By now the three soldiers had run over from the cloister where they had been trying to keep cool in their full armor.
“Let us deal with him, sir,” said the sergeant-at-arms.
“You’ll stay where you are,” said Conn evenly. “If you move to take him, I swear to God you’ll be clearing out horse shit for the rest of your life. You are obliged to obey me.”
This was true enough. The sergeant eased back but signaled one of the others to fetch more guards. I hope, thought the sergeant, that jumped-up little prick gets his arse kicked. But he knew this was not going to happen. Conn Materazzi was a uniquely skillful soldier, already a master even at sixteen. Prick he might be, but you had to hand it to him.
Conn drew The Edge. Other than for the ceremony on this particular day, it was far too valuable not to be safely displayed in the great hall. It was certainly far too valuable to be used in a fight. But Conn knew he could argue that he had no choice, and so for the first time in forty years The Edge was drawn with the intention of killing someone.
“Stop it!” called out Swan-Neck.
Conn ignored her-in a matter of this kind, not even she could have a say. Cale gave no sign he had even heard. Up on the roof Vague Henri knew there was nothing he could do.
Then it began.
Conn swept The Edge forward with enormous speed followed by another cut and another as Cale slowly retreated, blocking each blow with his two ornamental knives that were soon as toothed as an old saw. Conn moved and parried and blocked with grace and speed, as much like a dancer as a swordsman. Cale kept retreating, just managing to block each stroke as Conn jabbed and thrust at his head, his heart, his legs, anywhere he could see a gap. And it was all in silence except for the odd music of the clash of the almost tuneful Edge and the dull response of the daggers.
Conn Materazzi pressed on and Cale blocked, high to this thrust, low to the next, always moving back. Finally Conn had forced him against the wall and there was no retreating for Cale. Now that he had him trapped, Conn stepped back, covering any movement Cale could make to either side.
“You fight the way a dog bites,” he said to Cale. But Cale’s expression, flat and without emotion, did not change. It was as if he hadn’t heard.
Conn moved from side to side and made a few elegant passes signaling to those watching that he was now preparing to kill. His heart surged, shocked by the ecstasy of knowing he would never be the same again.
By now another twenty soldiers, archers among them, had come into the garden and had been drawn up by the sergeant-at-arms in a semicircle a few yards back from the fight. The sergeant could see, along with everyone else, where this was going. Despite Conn’s orders, he knew very well there would have been trouble if any harm had come to him. He felt truly sorry for the boy pinned back against the wall as Conn raised his sword for his last stroke. But Conn held it there waiting-searching out the fear in Cale’s eyes. But Cale’s expression never changed-blank and absent as if there was no soul inside him anymore.
Get on with it, you little shit, thought the sergeant.
Then Conn struck. It is not possible to say how fast The Edge cut through the air-lightning moved slowly compared to it. Cale did not block the blow this time-he simply moved to one side, barely at all. The stroke of the sword missed-but only by the breadth of a gnat’s wing. Then another stroke and another miss. Then a jab that Cale sidestepped, snake-fast though it was.
Then, for the first time, Cale struck a blow himself. Conn parried, but only just. Stroke after stroke now pushed him backward until they were almost back where the fight started. Conn was breathing heavily now, and growing fear made him gasp the harder-his body, unused to the terror and presence of death, rebelled against his great skill and years of training; nerves frayed and guts melted.
Then Cale stopped.
He stepped back out of striking range and looked Conn up and down. There was a beat of a second or two, and then a desperate Conn struck once more, The Edge hissing as it cut the air. But Cale was moving even before the blow began, blocking The Edge with one knife and stabbing the other deep into Conn’s shoulder.
With a cry of pain and shock, Conn dropped the sword as Cale twisted him around and held him around the neck with his forearm, pointing the remaining knife at Conn’s stomach.
“Keep still,” he whispered softly in Conn’s ear, and then loudly to the soldiers as they moved to stop him. “As you are or I’ll butterfly the little creep,” and he gave Conn a sharp jab in the stomach to make his point. The sergeant, terrified now, motioned his men to stop.
Throughout all this Cale had been squeezing Conn around the neck ever harder so that he could not breathe. Again he whispered in his ear.
“Just before you go, Boss, something to take with you: fighting isn’t an art.”
With that Conn collapsed into unconsciousness and hung limply from Cale’s now loosening grip around his neck.
“He’s still alive, Sergeant, but he won’t be if you do anything courageous. I’m going to pick up the sword-so behave yourself.”
Taking Conn’s considerable weight, Cale slowly sank down and reached for The Edge. Once it was in his grasp, he stood up again, keeping a weather eye on the soldiers. More were coming in through the outer gates now, until there must have been nearly a hundred.
“Where are you going to go, son?” said the sergeant.
“You know,” said Cale, “I hadn’t really thought about it.”
It was then that Vague Henri shouted down from the roof.
“Promise you won’t hurt him and he’ll let him go.”
Startled, the soldiers responded to this first attempt at negotiation with three arrows in Henri’s direction. Vague Henri ducked and disappeared from view.
“Delay that!” shouted the sergeant. “Next one who moves without an order gets fifty and a year cleaning the shithouse!”
He turned back to Cale. “What about it, son? Let him go and you’ll come to no harm.”
“And after?”
“I can’t say. I’ll do what I can. I’ll tell them these boys were moithering you-whether they’ll listen… What choice do you have?”
“Cale! Do what he says,” shouted Vague Henri from the roof, careful this time to let only his head show over the roof’s edge.
Cale waited for a moment, although it was perfectly clear what he had to do. Taking The Edge away from Conn’s throat, he carefully looked around for somewhere to place it. He was in luck. Just two steps back, which he took with extreme care, there was an old part of the wall at just below knee height where two enormous foundation stones met. He slipped The Edge between the two stones to a depth of about ten inches.
“What are you doing, boy?” called out the sergeant.
And with that Cale dropped the unconscious Conn Materazzi to the ground, turned to the sword and with all his strength pushed it against the weight of the great stones. The Edge, perhaps the greatest sword in the history of all the world, bent then snapped with a sound of a bell being struck-PING!