Won't Back Down: Won't Back Down

by Unknown

  They'd all be busy now: training with their knights, cleaning up, flirting with the ladies-in-waiting. Cal could be alone to—

  "Cal, you varlet, are you going to run right past me or what?" A voice called out to him, and he recognized it immediately.

  "Nahiya, sorry. I didn't see you."

  A young lady, though Cal often teased her that the term was hardly appropriate considering some of the words that came from her mouth, stood arms crossed and foot tapping with impatience. As he apologized, she gave him a quick grin. "Obviously not. Where are you rushing off to?"

  Cal bit the inside of his cheek and then exhaled. "Nowhere, just off to my room." He was already resigned to the fact that wasn't about to happen anymore.

  Nahiya gathered her full red skirt, a gorgeous color that complemented her deep brown skin and light brown eyes. She was brown all over, skin and eyes and hair, almost as dark as Taren but for her eyes. Hers were bright and merry where Taren's were always so serious and guarded. "You haven't come to see me in three days. Sir Taren keeping you busy?" Her lips curled up at the edges, and not for the first time, Cal wished he'd been attracted to her instead of Taren.

  It would have been easier for certain. Nahiya's station wasn't far from his own, though once he was a knight, his would increase. Hers would too as she became a proper lady-in-waiting. They shared interests in many subjects but, more importantly to him, shared a disinterest in each other romantically. It made things simpler. She was, however, a mite too observant. And devious, like now, as she hinted at the subject Cal never directly spoke of.

  He frowned, refusing to elaborate or indulge her. "Yes, we've been training, maybe a bit more than usual. I think he's trying to make sure I'm prepared for my trials for knighthood."

  Nahiya waved a hand. "Those aren't until next year, Cal."

  Cal found himself smiling. "Try telling him that." He paused and then asked, "Are you busy? Would you like to take a walk?"

  Nahiya shook her head. "Walk with me to Lady Elleni's. She'll have need of me before long, and it's on the way to the squire's hall. You can tell me about your deliciously sweaty sparring match along the way."

  Cal made a big show of rolling his eyes, but he held out his arm and Nahiya took it. He walked her through the garden and into the halls. By the time they approached Lady Elleni's quarters, Cal had about forgotten his haste to get back to his own room.

  Despite the fact they were close friends, Cal remembered his manners and gave her a short bow as they parted at the doorway, and she grinned at him when she curtsied back. Practice sword still hitched at his side, Cal continued on his way.

  He hadn't made it far when he hear another voice, and this one made the muscles in his back tense up. "Well, well, if it isn't the charity-case whoreson back from another sound beating. You look like something vomited out of a brothel."

  Cal's nostrils flared and his hand went to his hip to rest on his sword before he turned around. Behind him loomed a squire his own age, not that one would know it from his size. While Cal was still wiry and short, the other squire was a large, stout platinum blond with shoulders wide as a cart and possibly as strong as the horse that pulled it. Cal sneered. "Helmer. As usual, the only thing fouler than your mouth is the stench that rolls off you. You been rolling in the pig pens, or you forgot to wash your hand when you wiped your ass?"

  Helmer's face went cloudy and red, his piggish eyes narrowing. "How dare you talk to me like that, you low-born, class-less bastard? Hasn't your precious knight taught you yet how to speak to your betters?"

  Cal nodded. "Sure he has. There just ain't anyone around here right now better than me to address so," he responded, letting his common accent slip in. For years he'd been trained to speak properly, like the man of station he'd become once knighted. He'd be the first common-born knight in her Majesty's service, and some people, like Helmer, weren't happy about it. But when Queen Selvia took the throne fourteen years ago, one of her first decrees had been that the road to knighthood would no longer to be restricted to the noble classes. Cal was the first page of common blood sent to the palace to train. He hadn't expected to be accepted and certainly no one had expected him to last so long.

  Helmer surged forward, trying to use his size to intimidate Cal. It almost worked; Cal had suffered years of Helmer's abuse already, and he knew well how hard those ham-fists could hit, the size of the bruises they left.

  Pushing away the memories, he looked up, trying his best to look bored. "Did you want something, Helmer, or are you just trying to knock me out with your smell?"

  Helmer shoved Cal backward. "Say it again, whoreson."

  Cal tried not to let the word anger him. Years ago, when Helmer first started picking on him, Cal had reacted too strongly to words insulting his mother, and Helmer had learned that weakness. It didn't matter that it wasn't true; it still stung, and Helmer still exploited it to this day. Gritting his teeth in an attempt to tamp down his anger, Cal shoved back, though his push barely moved Helmer an inch. "Back off. I have no desire to smell like goat shit and piss."

  Helmer's hand came up, curling into a large, meaty fist. Cal swallowed hard. Damn his smart mouth. It never helped the situation. He only had a second's warning before Helmer's fist crashed into him. That second was enough to dodge just enough to take the blow a little better. If there was one thing Cal had learned being Helmer's punching bag for so long, it was how to take a proper hit.

  This time, when Helmer swung again Cal managed to duck and roll, actually managing to get behind Helmer. As he came up, he elbowed Helmer hard in the lower back. Helmer howled, the sound satisfying to Cal. Helmer could pick on him all him wanted. Cal was well-trained enough now that he could fight back his own way.

  Before Helmer could round on Cal once more, Cal lashed out and kicked three times: once in the shin, once in the gut, and the last a kick to Helmer's chin, snapping his head back. Breathing heavily, Cal kept light on his feet, knowing that this fight wasn't going to last too long.

  He was right. When Helmer recovered—which was too fast in Cal's opinion—he swung again, smashing his fist so hard into Cal's face that Cal immediately saw stars and dropped to the cool hall floors. Helmer kicked him once in the side and let out a short laugh. "Once a pissblood, always a pissblood," he snorted, and turned to leave.

  Cal stayed where he was, only letting out a moan of pain once Helmer was completely out of earshot. He hauled himself to his feet, red with anger, his nose bloody, then made his way to his room. The squire's halls were empty, and Cal was grateful. He carefully tended his nose—it wasn't broken, but it would probably swell and bruise anyway.

  A quick wash with a cloth at the washbasin got the worst of the blood from his face and the sweat from his skin, leaving him feeling much better. He'd ache in the morning, and tomorrow Taren would frown at his bruises, but for now, he gingerly sat down on his bed.

  He thought about dinner and then changed his mind. He was in no mood to sit with the other squires. Instead, he picked at some dried meat and an apple he'd nicked from lunch earlier, changed into his night clothes, and drew the curtains around his bed to give himself a modicum of privacy. It would do until the other squires came in, bellies full, some drunk, all ready for conversation, games, and horseplay.

  Breathing through his mouth in the silence, Cal shoved thoughts of Helmer away. He had soured Cal's mood, but now that Cal was finally alone, his thoughts turned back to the ones that had had him hurrying back to the room to begin with. Cal bit into his lower lip and leaned back against his pillow, curly dark blond hair fanning out across the pale pillowcase.

  His eyes slipped shut so he could better picture Taren's face, those dark eyes that always seemed to keep part of himself back, the black hair spilling forward just a little over dark brown skin, strong arms, and a muscled build. Cal exhaled slowly and his hand drifted down, sliding under the blankets to hitch his shirt up enough to slip his hand into his linen pants.

  That exhalation turned to a
sigh when his fingers curled around his length, a sound so soft it was swallowed by the heavy curtains. He let his imagination run wild, creating scenes he knew would never happen, such as Taren throwing away his sword mid-practice and instead crowding Cal up against the walls, pinning him with his gaze as much as his body. Taren tugging at Cal's clothes because he needed to feel Cal's skin against his own. Taren pulling Cal into his lap, pinning him down to the ground, driving into him again and again until Cal's body arched and he shouted his pleasure to the rooftops.

  Cal turned his face so some of the noise he made would be muffled by pillows as his hand picked up speed. His fingers curled and twisted, tugged and squeezed, and all the while Cal pictured Taren touching him that way. And when Cal arched upward, his teeth sinking into his lower lip hard enough to make it swell, he wished, harder than anything he'd ever wished for, that one day it would somehow be more than just a fantasy.

  When he came back down, Cal rolled onto his side. His sheets were going to be a mess, but he didn't care. His mind was full of Taren—no room for fights and bruises, for a bully, a noble horse's ass. With a smile on his face, he drifted off to sleep.

  *~*~*

  The noise of the other squires coming in woke him. Boisterous laughter, jeers, and slurred words made it clear they'd gone out drinking, maybe whoring. Usually they were quick to invite Cal along—they didn't all share Helmer's prejudices—but they also knew when his curtains were closed early he wasn't in the mood to go out. So it was that they'd come and gone while he'd slept, and now he was wide awake. But he didn't stir from his bed. Still wreathed in the darkness and small privacy the curtains provided, Cal sat up and listened to the conversation.

  Hengen spoke about a girl in the tavern. Not a whore or a wench, a lady, he swore, and his tone was all reverence and wistfulness. Doran went on about besting Javi in darts, even though they'd agreed to deduct points when Doran's aim went a little awry after too many cups and he nearly put Griff's eye out. Voices overlapped each other, excitement building. Baz, Nadir, Lenil, and Jisuk decided their game of cards wasn't over yet and started setting up the table. Hamish and Armun took pity on Hengen and let him wax eloquent about his lady to them. Cal listened as he pinpointed who'd come in—and who hadn't. Among all the voices he'd heard, he hadn't yet heard Helmer's. That had to mean he wasn't there; the fool was loud enough without a drop of drink in him. If he'd gone out with the others, he'd be back now. Unless he'd found someplace else to be.

  It was a blessing, and Cal wondered if he should open his curtains and join the others. Without Helmer there, it probably would be a good time. Cal hesitated anyway and then decided against it. His nose felt tender, and he was certain his new bruises would be obvious. Everyone knew Helmer had it in for Cal, and despite how many of them hated it, there wasn't much they could do to stop it. Baz and Jisuk in particular had tried standing up to Helmer and had gotten sound beatings of their own while Griff held them down so Helmer could fight without consequence. Cal wasn't in the mood to show why he hadn't felt up to games and sporting that night.

  So instead he fell back against the pillows, lying awake until the others finally wound up calling it a night. They could hardly stay up once Baz fell asleep between one hand of cards and the next, his head on Nadir's arm, and Armun and Hamish gave up on listening to Hengen. Silence descended, but still Cal couldn't return to sleep.

  He climbed out of bed, feet silent on the floor as he slid into slippers and peeked out from behind the curtain. All the lights were out and gentle snores came from some of the beds; loud racking ones came from a few others. Cal rubbed at his eyes and left the room as silently as he'd left his bed. Maybe a walk would tire him out enough to fall back asleep.

  Cal took the back halls, the ones the servants used sometimes. They were narrow and winding, cutting behind rooms so the servants could travel quickly without getting in the way of the lords and ladies. That they were expected not to be seen had irritated Cal when he'd first become aware of it, and still did, but he'd learned the hard way that it wasn't going to change anytime soon. Not unless Queen Selvia decreed that too.

  So caught up in his thoughts was Cal that he very nearly turned a corner and stumbled onto a conversation. He stopped himself just in time when a voice he knew too well spoke.

  "I'm just so sick of that little pissblood. When are we going to do this so I can finally beat that smile off his face once and for all?"

  "Patience, Helmer," another voice responded, deeper in tone and dripping with malice. "You'll have plenty of opportunity to teach the whelp whatever lesson you wish. But he is not where our focus should be and you know this."

  Cal went cold. That voice. It belonged to Sir Atam Dardanos, Helmer's knight. What were they discussing in some secret hallway in the middle of the night? Furthermore, what did Cal have anything to do with it? They were talking about him; there was no one else Helmer called pissblood. He slid backward into a crevice, wishing he were as dark as Doran was so he could blend as effortlessly into the shadows. Keeping still and quiet, Cal listened.

  "We are on a schedule, squire. The queen will be choosing the next Knight Commander at week's end. We must have everything ready by then. We can't simply make an announcement there and hope for the best. She would dismiss it immediately without proper proof. If she cares to let common churls into knighthood by royal decree, it might hardly concern her that one of her touted knights is secretly low-blooded already."

  Cal's eyes widened. What plot had he just stumbled onto? And who did they mean that was already a knight of common blood? How could that be true if Queen Selvia have only just allowed common squires when she took the throne?

  Helmer made an unattractive sound in the back of his throat. "I know what we have to do. I'll do my part as you've told me to. Besides, if we take down Veretti, his precious protégé will likely lose his standing and his protector all at once." Helmer sounded utterly delighted by the idea.

  Blood started pounding in Cal's ears, loud and forceful. They were plotting against Taren—and him too. The pounding in his ears was so loud he nearly missed the next words Dardanos spoke. "He is the court favorite. I will not lose to him. We must tell the queen he was born of common blood, with proof. More importantly, we must make certain it is made public knowledge that he has been lying to her Majesty. Even she cannot disregard that, not in front of her entire court."

  His legs shook. He couldn't believe it was true. Taren couldn't be a commoner like him. He couldn't have been lying all these years. Surely someone would have found out before this. Dardanos and Helmer had to be lying or misinformed. But even if they were, they were planning to force the queen's hand in a way that would end terribly for Taren. Cal had to know more, but just as he decided to carefully creep closer, Dardanos spoke again. "We'll have to discuss this later. You must return to your rooms before the other squires wonder as to your absence. Even you don't remain in whorehouses all night."

  Cal moved deeper into the hollow in the wall. He was at once grateful for his slight stature as Helmer breezed right past him, never noticing that his conversation with Sir Atam Dardanos had been privy to a third set of ears. Only after he was sure they were both gone and wouldn't return did Cal move from his spot. His mind was whirling, his thoughts jumbled. Was it true? Or was it a lie? Was it simple misinformation as opposed to a deliberate falsehood?

  Slowly Cal made his way back to the squires' hall. With luck, Helmer's drapes would be closed and he could sneak back into bed. Just in case, he took his time. When he finally reached the rooms some fifteen minutes later, he heard Helmer's usual, impossibly loud snoring coming from his bed. He was either dead asleep or faking it well. Considering what Cal knew of Helmer's acting abilities, it wasn't the latter. Relieved he didn't have to face Helmer just then, Cal climbed back into bed. Unsurprisingly, he didn't sleep well the rest of the night.

  *~*~*

  Morning came too soon, especially since Cal had been tossing and turning the remainder of the night.
His first thought was how to approach Taren with what he'd overheard. After turning it over in his mind while he washed his face, which was every bit as bruised as he expected, he decided to talk to Nahiya first.

  He didn't get that far. Helmer was waiting for him as soon as he stepped out into the hallway. "Well, didn't you wake up looking like the ass end of a horse. Worse than usual. You normally look like the front end."

  Cal froze, suddenly worried that Helmer somehow knew Cal had been in the hall for his conversation with Sir Dardanos. He glance up at Helmer, pleased to noticed a nasty bruise under his jaw where Cal's boot had clipped him. It gave Cal the courage to speak as though nothing were amiss. "At least you decided to wash this morning. Now only your maggot-ridden, haggish face is offensive today. But it's still early," he added.

  Helmer's face contorted. He exhaled, his ham-like fists clenched. It took some obvious effort for him to get himself under control. "I'm sick of the way you act like you're equal to the rest of us, pissblood. If you think you're worthy of being so near knighthood, why don't you prove it?"

  Cal narrowed his eyes, his brows knitting. "Are you asking for a duel, Helmer Mersebach?" His voice was quiet; internally his stomach roiled with excitement, laced with some worry. Never once in all their years had Helmer actually challenged Cal to a duel, and Cal hadn't either. Not when Helmer made it clear he thought Cal too beneath him to actually duel properly, and Cal hadn't been certain he could beat him.

  Helmer shrugged. "Unless you're too worried that despite all your years here your common blood will prove you're not knight material after all. A whoreson among noblemen—"

  He didn't get any farther than that. Cal whipped a glove out of his pocket and slapped it hard against Helmer's cheek, a gesture that symbolized a challenge to a duel, or an acceptance of one. His nostrils flared again, and even though the gesture was enough, Cal replied, "I accept."