Duel at Araluen

by John Flanagan

  Maddie felt her father tense beside her as the wicked blow flashed toward Cassandra. It was an excellent move, the sign of an expert swordsman in complete control of his weapon. But Cassandra was ready for it. This time, she intercepted Dimon’s blade with her own, and the room echoed to the ringing shriek of steel scraping on steel. The point of her sword spun in a small circle that deflected Dimon’s blade, causing him to stumble slightly as his sword met no real resistance. For a fraction of a second, his left side was exposed and Cassandra cut at it, hitting him high on the left arm and slicing through the chain-mail sleeve of his hauberk as if it were wool. A bright red line of blood sprang up across his arm and he danced away clear of her, cursing softly as he surveyed the wound.

  No serious damage had been done. It was a shallow cut only, as the chain mail absorbed most of the force of the cut. And it was his left arm, which would not affect his ability to fight—at least, not in the short term. If the combat continued long enough, the loss of blood might sway things in Cassandra’s favor. But neither combatant was planning on a long fight.

  They resumed their slow circling, the hall silent except for the shuffle of their boots on the floor as they moved around each other, keeping both feet in contact with the floor to maintain their balance.

  Blood dripped slowly from Dimon’s left arm, but not in sufficient quantities to weaken him. Cassandra’s strike hadn’t caused serious injury, but it gained her a psychological edge. The sudden burning impact of her sword blade on his arm had reminded Dimon of how quickly she could react and strike. If the cut had been twenty centimeters higher, it could well have sliced into his neck.

  He eyed her with new caution as they circled. Then he feinted an attack and she darted back out of range before replying with her own. He dodged as well and for a few seconds they feinted and retreated, feinted and retreated, both of them aware that one of these mock attacks could suddenly become real and they would be fighting for their lives again.

  Cassandra was on her toes now as she darted in and out, feinting, searching for an opening, looking for a reaction from Dimon that was a fraction of a second too late. She was breathing steadily, drawing oxygen into her lungs through her nose in long, deep breaths. The katana maintained its defensive circling movement in front of her. Your shield, Maikeru had called it.

  Then Dimon attacked again in earnest. He swung a controlled series of strokes at her, backhand, forehand and overhead, never overextending himself or leaving himself open to an instant riposte from her. She danced backward lightly, staying away from him. If their blades locked, his superior weight and strength would give him the advantage, and she was all too aware of the heavy dagger in his belt. If her katana was trapped by his sword, it would take only a second for him to draw the dagger with his left hand and drive it into her ribs.

  Back they went, down the length of the big, empty room, the swords ringing together, scraping, sliding off each other. Notches appeared in Dimon’s blade as it impacted against the super-hardened steel of the katana. But they weren’t enough to reduce his sword’s capacity to wound and kill. He pursued her down the hall as she backed away, cutting and striking at her.

  Then he overextended himself once, and instantly she went on the attack, slashing at his head and shoulders, then sweeping down to cut at his legs. Now it was Dimon’s turn to retreat, his boots slithering and sliding on the floor in a rapid rhythm. He parried desperately. Cassandra’s slashing attack was giving him no time to counterattack in his turn. All he could do was defend.

  Sweat began to streak his forehead as he worked to keep that glittering blade away from his body, arms and head. The ring of steel on steel filled his ears. Then Cassandra missed a beat in the remorseless rhythm of her attack, and he sprang back, opening space between them as her attack ran out of impetus.

  Again they faced each other. Again, they circled. Their breath was coming faster now, due to their exertions and the adrenaline rush that was filling both their bodies.

  Dimon feinted. Cassandra stepped back smartly, then feinted herself, making him give ground. A worm of worry was forming in her mind. They were very evenly matched. The outcome of this contest rested on a knife blade—or, more correctly, a sword blade. Dimon’s power and strength was balanced by Cassandra’s speed and agility. But, as Maikeru had told her weeks before, the longer the contest continued, the more her advantages would be eroded.

  As she tired, she would slow down, perhaps only fractionally, but enough to give Dimon the edge he needed. His advantage in stamina and strength would be less affected, she knew.

  They engaged in another series of strokes and counterstrokes and she realized that Dimon’s thoughts were running along similar lines to her own. He was committing her to violent movement and action, planning to tire her and slow her down. He knew their relative advantages and disadvantages as well as she did. He knew that the more he could engage her and force her into violent exchanges like this, the more quickly she would tire.

  She leapt back, disengaging. He started to come after her, hoping she might be off balance, but realized that she was ready for him, her sword poised over her right shoulder, preparing to strike. He stopped and smiled mirthlessly at her.

  “Feeling the heat?” he sneered.

  She remained steady, her eyes locked on his, looking for a hint that he was about to attack again.

  “How’s that arm?” she asked. “Looks painful.”

  He forced a laugh. “It’s just a scratch. Hardly cut the skin.”

  Then he leapt back a long step as she came at him while he was still speaking. He hadn’t expected that. He’d have to stay on his toes, he told himself. She was a very dangerous adversary, and he would have to take his time tiring her out. If he tried to rush it, he could well lose this fight.

  Cassandra resumed her defensive stance, the katana held in both hands, centered across her body, her left foot slightly advanced, knees bent, ready to react to any move he might make.

  She shuffled forward, forgoing the circling motion. Dimon retreated, moving back away from her. Then he darted his sword at her and she stopped. They reversed the movement, with him sliding forward, her shuffling back. There was no sound in the room except the slither of their boots on the floor and the occasional shriek of steel sliding across steel.

  The impasse continued for several more minutes. Then Dimon launched a savage attack at her, bludgeoning her sword with his own, beating down at her without finesse or subterfuge. She gave ground, parrying desperately, feeling the power of his strokes—power that she couldn’t hope to match. He wasn’t trying to find a weakness in her defense. He was simply battering at her, making her use up her reserves of energy and sap her stamina. She backed away down the hall, eventually coming up short against the western wall, where weapons were stacked in racks—spears, pikes and long-handled axes. She stood with her back to them, twisting her sword desperately from side to side, deflecting some of his strokes but forced to simply block others—to stop them in midair with the strength of her arms and wrists.

  Dimon’s breath came in a series of savage grunts as he struck at her, time after time. He could feel his own muscles tiring, but he knew the effect on her would be even worse. She had backed away from him as far as she could. Now there was nothing for her to do but to match him, blow for blow, strength for strength.

  Her muscles ached. Her wrists felt weak and vulnerable as she reacted to his attacks—for that was all she could do, react. She had no time or energy to counterattack. She was trapped against the wall, trying to foresee each stroke of his blade, trying to interpose her own. She was fighting purely on the defensive and the nonstop effort was beginning to tell. She knew she was going to have to end this fight in the next few minutes. If she didn’t, Dimon would end it for her.

  Watching from his position by the stairwell, Horace’s expert eyes followed the course of the combat. Worry and fear gnawed at his innar
ds. Maddie had moved around the stairwell to join him.

  “She’s tiring,” he said quietly to Maddie. “She’s slowing down.”

  Maddie nodded grimly. She had seen the same thing. She had been present when Maikeru had dissected the relative skills and weaknesses of Cassandra and Dimon. She knew that the longer the fight continued, the less her mother’s advantage would be.

  Cassandra, watching like a hawk, saw Dimon’s rhythm change slightly. The next blow was slightly slower than the previous ones, not as well aligned. While his constant offensive was causing her to tire, it was also sapping his own energy. As the blow began to descend from high above his head, she threw herself sideways, out of the way. She hit the floor with her shoulder and rolled desperately to move out of his reach. He cursed as she evaded his stroke, but recovered almost instantly, leaping after her and striking down at her as she was on the ground.

  Almost instantly. The fractional delay was enough for her to roll away and bound to her feet, then dart clear of him. Once more they faced each other, both breathing heavily. Dimon noted with fierce satisfaction that the point of her katana, extended toward him in its defensive posture, was held slightly lower than it had been some minutes prior.

  He smiled savagely at her. “Not so easy when it’s for real, is it?” he taunted.

  Then he saw her head jerk back in the familiar giveaway sign. Almost immediately, she took a long step forward, released her left hand from the katana and lunged overhand at him in a single-handed stroke. Without the warning signal from her head, she would have caught him napping and the blade would have driven deep into his chest.

  Forewarned, he slipped her blade to the side and delivered a lightning-fast counter-lunge. It missed a vital spot by centimeters as she twisted desperately to her right. The blade scored across her ribs, opening a long, shallow slash in her side. Blood welled out instantly, staining her jerkin.

  Horace and Maddie gasped in horror. Maddie began to raise her bow, fearing that her mother was nearing the end of her tether.

  “She’d stopped doing that,” she muttered to herself. Obviously, in her fatigue, Cassandra had allowed the potentially deadly mistake to creep back in.

  Then, unbelievably, as Dimon closed in on her, Cassandra repeated the same dangerous thrust—but this time without the giveaway head movement. Caught totally unawares, Dimon watched in horror as her sword slid past his, moving on a slightly downward path. It sliced easily through the chain mail covering his torso and buried its point deep in the left side of his chest.

  He looked at her in surprise. “You didn’t . . .”

  But he got no further. His words choked and he felt his knees buckling. The wound she had delivered was a mortal one and he knew it. He tried to strike at her one last time, but suddenly his sword was too heavy for his wrist and it fell away with a ringing clang as he released his grip. He dropped to his knees, staring up at Cassandra.

  What he didn’t know, and what Maddie didn’t realize, was that Cassandra’s first giveaway head movement had been intentional, designed to lull him into a false sense of superiority, so that he never saw the second overhand lunge coming at him until it was too late.

  She was fading from his sight as blood welled down his body inside the chain mail. Suddenly it was hard to retain his balance as he knelt before her and, slowly, he fell forward, hitting the boards facedown.

  But he never felt the impact. He was beyond all feeling.

  Cassandra had remained facing him, sword ready for an instant response if he was faking. Now, she finally relaxed. She stepped back from him and wearily lowered her sword point to the ground.

  It was as well that she did, as she was almost instantly engulfed by Horace as he swept her into his arms. For a long moment, they embraced each other, with Maddie hovering around them, trying to find a way to hug her mother.

  Finally, Cassandra spoke. “Let me go, you great black bear. My ribs are hurting.”

  Chastened as he remembered the cut that had scored across her ribs, Horace released her and held her at arm’s length instead. Maddie managed to find a way into the family huddle when he did and tenderly put her arms around her mother’s neck.

  “I was so terrified for you!” she blurted. “I thought you’d forgotten what Maikeru had taught you.”

  Cassandra smiled grimly and looked at the still body on the floor of the hall. “So did he.”

  Then she drew back and turned to the stairs as she heard the thudding of multiple feet coming up from below. Maddie stepped clear and raised the bow that she still held in her left hand, an arrow ready on the string. Horace’s hand dropped to the hilt of his sword and he turned as well.

  The Heron brotherband, led by Hal, stormed up the stairs and into the vast hall. For once, Edvin and Stefan had shoved their way to the front, jostling Stig and Thorn aside as they fanned out on either side of Hal, their weapons drawn and ready for action.

  “It’s all over,” Maddie told them, jerking a thumb at the still body of Dimon, facedown on the floor.

  Edvin and Stefan exchanged an exasperated glance. “Isn’t it always the way?” Edvin said angrily.

  Stefan nodded. Words failed him.

  Then Edvin’s training came to the fore as he saw the blood seeping slowly down Cassandra’s side. He was the healer aboard the Heron, trained in treating wounds and injuries.

  “Better let me look at that, my lady,” he said, sheathing his sword and stepping toward her. Gently, he pulled her shirt away from the wound and unstrapped his medical kit from his belt.

  Hal relaxed, sheathing his sword and regarding the three Araluens.

  “Nice to see a family that gets on together,” he said. Then, eyeing the assortment of weapons they all carried, he added, “And it’s just as well you do.”

  Epilogue

  Maddie unpacked the last of her traveling clothes and stowed them away in the small hanging space in her bedroom. She looked around the cozy little cottage and smiled. It was nice to be home, she thought. Castle Araluen was beautiful and imposing. But the cabin in the trees that she shared with Will held a special place in her heart.

  Her mentor was due to arrive home later in the day, she had learned from Lady Pauline when she called at Castle Redmont to pick up Sable, Will’s border shepherd. The dog now lay watching her, her muzzle on her front paws and her eyes wide-open following Maddie around the room as she unpacked.

  Word of events at Castle Araluen had yet to reach Castle Redmont. Gilan and Horace had ordered that the news should be suppressed for the time being. That way, they hoped that any remaining Red Fox rebels would be unaware of Dimon’s defeat and so would be easier to round up and arrest. The prisoners they had taken at Castle Araluen and at the hill fort had provided them with a long list of names of co-conspirators.

  Of course, Gilan had written a detailed report for Halt and Will, and the rest of the Ranger Corps. These documents were being distributed throughout the Kingdom now by fast courier. The Rangers, in turn, would inform their respective barons of what had taken place. Maddie herself had brought copies for Will and Halt. Halt’s she had left at Castle Redmont. Will’s lay on the battered pine table in the main room of the cabin.

  She saw Sable’s head rise from her paws and turn quickly toward the door. A few minutes later, Maddie heard the soft clopping of hooves coming down the dirt trail from the castle. She shook her head at the dog.

  “How do you always know?” she said, marveling at the animal’s acute hearing. Or maybe it was Sable’s sense of smell that told her that her master was returning. She followed the black-and-white dog as Sable rose and padded out of the bedroom toward the front door of the cabin. Sable was too well trained to bark at Will’s approach, but her heavy tail began to fan back and forth as she moved out onto the small verandah, eyes glued on the trail where it exited from the trees.

  Minutes later, a cloaked figure mounte
d on a shaggy gray horse appeared out of the shadows under the trees. From the stable behind the cabin, Bumper whinnied a greeting. Tug’s head rose in reply. Will rode slowly out into the sunlit clearing in front of the cabin and raised his hand in greeting.

  “Welcome home,” Maddie called, and he smiled in reply. “Any luck in the west?”

  He made a face, then shook his head. He and Halt had been sent to investigate further activity from the Red Fox Clan in the northwest of the Kingdom.

  “Wild-goose chase,” he said, as he reined Tug in beside the verandah. “A couple of fanatics shouting slogans and trying to stir up the countryside. Not that they had much luck with that. Halt threw them in a duckpond and that seemed to cool them down. Baron Hexel locked them up in jail for good measure.”

  She nodded to herself. The rumors of activity in the northwest had obviously been a distraction, intended to keep Halt and Will away from the main action in the east. Dimon had planned his rebellion thoroughly.

  Will dismounted and Maddie stepped down from the verandah to take Tug’s rein. The little gray gave her a friendly nod.

  “I’ll take care of Tug for you,” she said.

  Will smiled his thanks. “That’s kind of you. Any coffee ready?”

  “There’s a pot on the stove. I made it five minutes ago,” she told him and saw the anticipatory gleam in his eyes.

  “That’s even kinder,” he said. “How was your holiday?”

  “Oh, you know how it is,” she said. “It was lovely to see Mum and Dad and catch up with things at Araluen. But after a week I was bored and wanted to be back here.”

  “I’m sure a few weeks of peace and quiet did you good,” Will said. He lifted his saddlebags and bedroll from Tug’s back and slung them over his shoulder. “Is Evanlyn well?” he asked.

  When Will had met Cassandra for the first time, she was traveling under the assumed name of Evanlyn. In all the years that had passed since, he had never become accustomed to calling her Cassandra.