The smell was a dusty mix of seeping damp, oil and polish. How many thousands of hours had she spent down here? Last August she’d hardly seen the sun. She’d returned to school in September as white as a ghost. All that time she’d worked with whetstone and cloth on weapons maintenance. All those nicks and cuts, and bruises and black eyes, all those strange looks in class – all those excuses.
Oh, I tripped.
I ran into the door.
Fell down the stairs.
The vase dropped on my head.
The dog/cat/goat bit/scratched/kicked me.
She walked along the row of swords, all neatly stacked on wooden racks. There were Scottish claymores, German bastard swords, French rapiers, Indian patas – deadly steel from around the world. She needed to master all of them. Arthur had taught her there was no glamour in weapons: they were tools, no more, no less. Even the katanas, the very souls of the samurai, lay beside the crude and battered bronze khopesh blades. Billi snatched up a bokken, a wooden Japanese practice sword. Templars didn’t train with modern kendo equipment, with armour and hollow bamboo sticks. Percy thought nothing trained reflexes better than the risk of serious injury. The heavy cedar stave of the bokken was lethal. She turned the weapon slowly, loosening her wrists, getting the blood pumping, building up speed as she started with jabs, cuts, parries and slices against imaginary opponents. She twisted, turned, dived, darted back, forward, her feet sliding and leaping across the cold stone. Fire burned in her veins as she slashed off arms, heads, cut open arteries and burst hearts apart. The bokken reacted before she thought, as though alive in itself. The dance was pure instinct, completely formless. Billi lost track of time as she moved across the empty floor, mesmerized by the unending motion of the wooden blade. She could lose herself in it and was ready to dive in when she felt a breeze, a wrong breeze, and stopped.
She turned towards the steps and saw a shadow descend. Her dad stopped at the edge of the practice area, dressed in a black T-shirt and wearing a pair of faded grey tracksuit bottoms.
Why wouldn’t he leave her alone, just for a minute?
‘Don’t stop,’ he said.
‘I’ve just finished. It’s all yours.’ She couldn’t bear to be stuck in the same room as him.
Arthur chose a bokken from the rack. His wrists clicked as he repeated the same warming-up exercises as Billi.
‘Percival says you’ve come a long way this year.’ He stopped in the centre of the armoury. ‘Show me.’
Fight her dad?
Of course he’d taken some of her lessons, when Percy had been out on business. They’d even had mock duels, but for some reason this… this felt different.
Arthur stood, legs apart, slightly bent, slightly springy, in the low guard: hilt waist high, sword tip point upwards towards the target’s throat.
Fine, if that’s what he wants. Billi came forward, moving into high guard, the standard position against her dad’s own stance and primed for the principle blows to his unprotected head. Speed and control. The essence of the mock duel was to strike fast and pull the blow at the last possible second. Maybe she could pull it a moment too late? The image of her dad with a big purple bruise on his forehead brought a smile to her lips. She slowed her breathing down with long, deep breaths, subduing her rapidly beating heart and took control of the adrenalin bubbling in her body. They were a metre apart.
‘Do you hate me, Billi?’
The question was so unexpected that she faltered and in that second her dad attacked without hesitation. He feinted with a jab, drawing Billi’s sword down, and then he slammed his blade hard across hers: the Fire and Stones Cut. The impact jarred her arms and Billi loosened her grip to let the energy dissipate. But Arthur sensed the weakening grip. His tip darted up and with a twist of his wrist Billi’s bokken leapt from her hands. She watched it spin in the air, then clatter to the ground.
‘Well?’ Arthur asked.
‘Well what?’
‘I asked you a question. A simple one.’
Simple. Was he mad? Billi stared at her father, straight into those bright, fierce blue eyes, and wondered again if he really was her dad. The similarities began and ended with the black hair. They said she was more like her mother. Not as beautiful – she had her dad’s genes to thank for that. He’d never been handsome, and over the years the broken nose and the criss-cross of scars had only made him uglier.
And easy to hate.
‘Why should I hate you?’ She walked away from him when she said it, just in case he could read her face. Billi picked up her sword. When she turned round he was waiting, low guard again.
‘For ruining your life.’ He gave a slight shrug. ‘That’s what you think, isn’t it?’
‘I’m a Templar – that’s all the life I need,’ she intoned.
‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.’
‘What if I do hate you?’
Now it was Arthur’s turn to hesitate. Billi smirked, let him deal with that. But the smile withered. Did she? Did she really hate him or had she just come to hate this life? She shook her head and took the high guard again.
‘Why do we have to be part of this?’ she asked.
‘We’re Templars. We have a duty.’ He focused his attention along the sword.
‘To protect the masses from the Unholy.’ She tightened her grip round the hilt; she wasn’t going to fall for the same trick twice. ‘But we’re not doing such a great job, are we? How d’you expect us to win this fight when there’re only nine of us?’
‘The Order began with only nine.’
Billi swept down and Arthur drew his blade up and parried, barely, but enough. Billi jabbed, then let the battle guide her, no thought or strategy, no plan, just the subtle shifting of moves, positions, attacks and parries. He was stronger; she was faster. Attacks came deadly and close, but in the gaps between seconds Billi moved and would knock a blow aside or launch one of her own. They crossed the armoury floor, back and forth, back and forth, neither giving the other a moment’s respite. Billi drew in close, hilts jammed together. Her dad smiled.
And headbutted her.
Sparks filled her vision and she couldn’t keep upright. The ground pitched suddenly and Billi tottered backwards.
Her dad caught her.
‘You bastard,’ she whispered, shaking her head clear. She checked her nose. If it was broken… no, not even bleeding. But her eyes were watering heavily. ‘Bastard.’
If she hadn’t hated him then, she hated him now. He couldn’t even fight fair! He lowered her to the ground, then squatted down beside her.
‘You hate this life, don’t you?’
‘Yes! Of course I do!’
Arthur nodded. He gazed at the bokken in his hand. ‘Good. It’s right that you should.’
Billi shook her head again. She wasn’t hearing right. ‘What?’
‘You’re right, Billi. There are so few of us, but we keep the darkness at bay. Why? Because we’re ruthless. We bring nightmares to the monsters.’ He leaned closer so he could whisper it. ‘Fear is a powerful weapon.’
Billi froze. She’d never felt so cold in her life. Her heart must have turned to ice. Arthur stood up. He didn’t look at her.
‘You need to be ruthless. Nothing must stop you from fulfilling your duty. One day you’ll have to make a terrible choice and pity will fill your heart and you’ll hesitate. You’ll think there has to be a better way.’ He sighed. ‘But sometimes there isn’t. You’ll be up close, you’ll feel a person’s warm breath on your face, see the glow of life in their eyes and know you have to end it. Like you did during the Ordeal.’ He pulled Billi up. ‘You hate what we do. You’re right to. Who would want this life? Sometimes we must do terrible things, make huge sacrifices. But we must. Because the alternative is so much worse.’ He cupped her face and leaned forward, Billi tensed and thought he was going to kiss her forehead, like he used to, a long time ago.