward them. It was agonizingly slow.

  One yard. Two.

  Her lungs were on fire.

  The current fought her every movement.

  Her head throbbing, she stretched for the algae-covered piling. Barnacles and oysters clung to the wood. She wrapped her gloved fingers around the pole and pulled. Her foot found a patch of oyster to step on. Then another. She climbed for the surface.

  Almost to the light.

  The oysters gave way. Her hands slipped.

  A wave crashed through the pier and slammed her into the adjacent piling. All the remaining air in her lungs vanished in the impact.

  No.

  She was so close.

  Her eyes were wide, but all around her there was nothing but turmoil. Fish darting, frantic bubbles, and blackness. It was closing in on her.

  Her chest spasmed.

  So this was what dying felt like. Sudden. Painful.

  She couldn’t hold her breath a moment longer. She gulped desperately at nothing, her lips pressed tight. Then she let out a last, gurgling scream.

  The blackness closed in.

  Her head broke the surface amid a torrent of seawater. She gasped and sputtered as she caught great mouthfuls of air and spray alike. She was being hauled forward, a hand on the straps of her breastplate. She was heaved upward and sent sprawling to the shell-crusted shore. Another wave crashed over her and sent a chill through her. She retched shells and seawater into the inside of her faceplate, not caring that she was splashing herself with her own spit. Her body shivered and she rolled over.

  A shadow passed overhead, and she looked up to find Damon staring down at her.

  “Where’s my rock?”

  Her anger swelled, and she fought with her visor, jerking it back and forth and finally wrenching the entire helmet from her head.

  “Are you insane? You almost killed me!” She coughed more seawater as she scrambled to her feet, pushing away the hand he offered to help her up. She pressed both palms against his chest and shoved. “You’re not a coach, you’re a psychopath!”

  “That’s about what I expected you to say,” Damon replied. He brushed a bit of sand from his lips.

  “That’s what anyone would say! You’re mental.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said.

  “I’m welcome?” Valerie sputtered. “For you trying to murder me?”

  “For saving you.”

  “Screw you. You don’t get credit for saving someone when you’re the reason they almost died.”

  “Don’t I? Who should get credit then? Certainly not you. You sank like a rock and stayed sunk.”

  “I’m wearing armor! You can’t swim in armor! Or didn’t they teach you that in psycho school?”

  “You can walk.”

  “What?”

  “You can walk,” Damon repeated. “In armor. You can climb. You can do a lot of things.”

  “I was under . . . water,” Valerie said, enunciating both words so that they would penetrate his thick head.

  “Do it again,” Damon said.

  “What? No! You’re crazy!”

  Damon crossed his arms. Valerie stood defiant and stared him down.

  Finally, Damon walked away. She exhaled, satisfied that he had bent before her fury. But he was moving to a second bag she hadn’t noticed before. He pulled the sack from between two stones and began donning his own suit of rusty armor.

  The steel plates were easily twice as thick as the armor she had on. He slowly cinched the pieces to his arms, legs and torso, then donned a heavy, full-faced helmet. Without a word, he turned and walked out to the end of the pier. He never so much as paused when he reached the end. He walked straight off the edge and plummeted into the waves.

  “Oh my God,” Valerie stammered as Damon disappeared.

  She scrambled through the sand and clomped onto the pier, searching the waves. When she reached the end, she darted from side to side but saw no sign of him.

  She held her breath.

  A bubble erupted from the surface along one side of the pier about a third of the way back to shore. She raced to the railing and peered over the edge. She caught the glint of metal below the surface making slow but steady progress toward the shore.

  He was just walking. In another dozen steps, his steel helmet broke the surface. Damon continued with his slow and deliberate pace, striding up and out of the waves, water pouring from the recesses of his armor. He was carrying the rock.

  When he reached the sand, he dumped the rock and kept walking.

  Valerie raced to catch up.

  Damon picked up the empty sack he had used to haul his armor. He pulled his helmet from his head and used the sack to dab at his face. Sand and shell now dotted his hair, but otherwise, he appeared to be barely out of breath.

  “You’re certifiably insane,” Valerie said, watching him strip out of his armor. His soaking-wet shirt clung to his chest.

  “I feel great. It’s actually quite refreshing.”

  Valerie wanted to hate him, but she couldn’t help but crack a smile. She immediately focused on returning the scowl to her face, but it was too late. Damon had seen.

  He pushed his wet hair back from his forehead. “Still think you can’t do it?”

  Valerie eyed the length of pier again. A few sea lions had wriggled their way back ashore nearby, awaiting her decision. They were clearly ready to reclaim their prized sunning spot.

  “It’s always easier the second time,” Damon said.

  “You are the worst sword-fighting teacher I’ve ever heard of,” Valerie said.

  Damon pulled off his shirt and began wringing it out with his hands. The scars on his forearms glistened as his muscles clenched—a tapestry of experience that said more than any amount of words. Valerie lost focus. The sight of his bare chest somehow short-circuited her anger. She felt suddenly aware of her own body and how she must look with her hair matted with shell and seaweed.

  This was entirely unfair.

  Damon merely smiled at her. His piercing eyes were expectant and waiting.

  Valerie swore under her breath, then scooped up his dropped rock and headed for the pier.

  16

  Helter Skelter

  When Valerie arrived at the Twisted Tentacle for the dinner shift, she found a woman sitting at the bar staring at her. She had kind eyes and a playful smile. Her curly black hair was neatly tied back behind her head. As soon as Valerie made it to her station, the woman slid off her stool and approached her. “Hey. I’m Ann. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Valerie shook the offered hand. “Oh! You’re Janet’s wife.”

  “Actually she’s my wife,” Ann corrected.
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  “Oh, um . . .”

  “Just messing with you,” Ann laughed. Her smile was infectious. “It’s good to finally meet.”

  “Surprised I haven’t seen you around before,” Valerie said.

  “Been away. Working up in Brighton Bay. I’ve had an apprenticeship up there.”

  “Oh yeah? Apprenticing for what?”

  “Just a smith,” Ann replied, taking a sip of her beer.

  “Don’t you dare be humble tonight,” Janet said, emerging from the kitchen with several bottles of liquor in her hands. “Tonight we celebrate.” Janet looked at Valerie. “My beautiful wife has just completed work on her first, soon-to-be-named sword.”

  Valerie registered the words. “A swordsmith? But that’s a noble art. If you’ve completed a master task, then that means—”

  “We just got the word that they’re coming here to judge it prior to the opening of the tournament,” Janet replied. “Thanks to Ann, you may be looking at the newest Craft Guild family.”

  “That’s incredible,” Valerie said.

  Ascending from the ranks of the nameless to any other tier of society was always difficult, but becoming a master craftsman took years of training.

  “How long have you been working on it?”

  “I’ve been an apprentice twelve years,” Ann replied. “Working on this sword for five.”

  “It’s a thing of beauty,” Janet added.

  “Want to see it?” Ann asked.

  “It’s here?”

  Ann grinned. “Upstairs. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  Valerie looked to Janet and Janet nodded. “Go on. I’ll mind your tables for a few minutes. Just seeing her like this is worth it.”

  Ann picked up her beer and led the way. She unlocked the stairwell door next to the storage room and climbed the steps to Janet’s apartment. It was the first time Valerie had seen the top floor of the tavern since the night she had been dragged in from the alley, and it wasn’t what she remembered. Somehow, she had imagined Janet disappearing upstairs to a place that more or less matched the tavern—a place of wood and iron, all its rough edges worn down from heavy traffic and overuse—but now that she saw it again, the apartment was different.