The Plague Knight and Other Stories

by Richard Lee Byers

Olissimal’s leer stretched wider. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Later on, it occurred to me that perhaps I should be glad Dromis had challenged me. It gave me what I wanted: a chance to avenge Falnac’s death.

  For after all, I was reasonably confident of my own prowess. I’d survived three decades of warfare and duels. I’d destroyed a fire elemental, and the undead warlock in the vaults under Keenspur House. It was conceivable that I could defeat Dromis, too, no matter what tricks he had in store.

  But I didn’t really believe it. My instincts warned me I was in desperate trouble, and the only honorable way out was to uncover Dromis’s secret.

  Of course, not everyone would agree that housebreaking was “honorable,” but given the circumstances, I was willing to make allowances.

  Skulking in the same dark, narrow space where Tregan had performed his divination, I watched Dromis’s school until all the lights went out, and for a while thereafter. Then I tied on my mask and, hooded lantern in hand, scurried across the benighted street and around to the back of the building, where there was a secondary entrance.

  I didn’t know how to pick a lock--I kept meaning to learn--but I did know how to break open a door with a crowbar. I waited until I was certain no one had heard the crunching noise it made, then crept into what proved to be a kitchen.

  Shining my light only when absolutely necessary and only for an instant at a time, seeking the way to the top floor, I groped through darkness. In time, I passed bedchambers and heard the snoring buzzing from within, and I’ll admit, it crossed my mind that I could settle this whole affair by killing Dromis in his sleep. But that would have made me just as vile as he was, especially considering that, my suspicions notwithstanding, I didn’t yet have any proof that he and his pupils were cheats.

  I pulled a folding staircase down from a ceiling to reach the garret. Once there, I risked letting my lantern shine continuously. As I played the beam about, it illuminated cobwebs, dusty trunks and crates, and then something more interesting.

  It was a block of dark, silver-flecked stone, about the size of a horse’s head, sitting on a table with a chair in front of it. Though I’d traveled far before settling in Balathex, I didn’t recognize the type of mineral, nor the style of the glyphs carved into it, either. I certainly couldn’t hazard a guess as to their meaning.

  What I could tell was that the block was broken, some of the sigils, marred or defaced. Either the artifact had fallen from a height, or someone had taken a hammer to it. And, I could sense the power emanating from it, like a hum so faint that a man didn’t quite realize he was hearing it.

  Plainly, it was the talisman whose presence Tregan had discerned, and if he were here, playing burglar along with me, perhaps he could have told me what the magic did. In his absence, I’d have to try to discover on my own.

  I sat down in the chair and inspected the block at close range. It didn’t look appreciably different, nor did it react to my proximity. Warily, like a man testing the edge of a blade, I touched a fingertip to the front of it.

  That one light contact was all it took. Suddenly everything vanished, including my sense of my own body. In its place there suddenly rushed a howling torrent of darkness that tumbled me along like a raging river. Except, not exactly. But that’s as close as I can come to describing the sensation.

  Terrified, I reached out--not with the hands I could no longer feel, but with sheer willpower, I think--for something other than the black rapids. It worked; abruptly, the nature of my experience changed. I could still feel the current sweeping me along, but now I was more like a man floating precariously on the surface than one drowning in the depths.

  As a result, I could see. Balathex lay far below me, as if I were a hawk floating on the wind, while the sky arched overhead.

  But the sky wasn’t behaving properly. It flickered from dark to light and back again in an instant, quick as the beat of a hummingbird’s wing.

  Then the trees dropped their leaves almost as quickly. Snow blanketed the earth, then melted away. Several new houses sprang up, the frames clothing themselves in solid walls like a man pulling up a pair of breeches.

  Panicked and befuddled though I was, I had a vague idea what was happening. The dark stone had drawn my spirit from my body. That trick was common enough that even non-magical folk like me had heard of it. What was unusual was that in the process, it had also yanked me loose from my proper position in time. Now something--perhaps simply the inexorable momentum of time--was whisking me into the future.

  I was afraid that if it carried me too far, it would prove impossible to get back. I started swimming against the current, though my struggles had nothing to do with stroking arms or kicking legs. As before, it was a matter of pure resolve.

  For a while, I couldn’t tell if I was making any headway. Then, for just an instant, I caught a glimpse of the room and moment from which I’d come.

  Unfortunately, my body wasn’t alone anymore. Dromis was creeping up behind me with a dagger in his hand.

  I struggled even harder, if that was possible, and fought the pressure until I was certain the effort had taken too long. If I managed to return to my body at all, it would be to find my life gushing from a slit throat.

  But evidently a man’s sense of time doesn’t count for much when he’s already come unstuck from it as it’s commonly experienced. For suddenly I had a solid form again, and it seemed unwounded. I sensed Dromis looming just behind me.

  I threw myself sideways out of the chair before he could cut me. He came after me, and, sprawled on my back, I kicked at him. I connected with his shin and knocked him staggering off balance.

  That gave me time to roll to my feet and draw my sword. The trouble was that when I did, the floor seemed to pitch and I nearly fell down again. My forced jaunt into tomorrow had left me weak and dizzy. I couldn’t win a fight with a fellow fencing master in this condition.

  I bolted down the folding stairs. Dromis took a moment to unsheathe his own sword, then gave chase.

  Given a chance, he’d catch me, too. He wasn’t suffering from vertigo, and he was thoroughly familiar with the layout of the lightless house.

  I spied a square of lesser darkness: a window on the far side of a doorway. I charged it and crashed through the laths and oiled paper.

  I fell two stories and landed hard, but when I tried to stand up again, I could. I hadn’t broken anything. Apparently unwilling to trust to fool’s luck as I had, Dromis didn’t jump after me. I staggered away into the night as fast as I was able.

  Fortunately, the weakness and dizziness didn’t last long. They were gone by the time Dromis came to call at my school the next morning.

  As before, he appeared with several of his students tagging along, serving as bodyguards whether they realized it or not. But he consented to leave them loitering in the main training hall while he and I sat at a table in one of the alcoves along the wall. His disciples would still see it if I attempted any violence, and he likely realized I wouldn’t talk honestly about breaking into his house if anyone else was close enough to overhear.

  “How’s your leg?” I asked him.

  “Fine. You didn’t kick me that hard.” He took a breath. “I moved the stone. The City Guards can search my academy from top to bottom. They won’t find a thing.”

  I shrugged. “Even if they did, I couldn’t prove that the thing can be used to cheat at dueling, let alone that you actually have used it that way. Even though I’m sure of it.”

  He frowned. “What exactly is it that you think you know?”

  “The talisman carries a man’s spirit--and his perceptions--into the future. I couldn’t control exactly where I went or what I saw. But you can, either because you know the words of command or just because you’ve practiced. Prior to a duel, you observe exactly how a student’s opponent will behave, and precisely what the pupil does to overcome those tactics. Then you drill your fencer in the proper moves, and everything works out just as you fo
resaw. Magic gives him an unfair advantage even though no enchantments or banes are active on the field of honor.

  “The only limitation,” I continued, “is that to guarantee victory, you have to provide special instruction for each individual combat. But you’ve minimized that problem by stressing to your charges that formal duels are always to be preferred over impromptu bloodletting.”

  Dromis scowled. “I truly am a fine swordsman, and a fine teacher, too.”

  “If you say so.”

  “But since I had an edge, why not use it? How else could I achieve preeminence quickly in a city already famous for its fencing masters? You’d have done the same thing in my place.”

  I shook my head. “I’d use your stone or any other trick in war, but never in dueling. The code of the duel is an attempt to bring order and restraint to that which would otherwise be chaotic and bestial, and for that reason, civilized men value it.”

  He sneered. “I’ve always heard that Selden is a strong man, but you think like a weak one.”

  “Let’s not debate moral philosophy. We’re not likely to reach an accord. I’m much rather hear how you came by the stone.”

  “All right, why not, if you’re curious. When I was as young as those lads”--he nodded toward his students--“a new creed arose in my homeland. Given the chance to flourish, it could have changed the world. But corrupt lords and false priests declared our prophet a demon in disguise, and hundreds of idiots believed them. An army marched on us when we were still too few to defend ourselves.”

  I remembered the stories his pupils told. “Then you really did fight on the losing side in a religious war.”

  He glared as if my matter-of-fact way of speaking was an insult to the exaltation and tragedy enshrined in his memory. “I survived the final battle, then returned to the temple of the prophet. The unbelievers had defaced the black stone along with everything else, but it was still a holy relic, and something about it called to me. I decided to carry it with me into exile, and when I touched it, it revealed its power to me.”

  “And you’ve no doubted cheated your way through life ever since.”

  “I’m tired of hearing you use that word. It’s good to know that after we meet two mornings hence, I won’t have to hear it anymore.”

  “Indeed not. You won’t hear anything ever again.”

  Dromis laughed. “I thought you understood, Selden. You can’t win. I’ve already watched our duel. I already know the tactics you’ll employ even if you haven’t yet decided on them yourself, and I know how I’ll defeat them and cut you down. In a very real sense, you’re already lying dead at my feet.”

  I found Marissa in her armory repairing a leather-and-wire-mesh fencing helmet. As she got caught up in my story, she abandoned her task, and left the protective mask to lie in pieces on the cluttered worktable before her.

  “I told you we should kill Dromis before the duel,” she said. “Luckily, it’s not too late.”

  “Actually, it is,” I replied. “He’s hiding behind a wall of his students, and he’ll stay there until he comes to keep our appointment.”

  “In that case, go to Lords Baltes and Pivor.”

  “Without proof?”

  “You shouldn’t need it. They owe you. They’re your friends.”

  “They’re also committed to governing the city in a less arbitrary manner than their predecessors, and that’s a good thing. I won’t ask them to set aside their own rules of law just to save my arse.”

  “Then what? You can’t simply refuse to fight, or people will think you a coward. No maestro or mercenary can afford that.”

  I felt a jab of anger. “Don’t worry about that. Despite everything, I want to duel. I want to beat Dromis at his own rotten game and pay him back for Falnac’s death.” I took a breath. “And even if I didn’t, the dastard has evidently seen that I show up, so perhaps I don’t have a choice. Maybe, somehow, I’d wind up at the designated place and time no matter what.”

  Marissa made a sour face. “That’s so contrary to common sense, it makes my head hurt just to think about it.”

  “Mine too. So why don’t we try thinking like warriors?”

  A dank mist blurred the mausoleums and grave markers, and the dawn was just a luminous smear on a wall of gray cloud. The birds hadn’t yet begun to sing.

  I’d done my best to keep Dromis’s prophecy of doom from affecting my morale. But perhaps the dismal morning helped to dampen my spirits, for as we approached one another, I did indeed have the fey sense that my fate was sealed. That all that was about to happen had, in some ultimate sense, happened already.

  I couldn’t afford to feel like a helpless sleepwalker, so I focused on Dromis’s sneer and Olissimal’s gloating smirk, stoking my hatred for them both. It wasn’t something I would have done ordinarily; I prefer to fight with a cool head. But in this instance, it steadied me.

  We took our places, and then Olissimal said, “We, your friends, urge you to seek a peaceful resolution to your dispute.” I doubted that anyone in the history of swordplay had ever made that traditional plea with such a transparent lack of sincerity.

  “I do not apologize,” Dromis said, “and I know for a fact that my opponent won’t, either. Isn’t that right, Selden?” He grinned at me as though sharing a secret jest.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I’ll always wonder: Could you simply not accept the truth of your situation, or did your notions of honor oblige you to show up even so? Either way, you’ll die a fool.”

  I looked to Marissa. “Let’s get on with it.”

  “As you wish,” she said, backing away to give Dromis and me room to fight. Shifting his crutches, Olissimal likewise hobbled clear.

  Marissa then lifted a white cloth and whipped it through the air. Dromis and I started to circle one another.

  Fear welled up inside me, and of course, given the life I’d led, it was scarcely the first time. But it was the first time it balked me. For a heartbeat, I couldn’t attack because the craven part of me knew that whatever technique I attempted, Dromis would offer a perfect--and perfectly lethal--response.

  I screamed a battle cry to jolt myself into motion.

  I sprang into the distance, feinted to the chest, and cut to the head. Dromis ducked under the stroke and thrust at my chest as he’d surely watched himself do while using the power of the stone.

  It was a nasty counterattack, but fortunately, I was ready for it. I deflected it with a heavy beat-parry that weakened his grip on his hilt, then slashed at his face.

  Dromis had boasted he was a good swordsman, and it was so. He didn’t drop his weapon, and he managed to jump back and evade my cut. But his eyes were wide with shock. Whereas I wanted to laugh, because from this moment forward, nothing about our encounter was predestined. Now it was just another sword fight.

  Having experienced the turbulent power of the stone, I’d conjectured that, while Dromis had learned to use it, the process wasn’t easy for him. For after all, he was a warrior, not a mystic, and moreover, the artifact was damaged.

  And if Dromis had to struggle mightily to swim through the time currents in the same way I had, then it stood to reason that he couldn’t navigate to a scene he wanted to witness with any extraordinary precision. He had to flounder about until he happened across it, then fight to hold his position long enough to obtain a serviceable glimpse.

  So I’d called in the favor owed me by the players of the Azure Swan Theater. On the previous morning, they, Marissa, and I had thrice staged a mock duel, with actors made up to resemble Dromis, a band of his students, and Olissimal. Each time I attacked with a feint to the chest and a cut to the head, and each time my adversary dispatched me with a stab to the torso. His sword was blunt, but still capable of breaking the bladder of pig’s blood concealed inside my doublet.

  The idea was for Dromis’s spirit, adrift in time, to observe one of the fraudulent duels and mistake it for the real one, and I admit, I’ve hatched schemes that inspire
d greater confidence. Even if all my unsubstantiated guesses were correct, there was still one chance in four that my foe had watched the actual combat. But now I knew the trick had worked.

  We traded attacks, neither scoring as of yet. But as the moments passed, I felt more and more in control of the action, and he had to give ground repeatedly.

  I judged that if I could stop him retreating, I could finish him, and there was a marble tomb, crowned with a statue of a dove lighting on the hand of a goddess, several paces behind him. I started the process of backing him up against it.

  Then Dromis used the thumb of his off hand to rotate the gold ring on his middle finger, perhaps another keepsake he’d carried away from his cult’s desecrated temple. The medallion I wore next to my skin turned icy cold, warning me of hostile magic. Unfortunately, the warning was redundant. I was able to guess that my opponent had cast a curse stored in a talisman from the way the world suddenly went black.

  Acting by reflex, I parried, and steel rang as I stopped Dromis’s sword. I riposted, and felt my blade cleave flesh and stick there. When Dromis fell, his weight dragged it toward the ground.

  My feat was lucky, but not, I think, pure luck. Throughout the duel, I’d studied Dromis’s fighting style and learned his favorite attack. Thus, even blind, I was able to defend. And when our blades met, it gave me a sense of his position. That made it possible to land a cut.

  Much to my relief, my eyesight returned to me a moment after Dromis dropped. Blinking away a certain residual cloudiness, I checked to make sure he was dead, then pivoted to find Olissimal. I wanted to witness his dismay at his champion’s demise.

  But in that regard, I was disappointed. Supported by his crutches, Olissimal stood shivering with his eyes half closed, a picture of perverse delight. He didn’t really care who’d died a bloody death, only that someone had.

  I suppose no moment is perfect. But, Olissimal’s bliss notwithstanding, this one came close, and tasted sweeter still when Marissa strode up to me, a rare smile of genuine admiration on her face. “Nicely done,” she said.