Nightlord: Sunset (63 page)

She cocked her head, as though listening to something I couldn’t hear.  Then she lifted her gaze, smiled in my direction, and
waved
.  I was so startled I lost my focus on the vision and it faded.

Well, at least it was nice to know she remembered me.

As I was putting the ball away, a thought came to me.  I’d been highly successful at both of these attempts; it was so
easy
to see either of them.  But… I rolled the ball between my hands, thinking.  Did I dare to try and see someone I didn’t know?  I knew some things about him, true… and I’d dreamed him.

A magician would say it was impossible, or too dangerous, or too unpredictable.

But I’m no magician.  I’m a wizard, and wizards, when confronted by something unknown, unknowable, or even presumably impossible, have a saying:  What the hell.

I stared into the ball again, seeking Tobias, Cardinal of the Hand.

The ball cleared almost instantly, and there he was.  He was not an old man, but not young—he had that timeless face that can be anywhere from thirty to sixty.  I guessed him closer to thirty than to sixty, judging by his hair; only a trace of grey was salting the dark brown.  He was clean-shaven and his hair was bound back in a tail by a silver clasp.  He wore a white-and-gold robe with the Fist of Light picked out in both gold thread and small topaz stones.  His face was also covered in sweat, like a mask of glass, and firelight flickered on it both red and orange.

Behind him was a gold statue, only partially visible because of its size.  It seemed to be covered in rivulets of black blood, or maybe that was the effect of the shadows.  Somewhere in front of him was a fire, the source of the flickering light, and it dimmed even as I watched.  It made the shifting shadows on the statue grow and thicken, like vines choking a pillar, until the light went out and my crystal went dark.

Eyes looked at me through the crystal, and I slammed the connection shut with a shout.

They were not human eyes.

At breakfast I was quiet, trying the fish soup and eating the brown bread.  The bread wasn’t that good, but it was filling and the soup was hot.  I felt a definite longing for butter, though; the bread was rather dry.  Raeth and Bouger ate with gusto, anticipating a good day.

Their enthusiasm was catching.

“What’s with the mood?” I asked as we walked along the practice fields.  “Why so cheered?”

“Ah, today we start to amass some small fortune,” Bouger replied, grinning.  “We have little enough to wager, but there will be good odds at first, and we will doubtless make good quickly.”

“On what?”

“Our skill at arms,” Raeth answered.  “There are always wagers on the contests in practice.”

“Oh?  I hadn’t known that.  So you’re thinking you’ll bet on each other?”

“Indeed,” Bouger said.  “Raeth and I are very good.  Raeth has been here before, and I, myself, know many of those here and their skill.  With a modicum of care, we should be able to gain a tidy sum on our own.”

“And then, of course, there is you,” Raeth added.

“Me?”

“You.  No one here knows of your skill; if they think of you at all, dressed in second-rate armor and carrying your father’s sword, they think of you as just barely a peer.”  He smiled like a wolf at a downed hart.  “You should magnify our winnings.”

“I’m not that good,” I protested, but he cut me off.

“You are.  You fight like a demon from the depths of Hell and have the beginnings of true skill.  Between those, you hold your own against the both of us; I doubt any single man could stand against you.”

I was blushing, but I was also thinking of Davad, and the Baron.

“I can think of a couple.”

That had their interest.  “Oh?”

“Baron Xavier of Baret,” I offered.  “He’s good.  He’s very good.”

Bouger nodded.  “I have heard of him.  He is held in high regard.  Perhaps it would be a difficult fight.”

“And the head of his guard, Davad,” I added.  “He’s scary.”

Raeth paused and Bouger and I stopped with him.

“Davad?” he echoed.  “
Davad?
”

“Well, yes.  Do you know him?”

Raeth shook himself and resumed walking.  “Yes and no.  I have heard of him, of course.”

Bouger prompted, “I have not.”

“You are younger and less traveled, but surely you have heard of the
Dama
?”

I hadn’t, but I could hear the capital letter.

“They are a myth,” Bouger stated, flatly.

“They are not,” Raeth countered.  “I have seen one—his name was Davad.  They are warriors without peer; one alone might hold the bridge here against all the forces the viksagi might bring to bear, at least for a time.  To watch one move is to watch water flow, or the movement of wind in the fields.  You cannot fight the river; you cannot stop the wind.  Even so with the Dama.

“If this is the Davad of whom I remember, then he is outcast from them.  Yet the blood of the Dama is his, and he is more formidable than any ten men.  Twenty.”

I fought the man every morning for a small eternity, and I never knew any of that.  It just goes to show we never really know the people around us.

Bouger snorted.  “We shall see.  If I ever meet him, I’ll offer him a bout.”

“He’ll win,” I said.  “I was beaten at his hands every morning for far too long.  He never even broke a sweat.  He never fought me; he just played with me.  And it was easy.”

Bouger digested that, then changed the subject.

“All right.  So the Baron and his pet Dama may beat you.  Anyone else?”

I shrugged.  “I guess we’ll find out.”

The plan worked wonderfully.  Actually, it worked perfectly.  Part of our luck was a well-funded group of mercenaries that just made it in; they weren’t knights, just brigands-turned-soldier, but they had a lot of coin and they liked to bet.  It helps that I don’t look like I’m all that strong.

Against any of my tutors, I was ready to pit my skill and have a fair idea of how it would come out; against strangers, I just had a mild confidence.  But against my tutors, I also
knew
them, how they favored certain moves (except Davad, of course), and roughly what to expect.  Not so with random adversaries, and that made me nervous.  Strangers are unpredictable.

Raeth and Bouger circulated rapidly, a bout here, a bout there, never really going all-out.  I quickly realized they
were
exceptionally good.  Raeth had years of training and discipline as well as a natural bent for it, and Bouger had both a good base of skill and even greater native talent.  Watching them, I came to appreciate just how good they were.  If anyone was going to go out into the world a-questing, these two would do it.

And they’ve been teaching
me
.  My confidence climbed slowly as I watched.

Once we had a sizable stake, they maneuvered for a match; myself, and Sir Dele de Mouchon.  He was good, they assured me; good enough that people would give odds against me.

I didn’t like the look of him.  He was tall, broad-shouldered, and moved like a dancer: all grace and effortless ease.  It was a good thing he was also ugly as a pile of mud, or I might have felt an unbecoming jealousy.  He wore plate to practice, which made sense; if one is to fight in it, one has to learn to live in it like a second skin.  It also kept him from the worst of the blows from the wooden practice swords.  Even better, it was warm.  Warmer than my own armor, that was certain.  It was good plate, too; it didn’t hamper his mobility, aside from the weight, and it was well cared-for.

“Are you sure about this?” I asked, standing at the edge of the circle of bare earth.  Sir Dele was limbering up his sword arm and a squire was strapping a shield on his other.

“Trust me, you can defeat him,” Raeth assured me.  “He is not smart, but he is both strong and fast.  Not as strong as you, nor as fast—and he is
honest.
  And rich; it’s a pity he doesn’t wager.  He will do nothing underhanded or unsporting, unlike some people I could mention.”

Bouger looked wounded.  “It’s perfectly within the rules to kick a man’s shield out of the way.”

“Not when he’s already on the ground,” Raeth replied.  “Now, Halar—are you sure you don’t want a shield?”

“I’m sure.  Not against swords.  Archers, sure.  But not for this.  I’d just try to hide behind it.”

“Okay.  Go get him.”

I went, stomach knotted like a rope.  Everyone kept out of the practice ring, except for the referee.  He held out a stick and we crossed swords on it.  When he snapped the stick away, the fight was on.

Sir Dele came on slowly, at the ready, watching me and feeling me out.  We traded a few cuts and parries and got a feel for each other’s speed.  He was good, they were right about that.  But I could take him.  I knew it.  It was just a matter of finding the right opening in his guard, the attack he wasn’t ready for.  We continued to circle and trade light attacks, looking for weak places.

In an instant vision, I had one of those moments of blinding clarity.  Without thinking I just
did
what seemed to be the perfect thing to do.

He swung at me and I blocked, two-handed, blade vertical.  I continued to push the blades to my left and surged forward, inside his guard, both our blades far out of line.  His shield was in the way, but I didn’t care; it was better than having to deal with his arm.  My right hand let go my wooden sword and I continued forward, accelerating the whole time, and I shoved on his shield.

I don’t think he expected me to have that much speed, strength, or momentum; the shield clanged against his breastplate.  As he staggered back, I came to a stop; we must have weighed about the same.  And while he staggered back, I hooked one of his feet with my own and tripped him backward.  Down he went.

I beat his blade out of the way—he had brought it back around to defend himself—stepped on it, and asked him to yield.

He glared at me for a long second.  Then he let go the sword and raised his visor, surrendering.  I watched him let go of his anger as well and begin to smile again.  I wish I could do that.

“Prettily done, sir!” he said, rising.  I helped him up.  “Very prettily done.  You’ve cost me a bit of pride, if I may say so!  Prettily done, indeed!”  He held out his arm to his squire for the shield to be removed, and he gave a slight bow to me.  “I would know your name, sir.”

“His name is Halar,” came a familiar voice, “and he is a wizard, not a knight.”

I kept my temper in check.  I turned to see Peldar standing a pace ahead of the spectators, just barely in the ring.

“He is no knight,” he repeated, “but an upstart wizard with some training.”

“I must differ,” Raeth answered.  “I was there when he rescued two knights from bondage and slavery by force of arms, and I witnessed his knighting thereafter.”

“I believe it not,” Peldar said.  “He has no right to the sash, nor the arms.”

I can tell when things are going bad.  Usually after they already have.  My clue was the thick silence that settled over the crowd, bubbling lightly with faint whispers.

“I beat you badly the first time we had a bout, Peldar,” I said, angrily.  I was still flushed with the leftover products of a fight in my bloodstream.  This upstart little prick was on my nerves.  “Pick your bone and I’ll break it for you in the next.”

“Insolence!” Peldar shouted, and drew.  He did not have a practice sword.  I brought up my wooden one.

“HOLD!” came a shout.  Even Peldar froze.  The owner of the voice was the marshal of the field—the referee.  “There will be no bloodshed!  His Grace has forbidden blood-duels within sight of the Keep.  Either release your steel or go hence from his service, but do not think to cross his will in this or both your lives are forfeit.”

Peldar slammed his sword back in its scabbard.

“You, wizard!  If you have the honor you pretend to, then choose your weapons, minding only His Grace’s stricture!”

“Sure.  Swords will serve me fine.  I beat your helm in with one last time!”

“So be it.” Peldar unbelted his sword and accepted a wooden weapon from someone nearby.  The circle cleared to larger than before, giving us plenty of room.

I was amazed at the speed with which a duel had materialized.  I always thought it involved a lot of negotiating and such, with seconds, terms, and so on.  These people don’t mess about.

Peldar was on me in a second.  He was better than I remembered; I could see his moves had grown smoother, more practiced; he hadn’t been just sitting around and getting soft.

Unfortunately for him, neither had I. 

He hammered and tore at me with fast, vicious swings and lunges, and I stood there and defended against them.  He kept coming, pressing his attack, and I remained where I was, holding my ground.  He never laid that stick on me.  He came close more than once, but I refused to budge.  Oh, I ducked and twisted, but I never backed away.

People around us were cheering and waving and screaming; I distinctly heard Raeth shouting something about forty on Sir Halar and somebody answering him.  People were swarming around the edges of our circle, everyone jockeying for a view.  But I didn’t really notice anything but Peldar.  Everything else was secondary; there was him, there was me, and there were two wooden swords.