by M. C. Planck
“The damn thing’s nothing but trouble. I keep getting into fights, most of which end up with me bleeding, and people keep dying. Bad people, or so I’m told, but they just look like poor, desperate losers to me.” The ragged men who had attacked him and Karl on the road, and died there, had borne the look of men who did not eat regularly.
“Well, you’ll not have that problem here,” Lalania responded sourly. “Black Bart’s as bad as you could hope for and still be breathing.”
He had some work left to do in the office, capping the ink and washing out his pens. Nothing about medieval technology was convenient. Then he dressed for combat, just in case, putting on the chain mail, tightening the laces of his boots, and tucking his helmet under his arm.
When he finally came out of the chapel, he was assaulted by the presence of people. Nothing spoke to his acclimatization to this world like finding a crowd of two or three hundred to be uncomfortable and unusual.
“Who are all these people, and why are they here?” he said plaintively. There were strangers everywhere. There was even a sausage seller’s cart set up in front of the tavern.
“You’re famous now, Pater,” the troubadour laughed. “You’ve attracted the attention of the peerage. No small feat for a first rank.”
More people were arriving on the road from town, following a mounted column at a respectful distance. One of the riders was Cannan, plainly identified by his red armor. The other ten horsemen were dressed in black, but Bart was still easy to pick out. He was the tall man on the gigantic black horse at the head of the column. Even from this distance he looked frightfully dangerous.
Karl joined Christopher in the doorway. “The Vicar won’t be sending any police. She won’t want to risk offending Bart or causing trouble. But you can be assured she’ll tear Faren’s ears off about this.”
Svengusta came up, looking uglier and meaner than Christopher had ever dreamed possible. “He brings a Gold priest onto our land, and we’re worried about offending him?”
Karl frowned, staring at a yellow-robed figure hiding in the rear of the column. “He brought his own healer? That’s bad.”
“The message is clear,” Lalania said. “Defy him and you face war.”
As the horses came into town, people scattering from their path, Cannan broke into a gallop and pulled up to the chapel steps.
“He outranks me,” the big man said, without apology.
“I know,” Christopher said. “It’s okay.”
“I want to fight him anyway,” continued the knight. “Killing Black Bart is a good deed in and of itself. But I’ll need help.”
“Why would killing him be good? Won’t they just revive him?”
Cannan looked annoyed, so Lalania explained. “Yes, but you’ll knock him down a rank. Weaken the Dark and strengthen the Bright. Cheer one for our side and all that.”
So this is what passes for football around here, Christopher thought.
But Lalania was still talking. “Our hero is considering surrendering the sword,” she told the knight.
“What!” Cannan exploded. “Give up a weapon of that power to the Dark without even a fight? That’s madness, or worse.”
Christopher wondered what was worse than madness. Knowing these people, it was probably cowardice, but even Cannan was too polite to use the word.
“Are you a servant of the Dark, or a just coward?” the knight demanded. Apparently he wasn’t too polite.
“Neither,” Christopher said, “I’m just not that concerned about one sword.”
“Bigger fish to fry, perhaps?” Lalania slyly insinuated.
“I’ll not stand by idly in this,” Cannan said. “Give me the sword, and I’ll face him and trust to luck.”
Christopher could tell how much this brashness upset Niona by the fluttering of her kittenhawk’s wings and the tightness around her eyes, though she did not speak.
“There’s no need to die over it,” Christopher said. “It’s not that big of a deal. Cannan, I need to explain—”
But it was too late. Bart and his retinue had arrived.
One of the black riders broke ahead of the column. From horseback he addressed the group on the chapel steps with insolence and disdain distilled to professional strength.
“Which one of you is Pater Christopher?”
“Here,” Christopher said, raising his hand. He didn’t see how anything he said or did would affect the outcome, so there was no point in getting all worked up over formalities.
“The Lord Baron Bartholomew addresses you, Pater.”
And then the tall man spoke.
“You know why I have come,” he said. Christopher wondered if he had to practice that graveyard tone, or if it came naturally.
“To deprive me of my property, I’m guessing.” Christopher couldn’t help himself. People this full of themselves always made him flippant.
“You are unworthy of such a weapon. You had adequate time to give it to one of your ilk who could defend it. Now you must give it to me.”
“I am his appointed champion,” Cannan said. “I will defend the honor of the Bright.” He gave Christopher a look that said even if you won’t.
Bart laughed, not at all pleasantly. “That is good news indeed. I had feared I might get no fight at all from these lady-dogs. A long ride without killing makes me grumpy.”
“I can’t let you do this,” Christopher told his wayward champion. “He outranks you, so our agreement doesn’t hold.”
“If it’s only a matter of ranks, Pater, then add a few,” Bart said in his gravelly voice. “I’ll melee you both. I won’t turn down more blood and tael.”
“What?” Christopher was startled. “At the same time? That’s nuts. I don’t care how good you are, you can’t take two swordsmen at once.”
Bart threw back his head and laughed hard. It still wasn’t pleasant-sounding, but the man was truly amused. Christopher noticed that Bart’s entire retinue was laughing, as was most of the crowd. Even his own team was looking at him like he’d just said pigs could fly.
“If you won’t balk at two, then you won’t balk at three,” Karl said, his hard face set in stone.
“And what rank are you, brave warrior?” Bart asked, critically eyeing the young soldier.
“None.”
Bart was mildly puzzled. “Why would I honor you with death on my blade? It hardly seems worth the effort of killing you.”
“I have a masterwork to wager.” Karl partially unsheathed his longsword to display the gleaming metal.
“Very well,” Bart said, “if the fly brings treasure, I’ll swat it. Now to terms.”
“There will be no terms, because there will be no duel!” Christopher exclaimed.
“I’m dueling, with or without you,” Cannan said with finality. He turned to Bart. “My lady is not involved: she casts no spell or aid and stakes no ransom.”
“And you, priest?” Bart asked Christopher, with a casual glance at the glaring Svengusta. “Do you have secondaries to declare?”
“No,” Karl answered for them, “we also enter the field of honor unsupported. The Church of the Lady will only heal after the fact.”
“Then I declare no secondaries,” Bart intoned. “The terms are established.” He looked around and by chance and circumstance picked the very spot in the village square where the entire mess had started, then said, “That will serve as the field. I don’t mind killing a Bright priest in view of his own altar. Within the hour, then.” And he rode away.
Christopher grabbed Karl by the shoulder, dragging him back into the chapel and beckoning Cannan to follow with an angry glare.
“By all means,” the red knight said, “let us discuss tactics.” He dismounted with a leap and strode into the chapel behind the other two men, shutting the door behind them.
“What is wrong with you?” Christopher hissed at his young friend.
“I’m not a coward,” Karl said stiffly, “but you’re a fool. Consider this part of y
our training. I want you to see for yourself what I have been telling you, because you don’t seem to believe me. They are right.”
“The only thing wrong with him,” Cannan said, catching up to them, “is that he lacks tael. He certainly doesn’t lack courage.”
“Cannan, you idiot.” Christopher was so annoyed he didn’t care about the flash of anger in the other man’s eyes. “The sword isn’t magical. It’s just a piece of steel. It’s not even properly made.”
The knight’s eyes narrowed as if he suspected a lie before he finally settled for cynicism. “Then all this talk of magic is just a Church ploy? Some game played by you foolish priests?”
“Yes, basically. I’m not supposed to tell people it’s not magical, but I’m not going to let you get killed over nothing. I’ll give Bart the sword, he’ll go away, and people will leave me alone.”
“I have already agreed to a duel,” Cannan said. “I will not back down. You gave me the right to champion you and paid me with imaginary tael. I mean to claim some of that, at the expense of the Dark. At least I’ll have your man with me.”
Niona slipped in, shutting the door behind her.
“I risked a spell while you men were laughing.” A subtle rebuke. “And I must warn you that he bears some kind of protective device.”
“I suspected as much,” Cannan said, “which is why I was counting on the magic sword. But I have another string to my bow.” He gave Christopher a disgusted look. “So there is still hope.”
She misinterpreted Cannan’s complaint. “Will you not fight with them, Pater?” she asked in alarm. “You can at least heal.”
“Something you need to learn to do,” Karl said casually. “Combat healing. We always lose a few men during the first battle, when the young priests are still trying to unpack bandages and wash out wounds.”
“Fine,” Christopher said, out of patience. “I’ll fight.” He had no idea why he was agreeing to this insanity. Surely it could not be merely bravado, an unwillingness to appear less than manly in Karl’s eyes. “For two reasons. First, because I have a spell in mind I think will be more helpful than a healing, and second, because I refuse to believe that one man can defeat three, if we work together.” No swordsman was that good, despite what you saw in the movies. He could not believe that Black Bart could defend against three competent attackers at once.
“Your confidence would be more inspiring if it did not sound so much like madness,” Cannan said. “But yes, we must work together, and here is what we will do.”
17.
FIGHT CLUB
The other two men dressed for battle while Christopher meditated. Then Christopher ran through a few kata, to loosen up his muscles and the knot in his stomach. Karl grimly followed along.
Cannan watched them silently until the end.
“Dance that well outside, and we may have a chance,” the big knight said. As rousing speeches went, it wasn’t.
Christopher felt ridiculous, like he was participating in a World Wrestling Federation match. There was a noisy crowd, the smell of beer, contestants in funny costumes, and an absurd fight card of a tag-team of Good guys against one super-Bad guy. He stopped feeling that way when he saw Bart.
The dark knight was standing at the other side of the square, facing one of his men. The soldier had his glove off and was holding his palm up in the air. Bart shoved a dagger through the man’s hand, pulled it out, and dropped it to the ground. The man winced silently, but not because tael blocked the pain. His hand was bleeding freely.
Bart raised the man’s hand to his face, smeared the blood from his forehead to his chin. He smiled, if you could call it that, a rapturous demonic possession. He released the soldier, who let the priest bandage his hand, obviously saving the healing magic for their lord. Bart turned to the field of honor while another soldier placed a large black helmet on his head.
“It means nothing.” Niona tried to sound reassuring but lacked confidence. “There is no arcane or divine significance. He only seeks to frighten you.”
The way Christopher’s knees went weak belied her words. It was plenty significant. “It means he’s one twisted bastard.”
“You have no idea,” Lalania said with deep sadness. “I could tell you tales to curdle your blood. He rules absolutely in his own land, save for the edicts of the King. But edicts only reach where officers of the crown go, and they don’t go into dungeons or villages.
“This is a heroic contest,” she told the little group. “I foresee many profitable nights recounting the story. But happy endings are always more popular, so please try to win.”
“You’ll make me famous?” Cannan grinned. “I’ve always wanted to be famous.”
“I’ll try,” she said, “but it will be hard to compete with the valorous Goodman Karl. His presence here is inexplicably courageous. To follow his master into battle when he is so utterly outclassed is loyalty beyond measure.” Christopher was going to object that he was the one following Karl, but she wasn’t paying attention to him. Karl was doing his thing again, where all other men turned invisible. “It is a crime that such a man should be unranked,” she said softly.
“I agree,” Cannan said. “These lands have become corrupt when such bravery is not rewarded.”
“It was rewarded.” Christopher felt compelled to defend his new homeland. “Karl turned it down.”
Cannan was surprised. The troubadour wasn’t. She’d already heard the tale. “Which makes him even more inexplicable.”
“I can explain it,” Christopher said, since Karl wasn’t saying anything. “He’s insane.”
Karl barked a laugh. “It’s true. The Pater and I are brothers in madness.”
Lalania stared hard at both of them. Obviously her intuition told her there was more than battle humor here, but she was out of time.
The three men faced Black Bart from twenty feet away. Karl’s boys held back the crowd on one side, and Bart’s men held back the crowd on the other, although they didn’t actually have to hold anything, since no one would get near them. Bart held his side of the field alone, radiating doom and destruction like a pillar of death.
Niona approached Bart, bowed, and began a spell. Bart’s priest, an ugly, fearful man, approached the other combatants and started casting his spell.
Bart boomed out, “Priest, swear you and your party are clean of aid. I don’t trust my lackey’s competence as much as I trust your holy word.”
“We are, right?” Christopher asked both his teammates. They nodded, so he called back, “I swear.”
Niona came back to them, whispered her findings. “His device maintains the protective field. I still do not ken it, but it lies on him like armor. His blade is enchanted, though no more than the first rank. But these are items and if he stakes them, we cannot object. At least I see no other spells upon him.” She tried to kiss her husband. He stopped her, saying roughly that Bart would suspect assisting magic. She retreated to the sidelines with tight lips and clouded eyes.
“Priest,” Bart called out, after conferring with his own, “Where is my sword?”
Obviously the magical inspection had failed to detect magic on the non-magical sword.
“Right here, Ser,” Christopher called back, drawing the blade and displaying it.
“You swear that is the sword you dismembered Ser Hobilar with?” Bart demanded suspiciously.
“I solemnly swear it. The magic isn’t on. Do you want me to turn it on?”
Bart nodded, staring intently. Christopher called out to Marcius for his blessing on the sword, casting the spell that enchanted it. Bart belatedly realized he’d been tricked, and Christopher had gotten a spell off for free. He wasn’t amused, though. He was incensed.
With a growl he charged across the short space between them. There was a flutter as the crowd instinctively recoiled, Bart’s priest hiking up his dingy yellow cassock and running for the safety of his comrades.
Bart wielded a bastard sword in one hand, like a l
ongsword on steroids, and a large steel shield in the other. He was covered in plate armor from head to toe, not the price-conscious half-plate that lesser knights like Hobilar and Cannan wore, but the real deal. He was also left-handed, which Cannan had explained wasn’t as much of an advantage as it might have been, since both he and Christopher were fighting with two-handed weapons. “Still,” he’d said, “I’m used to smashing through people’s shields. With his blade on my side, he might be able to parry more effectively.”
Cannan was on Christopher’s right, Karl to the left. The plan was that they would flank Bart from both sides if he charged Christopher. If he turned to face the greatest threat, Cannan, then Karl would have his back. If Bart did the smart thing and eliminated the two lesser threats first, that would give Cannan several free attacks. They were hoping that, and the size of his greatsword, would be enough.
Christopher was already casting another spell, calling down Marcius’s blessing for the men fighting on his behalf. Chanting the words helped to ward off the crushing despair that Bart projected. He wanted to prod Bart into recklessness by casting beneficial spells, forcing Bart to advance on him while Cannan and Karl struck from the flanks. But Cannan was fooling around with his sword instead of leaping to the attack, and Bart charged without danger.
As the spell finished and bright winking lights briefly filled the area, glistening off the three men, Bart bore down on Christopher like a freight train, his glowing black sword lashing out, unopposed by the distracted Cannan. Christopher brought his sword up to parry. The dark blade jigged impossibly at the last moment, skimmed over his defense as if it had been rehearsed that way, slammed into the side of his head like a home-run batter, and the world went away.
Cannan bellowed in exploding rage and swung at Bart like he was aiming at a tree trunk. Bart edged away from the blow, just barely. This exposed him to Karl, who brought his sword down like a crowbar squarely on top of Bart’s dull black helmet.
Bart didn’t shrug the blow off: he didn’t even notice it.
The dark knight advanced on Cannan, his blade on his shoulder like a batter about to swing. Cannan held his ground, brought the two-handed sword whirling around in another swipe. Neither man wanted to get hit; they both tried to dodge or parry to some extent. At the same time they weren’t terribly worried about it. Like two prizefighters they traded blows to see who could take the most punishment. They just delivered their strikes with gigantic razor-sharp glowing metal blades instead of boxing gloves. Cannan fought with a berserk fury that was awe-inspiring, though it left even less regard for defense. Bart stood like a fortress but never gave up an opening merely because it would leave him exposed.
