by Joseph Malik
Whatever the cause, it was going to be a real bitch in a few minutes.
He wondered if he had the balls to self-apply a needle thoracostomy. He had the rig in his blowout kit but he’d never even considered trying it on himself.
He was not looking forward to the adrenaline wearing off.
Gar lurched out of the corner, swearing under his breath, his long saxe in his hand.
Jarrod flipped his sword around a couple of times and came up in tierce. Blood and dirt caked him from his boots to his hair, which was plastered to his face and goatee with sweat and gore. “Yeah, come on,” he rasped. “Let’s fight.”
Sir Urlan was in the feasting hall when he saw Daelle. For the first time in over a year, since the annulment, she put herself in his head, as powerful and clear as when they were children.
And dark.
She was in trouble. She was in pain. Her hands were bound.
He couldn’t see exactly where she was, but he knew that place, those stairs and that door.
Where the hell was that door? He’d seen that door. He’d never been behind it, but he’d seen it.
Jarrod was in there, too, fighting like hell itself unleashed: throwing people through walls. Blood in geysers. Panicked men screaming.
He saw the path.
He knew which door.
He slammed his beer, stood up, and went and tapped Saril at the next table. “On me. Trouble. It’s Daelle. And Jarrod.”
Saril grabbed two others from his end of the table, and they all headed for the door, moving fast.
“Gear?” Saril asked.
“No time,” said Urlan. “Come on!”
Albar and Adielle wondered where everybody was going.
Rising through the music, faint at first, then multiplying, the watchman’s bell began to ring.
“Jarrod,” Gar started, his saxe up defensively.
Jarrod circled, out of attacking distance. “Sir Jarrod, the Merciful,” he corrected, his voice equal parts gravel and leather. “Not that you’d know it here in a moment.”
“You wouldn’t want to come work for me, would you?” Gar said, gesturing to the destroyed room with the tip of the saxe. “I could use a man like you.”
“Not on your life, asshole.”
“Whatever they’re paying you, I can do much better. Your own castle. Your own lands. Here, or even in Gavria. Either. You’d be rich. You’d never have to work again.”
“I like this work,” Jarrod snarled, menacing him with the arming sword.
“It shows.”
“Where are my friends?” Jarrod demanded.
“Your friends are dead,” Gar said. “My boys will have killed them by now.”
Jarrod’s eyes hardened further. “Oh, you’d better hope not.”
The door burst open, and Jarrod moved a step closer to Gar, brandishing the sword. “Stay back!” he told whoever was at the door, not looking at them.
He heard bells in the distance; Easter Mass, letting out.
“It’s Saril.”
“And Sir Urlan, sire.”
Jarrod didn’t take his eyes off Gar. “Who’s with you?”
“Rider Peric,” a tough older guy from the north; Sam Elliott with a salt and pepper goatee in braids.
“Bevio, sire.” Bevio, the beefy redheaded kid with the name that always made Jarrod think of Shakespeare.
“Well, buddy, I think that’s the game,” Jarrod growled, gesturing with his sword for Gar to drop the saxe. Gar laid it down and stepped back. “Put your hands on your head,” Jarrod said. Gar did. “Stay there.”
Urlan made what Jarrod figured was a spiritual gesture of some sort. There was a lot of swearing. Bevio threw up.
“It’s okay, sire,” said Saril, moving toward Jarrod cautiously. “Just take it easy.”
“Saril,” Jarrod warned, “brother, I’m a little on edge. So you all just stay the fuck back until I tell you otherwise.”
“Sure,” said Saril. “Take it easy. I’m on your side. Are you hurt?”
Jarrod kept his eyes on Gar. “No. Yes,” he corrected himself. “Not bad.”
Urlan went to Daelle, his eyes on Gar. He cut her free and she was in his arms, sobbing and wailing.
Urlan went red, then white, and moved on Gar with his sword out. Gar flinched.
“No!” Jarrod shouted.
And then it occurred to Jarrod: Daelle had put the whammy on Urlan. She had the strongest connection with him. She couldn’t read thoughts from a distance, but she could sure as hell send them.
And God bless him, he’d brought the biggest guy in the lists and two others. With swords. And apparently he’d sounded the alarm.
Sometimes, even the shitheads come through.
“The High Inquisitor’s going to want a few words with him,” said Jarrod.
“I can imagine,” said Urlan.
“Saril,” said Jarrod, “there’s a body near the door missing most of the head. He’s wearing my swordbelt. I need my swordbelt. Right now. Now.”
Saril found the body and got to work.
“You killed all these men?” Peric asked.
Gar nodded, his eyes serious. “He did. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I have your belt, sire,” said Saril.
“Toss it over here,” said Jarrod.
It hit the floor near his foot. Jarrod still held Gar at swordpoint. “Rider Peric. Get to the top of the stairs and contain this area. Healers and officers. No one else.”
“Done, sire.”
“Sir Urlan, you get Daelle to a healer.” Urlan was already pulling off his warrior blacks for her to wear. “Rider Saril, you come over here and relieve me. If he moves, do something to him that hurts.”
“Gladly, sire.”
“And me?” asked Bevio, still spitting.
Jarrod let his guard down for the first time. “Go find a long rope and get that poor son of a bitch out of the well.”
Carter heard the bells overhead and the yelling. It took him a moment to discern that they needed to head for the barracks.
Daorah’s knife came out. “Hang on.” In a few quick slashes she had cut the dress above her knees. She handed the knife to Carter. “Do the rest.”
He grinned at her.
“The back, idiot.”
“Can’t blame a guy for tryin’,” he sighed.
They left the extra scraps of material on the stairs and sprinted across the quad.
“You said you didn’t run,” Daorah joked.
“I run when it’s important,” said Carter, outpacing her. But damn, the woman could move.
A knot of knights was gathering at the barracks, unsure of what they were looking for or what the emergency was. Those who had brought fire buckets looked around in confusion.
“Down here!” an older guy with a deep voice and a really cool beard yelled, and pandemonium ensued as thirty people tried to get down the stairwell at the same time.
“Officers and healers only!” Peric ordered. “Officers and healers only!”
Carter shoved his way through. “Chancellor, coming through. Chancellor, coming through. Move.”
“What happened?” Carter asked someone at the bottom of the stairs as Daorah ducked under his arm.
“Sir Jarrod the Merciful killed a hundred men in there,” someone said.
“A hundred?” Carter repeated.
“Carter!” Daorah called from the room, “You better see this.”
Carter stuck his head inside.
The stacks of bodies; the broken shelves; the lake of blood, ankle deep in places; the brains on the wall and the odd disembodied organ; and the smell.
The smell, like a punch in the eyes.
They weren’t all dead. Carter heard moaning and whimpering from a few points in the wreckage as his eyes adjusted.
A tall young rider had a fat guy at swordpoint in the back of the room. Jarrod’s transla
tor was in warrior blacks for some reason and a little rat-faced guy had his arm around her, showing her out of the destroyed storeroom.
“Make a hole!” someone yelled, as Javal pushed past with Durn behind him.
“Commander, Chancellor,” he nodded.
“Captain,” said Carter, and watched as Javal went white, staring and blinking in the stench.
A moment passed and no one said a word.
“Over here,” said Daorah.
Jarrod was sitting against the wall before her, shirtless and gazing into the dark with his knees up and his sword in his hand. Blood caked his entire body, and he had a bandage on his right hand and another high on his left side. Something tiny and bright yellow that Carter couldn’t identify was sticking out of Jarrod’s chest near the bandage, giving a small hiss as he breathed.
“Jarrod,” said Javal gently. “Did you do this?”
“Yes,” said Jarrod to the far wall, exhaustedly.
“All of it?”
Jarrod licked his lips. “Yes.”
Javal knelt in front of him and looked into each of his eyes. “Are you all right?”
Jarrod thought about it for a moment. “I’m going to say no,” he decided.
Carter stood behind Javal. “I’m right here, man.”
“Hey,” said Jarrod.
“Are you wounded?” Javal asked. Jarrod was sitting in a half-inch of blood and it was impossible to tell whose. “What’s that in your chest?”
“Collapsed lung,” Jarrod said slowly, “This will fix it. Do me a favor, though.”
“Anything,” said Javal.
“Arrest Gar,” said Jarrod. “I’m pretty tired.”
Javal’s voice was gentle. “I can do that. Anything else?”
Jarrod was quiet for a couple of breaths. “No. I’m pretty tired,” he repeated.
Daorah looked to Carter, who looked to Javal. “Okay,” Javal beckoned to Durn. “Durn, you and the Chancellor. Get him up.”
Daorah pried Jarrod’s sword from his fingertips. “I need that,” Jarrod slurred.
“I know,” she said. “I’m just going to carry it for you, Lieutenant.”
“Thanks,” said Jarrod. “I’m pretty tired.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“Get my jacket, too.”
Carter got under Jarrod’s arm and lifted his legs. Jarrod snarled and grunted as the lift put pressure on his chest and moved the catheter. “Come on, buddy,” said Carter, “I got ya.”
“Get him to Durvin,” said Javal. “He’ll know what to do.”
“Done,” said Carter.
“These guys need healers,” Jarrod slurred.
“Not your problem, pal,” Carter grunted. “Sir Durn, you want to clear us a path?”
“Love to,” said Durn.
Javal stood by Saril. “Nice arrest, rider.”
“I had the easy part,” said Saril.
“Nothing here is easy,” Javal said.
“I’ll accept that, sire.”
“In fact,” said Javal, “Since you’re still functional in the midst of all this, I need to talk to your commander. It might be time for you to take on more responsibility.”
“Thank you, sire. Don’t hold it against Bevio that he lost his dinner.”
“I’m sure I’ll do the same later, when no one’s looking.”
Javal addressed Gar, whose hands were still on his head. “Commander Gar. Missed you at the feast.”
“Captain,” Gar nodded. “I was a little busy.”
“So I see. Are you injured?”
“Not really,” said Gar.
“So, all this blood belongs to your men,” Javal deduced.
Gar nodded.
“What happened?”
Gar thought for a moment. “There’s something evil inside that man.”
“Good thing he’s on our side,” said Javal.
“You can’t arrest me,” said Gar.
“With all due respect, Commander,” said Saril helpfully, “I’m fairly certain Sir Jarrod just arrested the hell out of you.”
“He’s got a point,” said Javal.
“You can’t hold me.”
“I beg to differ,” said Javal. “The Lord High Inquisitor will need a statement from you. We’re going to take you someplace where you can hang quietly and think about what you want to say.”
VIII
ALLEGRO
“It is well known, and a sad fact, that in no profession is jealousy displayed with more bitterness than among fencing masters.”
— Egerton Castle, 1885
Jarrod dreamed of Paris.
A smoky bar on Rue Champollion, two weeks before the Fencing World Cup. The stink of those awful brown cigarettes and the peal of French women laughing in his ear. The oily aftertaste of Jasmine Flynn’s lipstick as he sipped Bordeaux so gentle and mellow that it went down like rosewater.
Jasmine Flynn. Nickelodeon princess all grown up, Hollywood darling, gracer of teen magazines and red carpets. Astonishingly lovely and Tinsel Town tough, she was his better judgment personified and a bulwark against the rumbling, brake-squealing catastrophe of his life. They were the ideal storybook couple: rogue and princess, bad boy and good girl. The press loved them. The fans loved them.
Everyone loved Jasmine.
A shout—his name—and he turned to see Vittorio DeCarlo standing in the doorway, his eyes narrowed to slits. Vittorio, the Sicilian Slasher. World-class sabreur. World-class temper.
Jasmine pleading with DeCarlo in Italian, Vittorio raging in return, yelling from the door with two men holding him back.
“That guy will not leave me alone,” she sighed. “I never should have spoken Italian to him.”
“I speak Italian. Hang on.” Jarrod stood up and set his glass down. “Hey, Vittorio!” He made a grand and theatrical masturbatory gesture in Vittorio's direction and the entire bar erupted with laughter. Jarrod sat down again and told Jasmine, “They talk with their hands.”
Vittorio pulling at his friends, screaming at Jarrod in Italian, hand gestures and shouts above the music. Jarrod yelling back in pidgin Italian, aping his gestures: “Prosciutto de Parma, eh? Giuseppe Verdi! Pasta e fagioli!”
Vittorio’s face purple in apoplexy, spit flying with the curses.
“Romano!” Jarrod yelled back, “Mozzarella! Get the fuck outta here!”
The Sicilian Slasher slamming the door hard enough to crack the glass should have been his first warning.
Jasmine’s voice, more than a little worried. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man that mad.”
“You haven’t hung out with me enough, then.”
A giggle. A kiss.
Pacifying the bartender with a fifty-euro note. Stepping out into the stinging Paris rain.
Vittorio was waiting outside with a saber already drawn and a crowd behind him. He tossed Jarrod a sword.
He’d caught it easily, the grip melding with his fingers. Not a saber, he saw, but a rapier. Exquisitely balanced, antique. Breathtaking.
And deadly. No question that it had been sharpened.
The crowd widened, phones came out, Jarrod cursing the Parisian vultures. Foolish romantic bastards.
“Je ne vous combattrai pas!” He dropped the weapon on the ground, and oh, what a champion-caliber bad idea: Vittorio’s blade slashed across his forearm, going for his eye but even drunk, in the dark, in the rain, Jarrod was fast. The blow had laid him open to the bone, though; through the jacket and under the wrist, long and deep, the stuff suicides were made of. He stumbled back as the rain washed his life over his fingertips, swirling into the gutter. Jasmine shrieking.
Vittorio pinked him on the shoulder. Slashed the side of his head. More blood, hot and steaming down his neck in contrast to the chill of the rain.
Backpedaling, the blade flashing at him. Screams from the crowd. So it ends. You die in a duel in Paris.
Not e
ven a duel. You chickened out.
Jasmine screaming at him to pick the sword up.
Jerry, he’s going to kill you.
Yes. Yes, he is.
He toed the rapier into his hand and stepped into attacking distance, Vittorio’s face a mask of indignation and even amusement as he lunged. Jarrod knocked the rapier down and the blades began to sing in the sizzle of the rain as he bulled the big fencer back. “Come on, motherfucker,” he snarled.
Another exchange, impossibly long for sabreurs, followed by an explosion of ice low in his gut as he missed a parry on the inside line. He jammed his palm hard under Vittorio’s nose, snaking a foot behind.
A thunderstrike of white pain was Vittorio letting go of the rapier and slipping on the wet sidewalk. His head hit the pavement, and it was over.
Caught on a dozen phones, the moment would circle the world, replaying in slow-motion from every angle on every news station on the planet and a hundred more times in court. A hundred million YouTube hits for The Deadliest Man Alive.
His own voice in his ears, a single screamed obscenity lost in a swirl of European sirens as the streetlights faded.
Months later, drinking Glenmorangie straight from the bottle while staring off a cliff over a cold New England bay, rudderless. Persona non grata in France, outcast in America, barred from competition forever. Jasmine’s manager and lawyers coming down hard with a series of no-contact orders, dozens of pages of impenetrable ass-covering boilerplate protecting her career and their investment from any defamation of character that may ensue from associating with a man accused of murder, acquittal or no. Flowers for her birthday returned with a desist order.
The tabloids, the evening news, even a savaging of fencing itself in Sports Illustrated. All of it a drunken blur.
The world didn’t—couldn’t—understand. He’d saved his own life by taking another; unforgivable behavior in civilized society.
The worst was knowing that if it ever happened again, he’d respond the same.
He was branded. He was a killer.
He threw the empty bottle off the cliff and watched it float out into the breakers.
