Curiosity Killed The Cat

by T. H. Hunter

  I noticed that the blow to her ribs must have hurt quite a bit, as she was subconsciously wary of any attacks in that direction. She held the hilt of her blade unnaturally to that side in anticipation.

  With a burst of energy, I feinted an attack on her right rib again. Her defensive movement was overdrawn, too wide to allow for a reaction to my quick follow-up – my real attack – that was aimed at her left thigh.

  She was mere milliseconds too late. My rapier made contact with her quilted vest just enough to count as a solid hit. The match was over.

  Sarah dropped her guard and looked at me in a peculiar manner. I could see she hated losing. Who wouldn’t at this stage? It took her some time to process the shock of defeat, but finally she came forward.

  “Well done, Beccs. Congrats.”

  “Thanks, Sarah. Well fought.”

  She attempted to smile, but the disappointment in her face allowed only for a brief twitch of her muscles. I knew she didn’t want it, but I felt sorry somehow, even guilty, for winning.

  As I looked around me and saw the elated crowds standing for me, clapping furiously at the match, I beckoned to Sarah, took her hand, and held it up. The spectators roared even louder, whistling in jubilation. And Sarah, saddened from defeat, regained a little confidence. They were celebrating her as much as me. We had given them a fight to remember.

  And then, that was the best thing, I saw Lynn standing in the crowd. She was clapping harder than anyone, her eyes ablaze. As the applause ebbed away, I made my way through the crowd to her. We hugged.

  “You were brilliant, Beccs. What a match!”

  “Thanks, Lynn. You ok?”

  “Sure, sure,” she said, averting her eyes briefly.

  We spent the next two hours before my next match laughing and joking as if nothing had ever happened. I felt that I had regained something truly valuable. I had missed her. Nothing could dampen my day now, or so I thought.

  I had been so grateful to have Lynn back as my friend that I almost forgot about the tournament. By winning against Sarah, I had qualified for the semi-finals. I excused myself briefly and checked the notice board in the Great Hall.

  I ran my finger down the paper until I found the semi-finals. In fresh black ink, it announced my opponent. It was Prince Raphael himself. My mind suddenly went numb and fuzzy.

  Stupidly, I had never considered ever facing him in a real match. I had been so consumed by thoughts of the match against Sarah that I hadn’t given a thought about it.

  Of course, I had followed the match against Lord Rankin closely. He would be the best swordsman I’d fought so far. And a strange prickly feeling told me that I would have great difficulties in seeing him merely as an opponent.

  I tried to shake it off. This wasn’t the time to think about these things. I had entered the tournament to win. And I wanted to win against Raphael, too.

  ***

  The afternoon was already fading when I stepped back into the courtyard. Raphael wasn’t there yet. Up on the battlements, in the cordoned-off area Steve and I had stood next to, the Royal Family had congregated. To my surprise, King Rurik himself was present. They had placed his throne-like chair at the back of the stands. He was surrounded by grim-looking Knights. Apparently, the rumours were true about his health. One of the knights had placed himself right at the King’s side, so that he wouldn’t keel over. The King’s skin was grey. His irregular, asthmatic breathing sounded like a death rattle.

  Many in the crowd, it seemed, had noticed this too. There was a fair bit of whispering among them. I looked back up. The Queen was at his side, though it didn’t look like she cared. In fact, she pretended as if he wasn’t there at all. That was an unhappy marriage if ever I saw one.

  Suddenly, the drums announced the entrance of Prince Raphael. The crowd cheered him. His matches were always worth watching. I only hoped I could live up to it. A few paces behind him was Doctor Yurasov.

  Raphael didn’t look at me at first but scanned the courtyard like a hawk. His dark hair and eyebrows clashing spectacularly with his light skin. He walked over to the fighting area. Doctor Yurasov smiled encouragingly at me.

  “Are you going to be the referee, Doctor?” I asked.

  “Indeed I will be, Miss Flynn,” he said.

  At the sound of our voices, Raphael turned to me. His expression was unreadable, like everything about him it gave the impression of mystery and secrecy, an enigma that begged to be uncovered.

  The crowd had gone silent in anticipation. I was nervous. Raphael looked at me with a curious expression on his face. He was one of the very few people I couldn’t read properly. It interested and intimidated me at the same time.

  Doctor Yurasov held up his hand. It was the signal that the match would begin as soon as he lowered it.

  “You know the rules. First to reach 9, by a margin of two.”

  We lifted our rapiers in the traditional manner and bowed. Then, Doctor Yurasov lowered his hand. We began.

  At first, we both were hesitant. I seemed to feel short of breath from the very start. We circled each other for a while, unwilling to commit to an attack.

  After the previous fights that were full of immediate action, the crowd was getting restless very quickly.

  “Stop being the gentleman, go for her,” a voice shouted, no doubt a friend of Raphael’s.

  He smiled for the briefest of moments, as if waking from a trance, and launched his first attack on me. I was totally taken aback, quickly switching into defensive mode.

  He was by far the best fighter I had ever encountered. His attacks were extremely fast, though he did not succumb to the temptation of putting too much force into his blows. His posture on the offence minimised the possibility of counter-attacks, despite his height. That made landing a blow hard even after a decent parry from me.

  But I was determined to give him a run for his money.

  Without opening up too much, I kept testing his defences. A poke, a lunge, a stab. But just as he remained unreadable as a person, so did his defences remain immovable. More out of frustration than anything else, I decided on a counter-attacking strategy until I could identify some of his weaknesses.

  Raphael was deep in concentration. He must have been thinking along similar lines of testing me, for he was rotating attack styles and combinations constantly.

  After one particularly complicated execution of attacks, I finally saw what I had been looking for: an opening in his defences. For some reason, he favoured his left side. I feinted an attack to his right and struck him, harder than I had intended, on the left side of his waist. To everyone’s shock, mine included, I was in the lead.

  “Good one,” he said, as if returning from a very far away place. “It won’t happen again.”

  He smiled, he was teasing me.

  “A bold statement,” I said. “And if it does?”

  Despite the setting sun, I was feeling a heat rising. I lunged at him, though he parried the blow with ease.

  “You’ll have to do better than that, Rebecca.”

  And then, he unleashed a three-fold attack that almost had my legs in knots, but I was hanging on. Then, I saw the opening again, that strange favouring of his left. I feinted a blow to his shoulder this time, and was aiming my next to his left when he got a square hit on my shoulder. He had baited me into attacking. We were now even in score.

  But from that moment onwards, my fortune was running low. Raphael seemed energised by my initial blow. I hadn’t seen him fight like this throughout the tournament. I was defending with determination, but he broke through another three times, pulling ahead by 4 – 1. I managed to land another by feinting for his left and parrying his counter, which left him exposed on his right. A tricky move that the spectators enthusiastically applauded.

  Rubbing his side, Raphael gave me a look of intensity I hadn’t seen there before. A hunger had awakened. He wasn’t perturbed – far from it. He seemed elated by the challenge. That made him so different from Steve and al
l the others who threatened to crumble before adversity. Raphael thrived on it. A challenge was the spice of life to him.

  I fought determinedly to the very end. I wouldn’t budge an inch.

  We battled on for quite a while. During a short break, torches all around us were lit, bathing us in beautiful fiery glow that excited the crowd even further. I got in another hit, barely scratching his vest this time though it was counted nonetheless because it was right on the wrist of his swordarm. The extensive tournament rulebook dictated that a blow had to have potential for damage – and that depended greatly on the area hit. There was no nonsense about grazing the other person within milliseconds before the other did like in regular human fencing.

  Raphael went on to the last offensive. His feinting tactics were extremely advanced, mindgames of a sort I hadn’t witnessed in any other contestant. He landed two more blows, making it 3 – 6 in his favour.

  Now the pressure was beginning to really build on me. I could feel the stares of the crowd pierce me, you could have cut the tension in the courtyard with a knife. Raphael stepped in, trying to score an unexpected close quarters hit on me. I met his blade with my own, and for a while, we stood there, rapiers locked, our bodies inches from one another.

  “Time to end the first-year menace!” Raphael said, his smile wide as he looked deep into my eyes.

  “Ha! Is that what they’re calling me?”`

  “Yep,” he said. “Though I prefer Rebecca myself.”

  His face was very close, too close. Goosebumps were running down my spine. Slowly, I gazed up at his darkly handsome face, into his deep brown eyes. They reminded me of my grandfather’s somehow, of a home I had long since lost. And then, a strange sensation suddenly spread through my body like a wave, engulfing me like a drowning sailor in a wild torrent of water in one instance, only to wash me safely ashore in the next.

  As if in slow motion, both of us broke free from our intertwined blades at the same moment, unable to look away.

  “Come and get me then,” I said quietly.

  He didn’t need telling twice.

  He lunged forward, but I was ready, darting to my left and aiming a blow at his shoulder. He parried just in time, swirling around with a lightning strike to my right thigh. I tried to parry, but he withdrew quickly in a feint, thrusting at my left shoulder instead. And this time, I was too late. The tip of his blade made contact.

  I had lost. I was out of the tournament. But it felt less important with Raphael somehow. It was a curious sensation. I had been bested, but it was one hell of a fight.

  ***

  The final match in the Great Hall was rescheduled for 10 pm. The galleries were now open to all visitors and students, so Lynn, Steve, and Sarah decided to get there early for good seats, and I promised I’d follow after a quick shower and a sandwich.

  A flight of stairs led off from the entrance hall and up to a corridor that went right around the entire Great Hall. I noticed with interest that a lot of staff and specialist rooms were located up here. I’d never been to this part of the Castle before.

  Just as I was passing, Doctor Yurasov came out of one of the doors. He looked slightly out of breath.

  “Oh, hello Miss Flynn. I was very impressed by your performance. Very impressed indeed. We will keep training together, I hope?”

  “Absolutely, Doctor. Thank you again for all of your help, I never would have reached this far without you.”

  It was perfectly true, of course, though Doctor Yurasov waved it aside. He seemed pleased nonetheless.

  “It was my pleasure, Miss Flynn. It is rare to have a student as talented and, if I may say so, as charming as yourself. Both did not go unnoticed by Prince Raphael, I am sure.”

  An awkward silence followed. Partly to change the subject, partly out of curiosity, I asked: “So, did Raph- I mean, the Prince train with you, too?”

  “Oh, yes. For some years now. Before falling ill, King Rurik was always very particular about his son’s martial education, though the Queen was… less enthusiastic.”

  He checked his pocket watch.

  “Dear me, I must be getting downstairs, the match is about to begin and I am refereeing. I look forward to our next fighting session, Miss Flynn.”

  I bade him goodbye and saw him hurry down the corridor.

  Feeling strangely elated, I found Lynn and the others in a box with an excellent view of the Great Hall below. The staff gallery, now left empty for the Royal Family, was almost exactly opposite ours.

  “Hey guys,” I said. “Great view.”

  “Only the best for our semi-finalist,” Sarah said, winking at me.

  “So who’s fighting the Prince anyway?” Lynn asked keenly. “Somebody know?”

  “Mr. Vox,” said Steve, trying to get a glimpse of the fighters from afar.

  “What?” I said, incredulously.

  “See for yourself, Beccs. There he comes.”

  Steve was right. Through a side entrance, Mr. Vox had slid into the room. Despite his significant height, he looked inconspicuous, almost out of place in his long black trousers and duellist’s vest.

  “I didn’t know he was a fighter,” I exclaimed.

  “Yeah, he’s the best fighter on the American continent. I heard from Owen – a Knight – that Vox served during the war, in the American theatre, too,” Sarah said. “With Doctor Yurasov, I think. But he was almost court-martialled by the Council at the end.”

  “How come?” I asked.

  “Nobody knows officially, of course. Trials from that period are still kept top secret. But rumour has it that he... got carried away… and on more than one occasion.”

  “What do you mean… carried away?” asked Steve, turning his face to her.

  Sarah shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She looked around her and lowered her voice so we wouldn’t be overheard, though the Great Hall was now so abuzz with enthusiastic pre-match discussion that we could hardly hear the person next to us. Opposite, the Queen and several others I didn’t recognise – nobles no doubt – were accompanied onto the gallery by a dozen Knights. The King, however, was nowhere to be seen.

  “Well – none of this is confirmed. Rumours and hearsay. Allegedly, he drank blood excessively from his enemies, against orders from his superiors. They called him the Butcher of Baltimore – that’s where he’s from originally. Many drank from their victims then, of course, but by that time the Council wanted peace – they were cracking down on that sort of stuff to show their goodwill towards the Slayers’ League. He was lucky; several Knights intervened on his behalf. Got him off.”

  Before we could discuss the matter any further, the drums sounded once more for the final match. Raphael had already entered, and both fighters were in position. Vox had taken off his robe, revealing an old-fashioned purple vest and matching black trousers with a single purple stripe on either side.

  I had never really given Vox much thought, but I would have never guessed what lay behind that gaunt mask of indifferent reservedness.

  Doctor Yurasov lifted his arm and briefly explained the rules for the final match. Each set was over if one side scored seven hits, by a margin of two. The first contestant to win two sets was the winner.

  Whatever Vox’s reputation, I think nobody was prepared for what was to happen next, least of all Raphael.

  Whereas Raphael skill was based on meticulous technique and execution, Vox was pure energy.

  “How on earth…” I said.

  “Maybe he saves up all year like a long-life battery,” said Steve drily.

  I laughed. But there was certainly a deeper point to it. In fact, I didn’t think I had seen any fighter in the entire tournament who was this fast, though his style was undoubtedly unorthodox. His rapid darting all across the fighting area, however, made it very difficult for Raphael to take advantage of his wild technique.

  As the first set unfolded, I noticed I was gripping the edge of the balustrade hard, making my knuckles go white in the process. Raphael, thoug
h getting through more and more, was behind by two points. I wanted him to win, as did apparently the entire Great Hall, for Vox was hardly popular, neither among the staff nor among the students.

  I came as a great shock, then, to all of us when Vox, after a risky, almost mad manoeuvre landed a blow to Raphael knee, which gave way with a horrible crack. It was a foul stroke, but still within the ruleset, and so Doctor Yurasov had no choice but to award him the point.

  “First set goes to Mr. Vox by 7 to 4,” Doctor Yurasov announced heavily.

  There was polite, albeit shocked clapping in the Great Hall.

  Then, everyone broke into a heated discussion during the break. I was watching Raphael from afar. I could see that he was upset, though still composed and determined. At that moment, chance had it that he looked in my direction. I smiled and waved to him, and he held up his hand in response.

  Perhaps she didn’t take to my enthusiasm, or perhaps she didn’t like her son fraternising with the ‘common people’, but the Queen gave me a look of pure venom that was without a doubt intended as a warning for me. I held her gaze. She then looked at Raphael again, though he had already retaken his position. The second set was about to begin.

  To my great relief, it started out well this time. Raphael was learning to adapt quickly. He was waiting for Vox to make the mistakes now, though the timing was still extremely difficult. With Vox, any riposte that would have normally practically guaranteed a hit could easily turn into a parry and a subsequent counter-riposte. It was as if someone had pressed a fast forward button on Vox.

  The score was 5 – 5, and, throwing all pretence to the winds, I was now openly pumping my fist when Raphael scored a hit. Luckily, most of the hall felt the same way.

  “I didn’t know you were a Royalist, Beccs,” Steve joked.

  “Only on special occasions. You know, British tradition.”

  He laughed, but it sounded oddly disappointed.