‘And you are?’
‘We are chosen deputies of these lands’ largest congregations of our lord the Grey Walker.’
‘What of it?’
‘Lord Dassem – a scourge has appeared in many of our cities. A sickness that spares none. Young, old. Poliel’s visitations are known to us, of course, but this one’s touch is death. Some name it Hood’s Wrath. And so we come begging that you intercede with our lord. How have we transgressed? What have we done to earn his disfavour?’
‘Why?’
The spokesman paused, glancing back to his fellows in obvious confusion. ‘Well … so that we may avert this scourge. Turn his displeasure aside from us. The populace is becoming fearful and angered in many cities. There have been reprisals. Killings of devotees.’
Dassem shook his head. ‘It is I who am angered that you should come to me. Angered and disappointed. You above all should know there is no turning aside Hood’s hand. There can be no propitiation. No bribe or sacrifice can be made that will save anyone. There is no cheating death. It comes at its appointed time – sooner or later.’
The spokesman fluttered his hands in apology. ‘Do not misunderstand. We seek no special favour for ourselves – we seek only for the safety of our flocks. Do you wish his worship to become repugnant in the eyes of so many? Blamed and denigrated? Outlawed, even?’
The rear delegate spoke up in a young man’s voice. ‘Everyone knows you came to Heng to challenge the Protectress’s ban on his worship! And you broke the ban! You brought his message to Heng. Why abandon it elsewhere?’
Dassem continued to shake his head. ‘I merely walked where my lord set my feet.’
‘You refuse us, then?’ the young delegate answered in rising anger.
The foremost lifted a hand for silence. ‘Control yourself, brother Jaim.’ He addressed Dassem. ‘Lord, are you saying you will not address our master on our behalf?’
Dassem let out a long slow breath. ‘I am saying it is pointless. What happens, must happen. There is no good or bad. Only what is necessary. Death. Ending. Destruction. Call it what you will. It is necessary in existence. Hood stands in that role because none other would. His is the face upon an inescapable truth of life. Some choose to hate him for it. They are foolish to do so.’
The spokesman bowed his cowled head once more. ‘Your interpretation of the faith is a most harsh one, Lord Dassem. Harsh and rigid and unforgiving. I wish you luck with it, but fear you may come to regret such an inhuman stance.’ He turned to his companions. ‘Come. We must return to our brothers and sisters and endure as best we might.’
Four of the deputation moved to leave, but the fifth, the last, remained facing Dassem, who noted his fists within his loose sleeves clenched and white.
‘Brother Jaim!’ the spokesman called, a note of warning in his voice.
In one swirling motion Brother Jaim threw off his robes, revealing a lean young man in leather armour, twinned longswords at his sides. He glared at Dassem. ‘I say you refuse because you are false! You are not the true Sword. You are an impostor. I say you must prove yourself – now!’
Dassem turned a glance upon the other four. The greybeard, his hands crossed and hidden in his robes, bowed his acquiescence. ‘So be it.’
Dassem tilted his head to Jaim. ‘I accept, of course.’
Jaim drew his blades and passing Hengans backed away, some shouting their alarm. The main way emptied. Dassem slowly crossed to its dusty mid-point. ‘We need not do this,’ he called to Jaim.
‘On the contrary – you must. You must prove yourself.’
He shook his head once again. ‘Prove myself to you, you mean.’
‘Anyone can claim a title,’ Jaim answered, now beginning to circle.
Dassem drew his hand-and-a-half and struck a ready stance edge-on to the man. He shifted as the fellow circled, waiting, as Jaim was the challenger.
It came quickly in a flurry of blows which Dassem slipped and blocked. The swordsman was good, Dassem could admit. As he would have to be. Yet not inspired; or he was holding back for the moment. Dassem now shifted, circling as well.
All had become eerily silent on the Street of the Temples, normally a hub of murmured prayers, hawkers, and chants of devotion. The four deputies watched motionless. The way was choked off far up its length at both ends as Hengans gathered. Nara watched, frozen in the mausoleum’s open entrance, a hand clutching her throat.
Dassem waited, husbanding his strength. Patience was one of his advantages. Many he’d fought became panicked the longer a duel dragged on. Or exhausted themselves in anxiety and constant tension. He remained relaxed, his shoulders and arms loose and fluid, and this alone often unnerved an opponent.
After his initial testing, Jaim also eased back into a similar waiting stance. Dassem offered him the slightest tilt of the head in acknowledgement. For as Jaim had been testing, he had been as well.
Now the strategy of the duel began. Weapon-masters are of course correct when they insist that most fights end in the first few passes; this is common truth. Those that do not, however, become less battles of exchanges and more battles of will and insight. Those who excel in either typically emerge the victor. And Dassem excelled at both.
He watched, studying his opponent, as Jaim through narrowed eyes likewise studied him.
Weapon-masters are also correct in warning against watching one’s opponent’s feet, their weapons, or their eyes; all can and will be used in diversion, deceit, feint, and stratagem. This is truth as well. One must cultivate the whole, take in thousands of tiny hints, the slightest of movements, a brush or suggestion, building an image of the opponent until one can understand their thinking. Their strengths and their weaknesses. Until you know them intimately; only then can you defeat them.
Here Dassem excelled as well. Indeed, so sensitive was his awareness that, watching any blade, he could filter out the extraneous irrelevant shifts and movements until he could discern the very tiniest of vibrations transmitted from the palm of the bearer through the grip and up to the utter tip, and know the pulse rate of his opponent’s very heart.
In a seemingly casual move, Jaim tried to disguise the forward shift of his centre of gravity. At the same instant his pulse rate jumped, and Dassem knew he was about to come at him not in a test or feint, but in a serious effort. He readied himself to counter-attack.
The man came on in a beautifully coordinated series of passes of both blades, and Dassem was saddened that he would have to end this confrontation in so final a manner. Both knew there could be no first-blood here, no quarter or yielding; this was, of course, a duel to the death.
He yielded, circling and waiting, and finally his opening came. It appeared in the overextension of Jaim’s right foot. Dassem lashed out with his forward leg, striking the knee outwards, and Jaim, unbalanced, tumbled to that side as Dassem knew he would, his own blade already thrusting to take him through the heart as he fell.
Jaim struck the dirty cobbles of the road with Dassem already withdrawing his blade. He lay staring, a puzzled expression on his face, blinking at the sky as his fate registered in his mind. Then the puzzlement cleared and he nodded to Dassem, mouthing silently, My apologies …
Dassem saluted him, grip raised to his chin.
Three of the deputies converged on the body, collecting the swords, a waist-pouch, and other possessions. The fourth, the greybeard, bowed to Dassem. ‘He was the best of us. None other could touch him.’ He shook his cowled head in wonderment. ‘Our apologies, Sword. But we had to be certain.’
‘I offer no blame.’
‘We shall return to our congregations and struggle to survive this plague as best we may. You, too, should prepare, Lord Dassem. I suspect Heng will not be spared.’ And he bowed for the last time, gesturing his brothers away.