‘But this is ridiculous,’ gasped Bellius. ‘Everyone knows that he has served in your household for years.’
‘That is true,’ replied Simeon. ‘But he served out of choice and not out of obligation. Falco is of noble birth and his vote will count.’
Bellius’s dark eyes flashed from Simeon to Falco. He looked like a cornered animal and for a moment it seemed like he might lose his composure. But then the smile returned to his face.
‘So be it,’ he said. ‘Your challenge is noted. Let the challenger come forward.’
Falco turned away from Bellius as Malaki’s father propelled his son towards the pavilion. Balthazak was as surprised as anyone to hear that Falco retained his noble lineage, but he was not about to pass up on this chance to improve his son’s prospects.
Malaki was clearly in shock as he stumbled forward to stand before the pavilion. He seemed unaware that he was now the absolute centre of attention. Instead he stared up at the person he had thought he knew, the person who had been his friend for as long as he could remember. There was an unsettling frown on his brow and a dangerous light in his dark brown eyes. But then he seemed to see something in Falco’s face that smoothed the frown and softened the light in his eyes.
What he saw was fear. Not fear of repercussions from the nobles, but fear that his judgement might have been in error. It was the fear that he might have lost his friend.
Falco’s breath was locked in his chest as Malaki stared up at him, but then the frown faded from his friend’s face and something like a smile appeared in his eyes. It was a smile that said, ‘You’re an idiot Falco Danté. And when this is over I’m going to bloody kill you!’
‘So Master de Vane,’ drawled Bellius unpleasantly. ‘Will you choose a knight to answer your challenge or will your sickly lordling do it for you?’
Malaki’s eyes moved from one noble face to the next. There were some fine warriors among them but Malaki could not imagine any of them going against Bellius to accept his challenge. Sir Gerallt Godwin might but Malaki had no wish to put Bryna’s father in an awkward position.
Once again it was Falco who broke the silence.
‘I will choose,’ he said.
Bellius smiled and gestured with his hand as if it made little difference who did the choosing. When it came to the nobles of Caer Dour, Bellius Snidesson simply wielded too much power.
An uncomfortable silence followed in which all eyes were on Falco. He cast a final glance in Malaki’s direction then turned back to Bellius, but the nobleman said nothing as he waited for Falco to speak. The pause became strained and Bellius raised his eyebrows impatiently, but Falco’s mouth had gone suddenly dry. Then he licked his lips and spoke.
‘I choose Sir William Chevalier,’ he said.
‘I choose the Queen’s emissary.’
6
Servant or Noble Lord
If people had been surprised by what went before they were struck dumb by what Falco now proposed, that the royal envoy from the Court of Wrath would accept a challenge of combat from the son of the town’s blacksmith. Even Bellius was speechless.
‘Wha... I... this...’ he blustered incoherently.
He gave a nervous little laugh but any trace of humour had vanished from his face. He seemed about to speak again when a tall figure loomed behind him and every one turned to look at Sir William.
The emissary moved past Bellius until he stood just a few feet in front of Falco. Until now Falco had not realised just what an imposing figure the emissary was, but he held his ground and forced himself to look up into the man’s hard grey eyes.
‘What is your name, boy?’
‘Falco, my lord,’ said Falco, feeling more intimidated than he ever had in his life. ‘Falco Danté.’
‘Danté?’ repeated the emissary as if the name were not unknown to him.
‘Yes,’ said Bellius from behind him. ‘This is the son of Aquila Danté, the man who brought dishonour on this town.’
The emissary’s eyes slid to one side, but apart from this small gesture of annoyance he ignored Bellius’s remark.
‘And why do you not fight in the trials?’ he asked.
‘Hah!’ scoffed Bellius and his scorn was echoed by many of the nobles in the pavilion who laughed as if the very idea was unthinkable.
‘Falco is not without skill,’ said Simeon at Falco’s shoulder.
‘No,’ said Bellius. ‘Not so long as the sword is a willow switch and the contest lasts no more than a second or two.’ Again Bellius’s unkindness found support and Falco hung his head in shame. ‘Master Danté suffers from poor health,’ explained Bellius. ‘I understand his condition has a name, though it could more easily be described as feebleness.’
Again more laughter, but there were also many who bowed their heads at Bellius’s cruelty.
‘Falco is cursed with scarlet consumption,’ said Simeon and his sightless gaze made it clear that Bellius would do well to cease his taunting. ‘He has been afflicted with it since childhood.’
At the mention of this disease the emissary’s gaze flicked up to Falco’s brow where a distinctive rash was just visible beneath the line of his hair. The corners of his mouth turned down and his eyes narrowed suspiciously as if he had reason to doubt this diagnosis.
The emissary’s apparent doubt hurt Falco more than any of Bellius’s taunts, but he had come to terms with his physical shortcomings long ago. Doubt and derision were nothing new to him so he raised his face and met the emissary’s eyes once more.
‘And what do you hope to gain from this challenge, Master Danté?’ asked the emissary.
‘For myself, nothing.’
‘And for your friend?’
‘Only that you judge him as you would any other man who fights today. And if he wins, that you might consider taking him with you back to Wrath.’
There were gasps of astonishment from every direction but the emissary simply smiled.
‘If he wins?’ he said with genuine amusement.
Falco nodded indignantly.
‘He wouldn’t keep his sword a minute,’ said the emissary with a glint in his stone-grey eyes.
‘It’ll be at your throat in two,’ said Falco and even he was surprised by his boldness.
The emissary’s smile returned as he acknowledged the boast.
‘And what makes you think that the Queen’s envoy would accept your challenge?’ he asked.
This at least was one question that Falco was prepared for. Unlike Valentia, where the laws of noble birth applied, Illicia was a meritocracy. That is to say that effort and accomplishment were valued above the chance fortunes of a man’s birth.
‘You are a man of Illicia,’ he said. ‘You would not think it beneath you to accept a challenge from even the lowliest of peasants.’
For a moment the emissary held Falco’s gaze. Then the smile faded from his face.
‘I’ll give you your two minutes,’ he said. ‘If your friend still holds his sword at the end of the challenge I will consider him for a place at the academy.’
Falco’s heart soared.
‘However,’ cautioned the emissary. ‘We shall not fight with round tip blunts. It would be no great achievement for him to keep his sword in the face of a sword that cannot kill. We fight with live blades or not at all.’
Falco had not anticipated this but it was too late to back out now. Without even looking at Malaki he gave a decisive nod.
‘So be it,’ said the emissary, unpinning his cloak. Then he turned to Bellius as if the matter were decided. ‘Have a taper cut to two minutes.’
‘But... but...’ stammered Bellius but things had gone too far for even him to stop.
The emissary walked to the edge of the pavilion while the people of Caer Dour crowded round, forming a natural arena for the two men to fight in.
‘Who will lend the blacksmith a blade?’ said the emissary as he unbuckled his sword belt.
‘He can use mine,’ said Simeon, removing his ow
n belt and handing his sword to Falco.
Falco smiled at his master and walked to the edge of the pavilion. The sword seemed to resonate in his hands as if it were ringing with a high clear note. For a moment he hesitated and Simeon gave him searching look.
Bringing his attention back to the task in hand Falco looked down from the pavilion and threw the sword to Malaki but it landed short and people laughed as Malaki bent to retrieve it from the ground. As he straightened up the big youth nodded his thanks to Simeon. Then his gaze shifted to look at Falco.
And when you get the chance, be sure to fight with all your heart.
‘So this is what you meant...’
Malaki’s brown eyes shone and it was clear that he did not intend to waste this opportunity to regain some measure of pride. With something approaching reverence he drew Simeon’s sword and placed the belt and scabbard on the raised edge of the pavillion. Then he moved to take up his position in the ‘arena’.
The emissary moved to the middle of the platform where two broad steps led down onto the tournament field. Then, as he switched his sword from one hand to the other, Falco caught sight of something that caused the breath to catch in his throat. It was a small insignia carved into the blade just below the hilt. No one else seemed to have seen it, or if they had they did not know what it meant. The design showed the stylised form of three mountain peaks. It was the emblem of an order of knights whose reputation was legendary.
It was the emblem of the Knights Adamant.
William Chevalier belonged to one of the most fearsome military bodies that the world had ever known.
‘Oh, shit!’ thought Falco. ‘What have I done!’
The blood drained from his face as he watched the emissary walk out to face his friend. Malaki looked surprisingly calm and Falco resisted the urge to shout a warning. Maybe it was better that Malaki remained ignorant of what he faced. Two of the marshals came forward with pieces of armour but the emissary waved them away. He would fight with no more protection than his normal clothes might provide. In response Malaki declined the helmet that his father was holding out to him, a gesture that was clearly deemed foolish by the crowd.
Finally the two men stood opposite each other and the emissary looked across to the pavilion. Two of the marshals stood ready with a candle and a thin waxed taper suspended on a slender metal tray. The taper would burn for exactly two minutes and they waited only for the emissary to give them the word.
‘In your own time,’ he told them before turning to face Malaki.
‘This is a free challenge between Malaki de Vane and Sir William Chevalier of Eltz,’ the marshal’s spokesman announced. ‘This is a time-limited challenge,’ he added. ‘If, after two minutes, Master de Vane still retains his sword then the challenge will be judged a success.’
The people of Caer Dour held their breath.
‘Combatants, are you ready?’
Two nods gave the spokesman his answer.
The candle was brought in and the taper began to burn.
‘Fight!’ the spokesman shouted and the two men charged each other with a speed that took everyone by surprise.
The first clash of swords was so fast and violent that Falco was certain his friend was doomed. For all his size Malaki was still young but if anyone thought the emissary might go easy on him they were wrong.
Sir William pressed forward with a series of blows that had Malaki retreating so fast that many in the crowd were forced to scramble out of harm’s way, but then the blacksmith’s son launched an attack of his own. He aimed a blow at the emissary’s neck then switched low as if he meant to take his opponent’s leg off at the knee.
Each blow was met with a sure and certain parry but even so, Malaki’s attacks were so powerful that it was now the emissary who was forced to give ground. He backed away slowly as the crowd shifted to give them space.
Falco smiled with satisfaction. Malaki was in his element and for a moment it looked as if he might be getting the upper hand. Then the emissary suddenly stepped forward to meet Malaki’s attack. Sparks flew as he caught the younger man’s blade with his own. Then before Malaki could disengage the emissary rotated his blade and swept it viciously to one side.
The crowd gasped as Malaki was spun off balance, but the emissary’s first attempt to disarm him had failed. Malaki turned his recovery into an attack but the emissary anticipated it and tried once again to whip the sword from Malaki’s grasp.
Falco flinched as it seemed certain that Malaki would lose his blade but somehow he held on. He even managed a feint that caught the emissary by surprise. The emissary ducked and Malaki tried to strike him with the hilt of his sword, but the emissary leaned back from the blow and caught Malaki’s arm with his free hand. Then before anyone knew what was happening, he spun Malaki round until he had his left arm round his throat and his sword across the big youth’s wrist.
Malaki became still as the sharp steel rested against the pulsing veins of his wrist.
A great cry of surprise rose up from the crowd as the scintillating action was suddenly brought to an end. Then, still holding him close, the emissary spoke into his opponent’s ear.
‘You fought well for a blacksmith’s son,’ he said, tapping Malaki’s wrist meaningfully with his blade. ‘Now. Drop your sword!’
Falco clenched his fists and screwed up his face in frustration. He watched as Malaki’s sword dipped and his head bowed forward in defeat. He was just closing his eyes with disappointment when Malaki’s grip suddenly tightened on his sword and he slammed his head back into the emissary’s face.
The crowd gave a collective cry of shock as blood burst across the emissary’s face and he staggered back from the heavy blow that had broken his nose. Malaki spun free and whirled to re-engage his opponent. The emissary was clearly shaken by the unexpected attack but when Malaki tried to bring his sword to bear the emissary somehow managed to block it. Still giving ground he parried another attack and another as he blinked the blood and the ‘stars’ from his eyes.
Malaki tried to press home his advantage but the emissary suddenly stopped retreating and charged forward. The two combatants locked swords and strained against each other but then the emissary shoved Malaki off balance and hammered his elbow into the big youth’s mouth. Malaki stumbled backwards, spitting blood, and now the emissary attacked in earnest.
Falco had never seen anyone attack so fast and so hard and Malaki simply crumbled before it. He blocked blows with sheer desperation and for the first time he looked vulnerable and afraid. But the emissary did not stop until Malaki was forced to his knees. Finally he drew a rapid circle with his blade and Malaki’s sword went flying from his grasp. Then the Queen’s envoy brought his sword down with lethal swiftness.
The blade came to a halt just an inch from Malaki’s neck and the big youth could do nothing but kneel there in the face of defeat. He was spent. He was beaten.
Falco looked on in shock. It was over and the crowd was silent. There was no cheering, no applause. No one knew how to respond. They simply watched as the emissary stood over Malaki with his blade still hovering above his shoulder.
‘Ahem!’
The discreet call for attention drew all eyes back to the pavilion.
‘Pardon, my lord,’ said the marshal’s spokesman. ‘But... ahh...’
‘What is it?’ asked Sir William without taking his eyes from Malaki.
‘It’s the taper, my lord. The two minutes...’
The emissary did not remove his sword but he averted his eyes and angled his head towards the spokesman.
‘The disarming came outside the time,’ the marshal explained apologetically. ‘The challenge counts as a win.’
There was an expectant hush from the crowd as everyone waited to see what the emissary would do. They might have expected indignation. They might have expected embarrassment. They did not expect laughter, soft deep laughter.
Slowly Sir William stood up from his killing stance. He withdrew his
sword and wiped his bloody nose on his sleeve. Then he looked down on his opponent and held out his hand. Still dazed and trembling from the exertion Malaki grasped the extended hand as the emissary helped him to his feet. Then to the crowd’s huge satisfaction the emissary took Malaki’s wrist and held his arm aloft.
Now the crowd could cheer and oh, how they did.
Malaki was dumbfounded but the emissary turned him about to acknowledge the applause on every side. Finally the cheering subsided and the emissary released Malaki’s wrist, standing back to look at him.
‘You have much to learn, Malaki de Vane,’ said the emissary. ‘But you fight well, for one so young... Very well,’ he repeated, raising a hand to his broken nose.
Malaki looked mortified at what he had done but he was also deeply pleased by the emissary’s words. Everyone was entirely satisfied by this wonderful end to the trials but the emissary was not quite finished yet. He watched as Malaki shifted awkwardly under the praise and admiration of the crowd then he caught the young man’s eye and held it fast.
‘The Queen of Wrath has need of such as you,’ he began.
A lump formed in Malaki’s throat and tears sprang to his eyes. Everyone knew what was coming next
‘Will you give up your wealth and privilege and return with me to Wrath?’
For a second Malaki could not speak. He had neither wealth nor privilege, but everyone knew that the words were merely a formality.
‘I will,’ he croaked and the crowd’s jubilation erupted once more.
The emissary gave a nod of satisfaction and stepped back as people pressed forward to congratulate a hero they could truly call their own. Malaki staggered under the crush of well-meaning enthusiasm. He laughed as his father took him in a great embrace and lifted him from his feet. Then, as his father set him down, he looked over the surrounding wall of people, up into the shadowed light of the pavilion, up into the eyes of his friend.
All the commotion seemed to fade away as the two boys looked at each other. They both knew that this changed everything, that after this day nothing would ever be the same again. Malaki’s dreams had just come true, and as for Falco, well he was going to lose the only real friend he had ever known. Both of them knew it, and they both accepted it. And although it went unspoken the message in Malaki’s deep brown eyes was clearly understood.
Battle Mage Page 6
