He left unsaid the fact that he would have refrained from the precipitation of this farcial combat from the start, had he not sensed the malign machinations of Duke Tcharlz in it Nor did he reveal that he now had, in his own mind, sacrificed the last dregs of the honor of Count Martuhn of Geerzburk in order to retain the goodwill of such a thing as the duke. An hour later, after a quick wash in the guardsmen’s barrack, a shave and a hair trim by their barber, the loan of some clean and lighter clothing and the selection of a rapier from the castle armory, he stood ready, surrounded by his quartet at one end of the inner garden which had been chosen for the encounter. The duke was not visible at any of the surrounding windows, but Martuhn could sense the man’s mind now and again, close by, observing, and once more he had the uncomfortable feeling of being but a piece on a gaming board.
As he and his opponent were led to the center of the sward by their respective entourages, Martuhn once more felt respect—an increasing measure of respect—for the willow-slender man he was about to fight. The captain’s unusual mind could sense the dark oceans of terror lapping at and around the barrier reefs of will, yet Sir Djaimz’s demeanor showed no trace of fear and the only change in his face was a purple bruise on his right cheek, the result of Martuhn’s buffet Perfunctorily, the weapons and face guards were exchanged and examined by the seconds. Martuhn’s left-hand weapon—he had retained his own battle dirk from force of habit—was found to be heavier in the blade and somewhat longer than the wide-quillioned dagger of Sir Djaimz, so one of the men set off at a trot to fetch several shorter, lighter pieces from which the captain might choose. While they waited, cool ale was offered. Sir Djaimz took a grateful gulp of his and was about to take another when he noted that his opponent-to-be was sipping, barely doing more than wetting his lips and mouth. He began to emulate the veteran captain.
Martuhn smiled to himself. The lad was both intelligent and adaptable. Given time, patience and training, he doubted not he could make a good officer of him. Sword knew he had the sand. This little business proved that for all to see. Sir Djaimz cleared his throat and bespoke Martuhn, “Sir, I have been informed that I should not address you directly until… after these proceedings, but…” Martuhn nodded once. “Speak away, sir. Yon’s a custom that’s honored as much in the breach as the observance. Do you wish to withdraw your challenge? I’m more than amenable. I’ve no desire to see your blood.” Sir Djaimz flushed and shook his small head, sending the dark, curling locks swirling on his narrow shoulders. “No, sir, a certain high personage desires my death, and I had as lief receive it from a man I can see than from a wire garrote some dark night or a cup of poisoned wine.” Martuhn shook his own close-cropped head, “I’m no man’s executioner, sir! This duel’s for no more than three bloods, mine or yours or both together, not to the death.”
Sir Djaimz just smiled cynically. “But, of course, accidents do occur now and then, don’t they?”
There’ll be no accidents this day,” declared Martuhn bluntly. “Unless you go mad and decide to run yourself onto my blade, you’ll leave on your own two feet.” “No.” Sir Djaimz again shook his head. “I’d not do that, though it might be better for both of us if I did.”
The man returned from the armory, and Martuhn chose a dagger that was almost the mate to his opponent’s—eight inches of a thick but narrow and double-edged blade, with a crossguard three inches to the arm and a latticework of steel to protect the knuckles. Then he paced to his appointed place. As the longsword of the arbitrator of the duel flashed downward, Martuhn moved forward smoothly and deliberately; although his conscious mind realized that he was but the instrument of an all but unskilled man’s cruel punishment and in no slightest degree of danger, to his subconscious and his physical reflexes, he was approaching another combat, pure, simple and deadly. Sir Djaimz vainly tried to copy his opponent’s footwork, but though awkward, he neither hesitated nor halted. Nor did he flinch from Martuhn’s first, powerful thrust, catching and turning the licking tongue of steel on his dagger blade and delivering an upward slash which rang upon the bigger man’s face guard, even as the sharp edge of Martuhn’s dagger laid open a billow of shirt, barely missing the pale skin beneath.
As they fenced, the tall captain’s respect for the pale, slender man became less grudging; relatively weak and certainly unschooled, none of his attacks, defenses or ripostes seemed those of any school of the blade with which the widely experienced captain was familiar—Sir Djaimz seemed to be one of those rare, natural swordsmen. His weapon seemed an extension of his arm, the womanish soft hand inside the kidskin glove but an incidental link between the two. Martuhn fleetingly regretted not naming longswords or even axes, the proper use of which demanded more strength than he thought his opponent owned, as that same opponent’s silvery blade danced and flickered before his eyes, weaving an intricate pattern between them.
He thought, “Had the skinny bastard the foot skill and a bit more muscle to go with it, he’d be flat dangerous!”
He fought defensively, deliberately ignoring seeming openings’, until Sir Djaimz showed signs of exertion and he thought that he had finally caught the rhythm of the very unorthodox fighting style. Then he waited his chance and struck—point slashing not thrusting at the already ripped front of the shirt. He came breathtakingly close, but at the last possible split second, Sir Djaimz’s blade beat down his own, so that the slash, rather than opening chest and shirt, severed the pale man’s fine waistbelt, the waistband of his breeches and the drawstring cinching his smallclothes. Both items of clothing promptly tumbled down about his ankles.
Apparently unaware of what had occurred. Sir Djaimz made to riposte… and fell fiat on his face, his bare white and almost fleshless buttocks reflecting back an errant beam of sunlight The guardsmen and other watchers, who had been hooting and shouting cruel jests at the downed knight, fell silent as Martuhn moved forward, his face as cold and bleak as a bleached skull. He kicked both weapons from the fallen man’s grip, then placed a foot in the small of his back and sank the point of his sword just deeply enough to draw a few drops of blood, once, twice, thrice into the back of the right thigh.
Then he dropped his own weapons and leaned over, placing his big hands under Sir Djaimz’s arms. As he effortlessly raised his erstwhile opponent onto his feet, he spoke swiftly and in a low voice.
“This is a good ending, better than you can imagine, my boy. You’ve been humiliated, and that’s a damned good and unquestionable reason for leaving Pirates’ Folly while you still have your life and most of your blood. “Go back to the duchess’ court, Sir Djaimz. When the new fortress at Twocityport is completed, I am certain to be named to command the garrison there. Come to me then, and I promise to make a real swordsman of you, with your promise, an unbeatable one.
“What I will do now is for he who watches. Do not take it to heart; it’s for your protection as much as anything.”
With that, he patted Sir Djaimz’s bare buttocks, remarking,