“Perfectly,” Amaury said.
Gill nodded.
“You may begin.”
Amaury came at him straightaway, a thrust leading into a vertical cut that would have given Gill a cleft in his chin had he not been able to bounce backwards on the balls of his feet. Amaury was moving like a man half his age, and Gill regretted that Solène hadn’t been around to give him a shot of rejuvenating energy before the fight. He backed away and circled to his left, watching Amaury’s movement, trying to get the measure of him. He certainly wasn’t rusty. Is he better than before?
The Prince Bishop came at him again. Gill parried, the chime of the two Telastrian blades ringing out like a musical note. Amaury had not had a Telastrian blade the last time they had fought, and Gill wondered briefly where he had gotten it—who he had stolen it from. Two more cuts that Gill parried, their clashing blades creating a song over the silent farmland.
Gill danced back and took his guard. He’s fast, and I’m slower than I was. He’s not better than before, just hasn’t slowed down much. I can live with that. There wasn’t enough difference in Amaury’s speed and skill to put it down to magical enhancement, which was confusing. Amaury had never been one to play by the book before. Why would he start now, with so much at stake? It was time to find out. If Amaury intended to play by the rules, that would be the biggest surprise of all.
Guillot thrust, then followed seamlessly with flèche. Amaury dived out of the way; Gill passed by, then spun on his heels and took guard again. From the look on Amaury’s face, Gill was faster than the Prince Bishop had expected.
“Still with the old tricks, Gill?”
“You didn’t have an answer for them the last time,” Gill said. He had never been one for verbal fencing, but if it made Amaury angry, he was happy to play along. He followed the barb with a testing thrust, but there was no real intent behind it. Amaury swatted it to the side—a cooler head would have ignored it.
Gill backed away a little more, keeping his guard up and his eyes firmly locked on Amaury. His old friend was tense. He had been rattled far too quickly. Was the pressure getting to him?
“How do you think history will remember you, Amaury? Tyrant? Murderer?”
“At least I’ll be remembered,” Amaury said, launching into a chain of thrusts, stamping his front foot with each attack.
Gill parried, revelling in the delicious sound the blades made when they connected. He moved back smoothly, allowing Amaury’s attack to expend its energy, then riposted and drove the “Lord Protector” back across the duelling area with a series of cuts and thrusts that flowed into one another. A cheer erupted from the king’s army and spread until the air was filled with roars of support.
Amaury slipped to the side, moving away from Gill. The intense look on his face gave Gill pause for thought. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have thought Amaury was constipated. That can’t be it? Can it?
The expression faded after a moment, replaced with one of frustration. Amaury came at Gill again, wilder this time. His blade work was loose, and Gill slapped the weapon off its attacking line each time, with the contempt with which a fencing master treated a weak pupil.
He backed off once more, more casual about it this time, letting his guard down a little, relaxing his stance. It was a signal of disrespect that Amaury could not miss.
“No magic to help you out?” Gill said. He knew he was playing with fire, but he couldn’t help himself. If Amaury had power, and was going to use it, now was the time. But there was nothing.
Amaury roared and came at Gill again. He was fast, strong, and angry, but these were all things that could be countered by a cooler head and greater skill. Gill danced back, moving with a rhythm that syncopated with the chime of the clashing blade. There was a joy in this, the like of which could not be found anywhere else. This was the thing Gill had been made for; his body was responding out of instinct rather than conscious thought. It was a moment he had experienced only a handful of times before, but the promise of it made one seek it out relentlessly. It was harmony. It was perfection. Gill parried again, the sound of the blades meeting ringing out like a crescendo, then riposted and launched himself forward.
His blade moved faster than his eyes could follow. Amaury answered, his face a mask of furious concentration as he parried again and again. Soon he would falter—Gill knew it. They always did. He wondered again why Amaury had not brought magic to bear. If he would. When he would.
But he wouldn’t, for it was over.
Gill drew breath deeply, his chest heaving. His form was perfect—knees bent, arms extended, back straight. His blade was buried in Amaury’s chest to the hilt. There was a moment between them, where their eyes met, and both men realised what had happened. Amaury dropped his blade and opened his mouth to speak, but only blood bubbled out. Gill remained motionless, not sure of what to do next, unable to believe that it was finished, that he had done it. All those years of enmity, and for what? This moment? To watch his enemy—his onetime friend—bleed out under the shadow of Mirabay’s walls.
Amaury’s eyes showed fear and his face was a mask of pain. Gill wanted to say something, but didn’t know what. He was angry, yet his heart was filled with sorrow. The life left Amaury’s eyes and his weight collapsed on Gill’s blade. He pulled the weapon free and allowed the body to fall to the ground. Gill studied the corpse for a moment, as though to convince himself that Amaury was truly dead.
Gill looked up. It seemed as though most of Amaury’s army had already run, for they were nowhere to be seen. What little remained would not put up a fight. The day was won. He turned back to the king’s army and raised his sword. The roar was deafening.
CHAPTER 49
“We found her by a tree not far from camp,” the man said. He laid Solène’s body down on the table in front of the king’s command tent. The king and his staff looked on in silence. They’d yet to organise themselves for the march into the city, although a preliminary group had been sent to deliver the news of the king’s victory to the citizens. The “Lord Protector’s” army had proved much smaller than it had initially appeared, and now was dispersed or captured.
Gill had frozen the moment he had seen the soldier appearing with the limp form in his arms. He had recognised her right away, and all the joy and elation of victory had evaporated. He knew now why Amaury hadn’t used magic. He didn’t know how she had done it, but he knew that the day’s victory was not his, but hers.
He fought down the wave of anguish and tears that threatened to overwhelm him. Unable to hold himself back, he went to the table and reached for her. Still warm. Still breathing. She was alive.
“Oh, thank the gods,” Gill said, his voice laden with emotion. She was so pale, though. How much magic had she used? How could he help her? He looked around. There was a squad of Royal Guardsmen nearby.
“You,” Gill shouted. “Go to the prisoners. Bring every man and woman in a cream-and-gold robe back here. Now!”
They shot furtive glances at the king.
“What are you doing, Villerauvais?” Boudain said.
“At least one of them must be a healer. They can help her. We have to help her.”
Boudain nodded. “Get to it!” he said. “Find out if any of them are healers while you’re at it.”
“Get her somewhere comfortable to lie,” Gill said. She deserved better than to be draped unceremoniously on the map table.