The Last Swordsman

by Benjamin Corman

  Some of the King’s Shield made an appearance, Andrew included, and they went about the field offering insight and instruction. Nikolis worked with Andrew for a while, taking criticism on his stance and style, and then facing off against him. He did not fair that well but considering he had faced down over a dozen men prior, Andrew claimed he did quite well.

  The two did not speak about his father, as too many were about, and then when Andrew and the other King’s Shield left, he moved on to other men, anyone who was willing to take up a sword against him. The master of arms arrived toward the end of the day, looking over the guardsmen and practicing nobles. By all appearances he paid no mind to Nikolis, but Nikolis had long since lowered his expectations in that regard and paid him no mind in return.

  After hours of this, having worked up quite a sweat and exhausting all opponents willing to challenge him, he decided to take a break. Sitting down by the old square, squat, field armory, he produced an apple he had snatched from the kitchens earlier and began to eat. His waiting was rewarded as a broad-shoulder young man began to make his way over to the armory, his back to the setting sun.

  “Hey,” said Nikolis, producing a second apple from his pocket and tossing it upward.

  Jak caught it out of the air, and took a bite, eyeing his friend with a neutral expression. “Hey, yourself,” said Jak, but he couldn’t hold the pretense long, and his frown soon turned into a smile. He took a seat next to Nikolis. “Hard day of work?” he asked.

  Nikolis shrugged. “The usual. Yourself?”

  Jak smiled, rubbing calloused hands together. “The same. Swept the armory, scoured the armor, honed and oiled the blades. Moved some plate to the keep armory, brought some new polearms out. That was different.”

  Nikolis smiled and nodded. “I nearly bested Evar the other day,” he said. “Lirk still won’t go against me. Still regards me as inferior, not worth his time.”

  “You’d lick him,” Jak replied. “I’ve watched you over the last few months. You’re getting better.”

  Nikolis shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

  Jak turned and leveled a serious look at him. “You’re better than me. You passed me by a long time ago.”

  Putting a hand to the hilt of his sword, Nikolis patted it and said, “with this perhaps. But you always favored a heavier blade.”

  Jak stood and turned his back to Nikolis. He crossed his arms. “No, even with a heavier blade, I think you’re my better.”

  Nikolis stood and moved a step forward. “Come on Jak, what does it matter?”

  Jak turned around and forced a smile. “It doesn’t bother me, Nik. You’re good. You’ve got a chance to get yourself a bit of something in life; not just working for a bite to eat and a place to sleep at night.”

  Nikolis laughed. “A keep guard earns little more than a servant. Besides, your life’s not over yet.”

  “What chance do I have?” asked Jak, all seriousness. “What way out is there?” He kicked at the dirt and sat back down.

  The sun had finished it descent toward the horizon. Nikolis studied his friend’s face, bathed in purple shadow. “You never know,” he protested. “You could still be a guard. You have enough skill for that already.”

  It was Jak who laughed then. “The only one who could make that happen, the only one who knows me from any other servant, is Drennen. I think we all know his feelings for me.”

  “He’s a hard man to read,” said Nikolis. “Trust me, I’ve been living with him for years. If I took his behavior at face value, I’d think I was a failure myself.” What he didn’t say was that he did think himself a failure. A failure son of a traitor. He was sure of it. What had he really accomplished other than some meager skill with a sword? Best not to think about that now though. It was Jak that he should be concerned about.

  “Maybe you’re right,” said Jak. He sounded less than convinced.

  Nikolis sat back down next to his friend. “Come on. What do you say we raid the wine cellar, eh? I know where Remton keeps the key.”

  Jak looked surprised, studying Nikolis’ face. But then he grinned. “Alright.”

  The next morning Nikolis woke up with an ache in his head so horrible, he felt as if it might split in half. His sleep had been dreamless, no rose petals, or Karlene, nor anything else. There was a fierce roiling in his stomach, and all the limbs of his body felt twice their weight. Never the less, he dragged himself up and out of bed, dunked his head in a bucket of freezing water, pulled on his clothes, and headed out of the tower. The thought of eating anything made his stomach churn, so he skipped the kitchens, and went directly to his rounds.

  The day was, for the most part, uneventful. There were no chance meetings with Karlene, despite his best efforts to pass by the places she frequented. Kelson made no appearances, and later, when his stomach had ceased the majority of its rumblings, he stopped by the kitchens for lunch. Garley and Raife weren’t there, though, as he had hoped. They were off fetching goods from the cellars, the cook explained, without a hint of friendliness in his voice or demeanor.

  Days went on in this manner, and then weeks. There was little time for himself after his rounds and training, but what would he do with that time if he had it? He sought in vain for any glimpse of Karlene, but was rarely rewarded, and again, what would he do if he found her? She was a lady of high birth, niece to the King, and he…worse than a peasant, the son of a traitor. All of his friends were as busy as he was, or nowhere to be found. There was continued preparation, in the way of cleaning and dressing the castle, and moving goods up from the cellar, but for what no one was yet saying.

  As he was walking down a hall on one of his rounds a particularly dull afternoon, he heard a light din coming from somewhere down the way. Following the sound, he quickly found the source of the commotion as he came upon several people, men and women, lords, ladies and servants, trying to push their ways into the Hall of Houses. They all had their backs to him, men trying to look over the shoulders of those in front of them, women standing on their toes, and children trying to get around or between the legs of their elders.

  He moved into the crowd, trying to shoulder his way through them. In a voice made as official as he could manage, he continually asked them to move aside, but the servants only glanced at him out of the corner of their eyes, while the nobles looked down their noses at him. He attempted to make his sash more noticeable, even put a hand to the pommel of his sword, but it did little to aid his progress.

  Everyone was pushing and straining to see what was going on ahead. Loud voices reverberated off the high ceiling, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. There was a crash and more shouts, followed by more pushing and straining. “Take your hands off of her!” he heard a familiar voice exclaim. A few of the crowd, who could apparently see what was going on, let out a gasp.

  When he finally made his way to the front of those gathered, he saw two King’s Shield, their grey coats prominent, grim looks on their faces. Jerald Camber, flat-nosed and black-haired, kept scuffing the floor with his left boot, while the older Ronnell Moore regarded the happening with his steady pale eyes, all through the sea of waves that was his dark hair. There was a small, decorative column on its side, and the vase that used to be displayed upon it was scattered across the floor in pieces. Nikolis saw Aubrey run from the room, pushing her way through the crowd, her hands covering her face.

  Amidst it all stood Andrew Dubrey, his hands balled in fists at his side. Across from him, Ricard Penderton was bright of face, a dark bottle in one hand and a longsword in the other. He wavered a bit as if he was going to fall, but in the end only grinned and managed to keep his feet. “Had enough?” the older man asked, wiping sweat from his hairless head with the sleeve of his shirt.

  Andrew, whose attention had been caught by the noise, turned back from the crowd. He gritted his teeth and spat, “How could you? How could you?”

  “It wasn’t hard, I promise,” replied Penderton. “Perhaps I could
give you instruction some time.”

  Dubrey advanced a step, his fist clenched ever tighter.

  “Prepared to dirty that pretty grey coat?” continued Ricard.

  Andrew looked down as if doubting himself for a moment, then started to unbutton his coat. Nikolis looked around from face to face, entirely unsure of what was going on. Finally, he spotted someone he recognized, and Kelson made his way over with a grin.

  “What’s going on?” Nikolis asked in a whisper.

  Kelson shrugged and said, “Apparently the two are having a bit of a spat.”

  “Over what?”

  “Oh, nothing really. It appears Lord Penderton is up to his usual, defiling the virtue of the local noble women.”

  Nikolis didn’t know what he was talking about at first, but then understanding dawned. “You mean he lay with her?” he asked.

  Kelson’s grin widened as he said, “Deflowered her.”

  “But I thought she and Andrew…”

  “So did everyone,” Kelson replied. “Though Lord Penderton has always had a way about him. There may have been a bottle of fine red from the King’s winter store involved.”

  “Isn’t someone going to stop this?” Nikolis asked.

  It was then that Nikolis noticed Raife walking from amongst the throngs of on-lookers and then making his way over to his father. The boy hobbled with every step, but finally made it to the man more than double his height. He put an imploring hand on his father’s wrist. “Come now father,” he said, in a voice obviously not meant for his father alone. “You’ve had far too much to drink again, you know not what you’re doing.”

  The back of Ricard’s hand sent his stunted son to the chamber floor. “Stay out of this, boy,” he spat. “I know well what I do. Get gone to your moth–” Pain seared across Ricard’s face. The Lady Penderton had been dead for years Nikolis knew, since before he had come to Highkeep.

  Ricard took another swig from the bottle he held and threw it to the floor in a crash of dark glass and wine. He faltered backward as he tried to raise his sword toward Andrew and tried to catch himself on another of the stone columns. This one was fell over as well, and a decorative bronze plate fell to the floor and went rolling across the hall with a metallic crash.

  Nikolis went over to Raife as he approached the edge of the crowd. But his friend only shook him off, much to Nikolis’ surprise, and pushed his way out of the room. Andrew by this point had finished taking off his coat and had draped it carefully on a nearby railing. He turned now and drew his sword. The two men moved toward each other, Andrew with a look of utter seriousness on his face, Ricard grinning and wobbling back and forth, as he went.

  Nikolis looked to Jerald and Ronnell, but they were still only standing there. Moore was looking at the two opponents with squinted eyes, while Camber stared at his feet. Something in Nikolis made him feel compelled to approach the pair anyway, and he moved to Camber.

  “Shouldn’t we do something?” he asked, almost pleading. Ronnell Moore slowly looked away from the two men facing off and down toward Nikolis.

  However, it was Jerald who spoke first. “It’s no business of ours,” he said.

  “He’s a member of the King’s Shield,” Nikolis said, looking to Andrew.

  “Yes,” Moore admitted, then nodded toward Ricard and added, “and he’s a lord of noble blood.”

  Ricard pushed his blade out low toward Andrew, who easily pushed it aside. Then he managed a slash at his right shoulder, which Andrew deftly parried.

  “He can’t attack the King’s own guard,” Nikolis implored. “It would be as if attacking the King himself!”

  Jerald and Ronnell seemed unmoved. “Aye, he can, boy,” said Moore. “Andrew took off his coat. He knew what he was doing when he did that. There’s no stopping the two of them. Less the King says otherwise.”

  Penderton now poked his sword at Andrew’s left shoulder, causing him to have to back off a step and push the sword away again. Then Ricard came in with a side-handed slash at his waist, and Andrew had to bring his sword around for a parry and then backed off again.

  “Well let’s get him!” cried Nikolis. “Where is he?”

  Jerald Camber looked at him with anger in his eyes. “Leave it be, boy,” he said, with a look of warning.

  Nikolis could only let his shoulders slump and watch as Andrew and Ricard continued their duel. Ricard made several more slashes and jabs, all easily turned aside by the experienced Dubrey. However, it quickly became apparent to Nikolis that Penderton was only toying with him, baiting the other man who was obviously fighting too much of an internal battle over what he was doing, to go on the offensive.

  Without warning Ricard came at his opponent with a serious of hard over hand slashes, aimed directly at Andrew’s head. Dubrey managed to parry them all, turning the blade away, while continuing to retreat. The assault proved too much for him, however, and he stumbled backward onto the ground after turning aside the last blow. He did manage to keep his sword up and his eyes on his opponent, but before he could rise, Penderton was reaching in, and Nikolis was sure he was going to gut him.

  He didn’t however, he only bent over and whispered something, and then Andrew rose in a flurry of attacks. “So sweet,” Nikolis had thought he heard the older man say, but it didn’t matter now, as the fight was on in full force. Blade rang against blade as the two men clashed, Andrew out for blood, fury in his eyes, as Ricard, despite being on unsure legs, turned aside every attack with ease.

  Don’t get angry. Drennen had taught him that long ago. If you’re going to fight, at least do so with a clear head. Why was as good a sword as Andrew Dubrey, sworn member of the King’s Shield, not following the most basic of the rules of combat?

  “I want your head!” he heard Andrew yell, above the now roaring crowd as he hacked and slashed at Ricard with unbridled passion. Nikolis was taken aback by the comment, but had no time to think on it before Ricard came on with his own flurry of attacks and replied, “Indeed, boy? Come and get it.”

  Nikolis could only watch, helpless, as the two men literally tried to murder one another. He had never seen anything like it before. Yes, he had seen many men train, spar, and even quarrel. After all, he had practically grown up in the practice yard of the castle, but this was different. These men were not training, not engaging in friendly swordplay – they were out for blood. The only sport in it came from Penderton, and that was far worse than the rest combined, because Nikolis knew, deep down, that it was something debased, something wrong. Ricard Penderton may be relishing the confrontation that was now ensuing, but he was also looking for blood, for his own reasons. Nikolis could feel it.

  There had been nothing like it in Nikolis’ experience, nothing so horrible, for him to compare that look in Ricard’s eyes to. Nothing, except for that somehow similar look he had seen before once before. It was the one Erad had had in his eyes right before he sunk his dagger into Nikolis’ side. It was then that he understood; that it all fit together. There was no possible positive outcome to what he was witnessing. Someone was going to get seriously injured.

  The combatants were now exchanging blows with increasing velocity. Sword rang off sword in rapid succession, the clash of steel on steel sounding deafeningly throughout the high-ceilinged hall. Ricard would come at Andrew pushing him back further and further, until Dubrey’s back was nearly to the wall. Then Andrew would grimace and push back, turning Penderton’s blade aside, and coming at him with a flurry of attacks so fierce it would almost look as if Ricard would succumb to them.

  In the end, however, he always managed to regain his footing, driving Andrew backward, making him work hard to keep his defenses up. Ricard, despite being questioningly inebriated, seemed fine, while Dubrey’s forehead glistened with sweat and his shirt clung to his body.

  Andrew must have found a reserve of strength from somewhere, because without warning he came at Ricard with a fierceness that Nikolis would never have thought him capable of. Anger and hat
red was plain on his face, as he leveled slash after slash at vital parts of his opponent’s body. It was all that Penderton could do to keep the steel away from his flesh, parrying the sword time after time. In the end Dubrey managed to find a hole in Ricard’s almost perfect defenses and gave him a gash on his left bicep that started to bleed freely.

  Luckily for Ricard, that was not his sword arm, and he came back at Andrew with renewed vigor. He was no longer toying with his opponent. The grin was gone from his face. The older man beat aside Dubrey’s blade every time he tried to raise it. Andrew persevered, keeping his sword coming back to parry Ricard’s blows, but it was obvious his arm was growing tired. As he brought the blade back up again to block the latest of his opponent’s attack, Ricard arced his slash back and around, slicing Andrew at the wrist.

  With a gasp Dubrey dropped his sword and stepped backward. Penderton put the tip of his blade to the younger man’s throat. Andrew attempted to back away, but only met a wall. He put his chin up trying to get as far away from the sharp point of Ricard’s steel as he could manage.

  Nikolis let out an audible sigh of relief, a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. It was over. Andrew Dubrey may have suffered a second injury to his pride this day, but at least the battle was done. Nikolis looked to Jerald and Ronnell and could only feel confusion as Camber looked down to his feet, and Moore only shook his head. What is wrong with them?

  It was then that Aubrey re-entered the chamber, pushing aside a host of shocked on-lookers now frozen in place, their fervor finally having died down. Andrew turned to regard her with a pained expression.

  Not the other, though, he never looked away. Ricard Penderton only had eyes for Andrew Dubrey as he plunged several inches of steel into the younger man’s throat.