The Long War 01 - The Black Guard (4 page)

He unbuckled his sword belt and panted, clearly more comfortable without it constricting his stomach. He held it out to his squire, who grasped the sword carefully and wrapped the leather belt around the scabbard. Randall still had a great affection for his master and began thinking about oiling the blade and adjusting his armour before Sir Leon had to fight the Purple cleric. ‘Master, maybe you should remove your armour and let me add some side plates before your duel…’

Sir Leon laughed. ‘In your estimation, how good am I with that thing?’ He pointed to his sword.

‘The last time I saw you use it, you were dangerous, master.’

‘Well, as good as I may one day have been, that clerical bastard is a trained killer with youth and speed on his side.’ He took another drink. ‘I may get a lucky blow and win, or I may be able to rely on strength; either way, the state of my armour will make little difference. All it’ll do is slow me down…’ he chuckled to himself, ‘and I’m slow enough already.’

* * *

The next twenty minutes or so passed in silence, with Sir Leon drinking and Randall not finding any words to say. The tavern began to empty as those who had spent the night removed themselves. Street cleaners and the city watch were abroad and Randall wondered about the legalities of fighting a duel in a back street. He guessed that, since both men were nobles of a sort, it was unlikely that the watch would intervene.

Unpleasant thoughts ran through Randall’s mind. He wondered what he would do if faced with his master’s dead body; would he have to take him to be buried, or would the city have arrangements for such things? He wondered, too, about his master’s sword and armour; whether the Purple cleric would take them as a prize or whether they’d be left in the street to be stolen.

He also worried for himself. His home was a village in the Darkwald, many leagues from the capital, and Randall would not even know how to begin finding his way back there. He had travelled with Sir Leon to several of the great cities of Tor Funweir and disliked the idea of returning to the simple life of a commoner.

Time passed slowly, Sir Leon muttering to himself as he drank. He looked up rarely, moving only to scratch under his armour or shift his weight to a more comfortable position.

The sun began to shine through the tavern windows and Randall thought it would be a hot day. Ro Tiris was on the northern coast of Tor Funweir and the wind that blew across the straits of Canarn generally kept the capital cool. Across the straits lived the men of Canarn. Randall had never been to Ro Canarn, but the rumours he’d heard since arriving in Tiris made him think the city might not be currently very safe.

Randall was startled when Sir Leon banged his fist on the bar and proclaimed, ‘Right, time to kill a cleric.’ He stood up and puffed out his chest. ‘Sword!’ he demanded of his squire.

Randall gathered himself and passed the sword, still in its scabbard, with the belt wrapped carefully round it. Sir Leon took his time, looking fondly at the crest before buckling it around his waist.

He turned to his squire, the smell of wine heavy on his breath. ‘Don’t worry, lad. A poor old man like me shouldn’t make you frown.’ Smiling, he put his hand on Randall’s shoulder. ‘You’re getting tall. Maybe it’s time for you to get a sword of your own and find someone to show you how to use it.’ Sir Leon had mentioned this before. It was the duty of a knight properly to school his squire in the way of handling a sword, but Sir Leon had simply never got round to it. He had shown Randall a couple of stances and the correct way to swing a longsword, but his squire was not a swordsman yet and had never possessed his own blade.

‘Well,’ said the knight with a grin, ‘consider this your first real lesson.’ He suddenly threw the empty wine bottle at the line of glasses next to the tavern keeper. The sound echoed around the empty common room and glass shards flew, causing the man to dive to the floor. Sir Leon didn’t wait to see the reaction to his outburst, but simply strode towards the door.

Randall followed, several steps behind his master, and smiled awkwardly at the tavern keeper as he left.

The tavern doors were propped open and the street outside was relatively empty. The narrow cobbled back street was being swept clean by bound men of the crown – men paid in food, clothing and a place to sleep. They were doing a poor job and the street remained unpleasant. Sir Leon ignored the workers as he turned a sharp left into the street. He breathed in the air of the city and turned up his nose at the mix of alcohol, vomit and dirt. Randall followed behind him and had to run to keep up with the striding knight.

Sir Leon stopped at the corner of the tavern building and took a long look down the street. The buildings in the poor quarter were close together and little direct sunlight reached the ground. Debris from a hundred nights of revelry filled the narrow side street and Randall had to dodge bottles, crates and items of broken furniture as he struggled to keep up with his master. At the rear of the tavern was the alley into which Randall had thrown Sir Leon’s waste, insulting Brother Torian in the process. Beyond were stables, serving several taverns and a number of brothels.

Sir Leon stepped over the open sewer and came to a halt. As Randall pulled up next to him, he saw Sir Leon’s sturdy brown horse and his own black and grey pony mixed in with several mangy old horses munching on bales of straw. Standing in the middle of the stable was the Purple cleric, fully armoured and with sword in hand. His breastplate, greaves and gauntlets were of burnished steel. Although he had removed his cloak in preparation for the duel, other items of purple adorned his dress. His scabbard and belt both had an ornate purple design and the colour was repeated on most of the fabric that showed under his armour.

Now Brother Torian was wearing a steel helmet, and he raised his chin as he spoke. ‘Good morning, Sir Leon. I believe we have business to settle.’

The old knight stepped forward and appeared to consider his words carefully. He puffed out his chest. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.’ His mouth curled slowly into a defiant grin.

Brother Torian returned Sir Leon’s smile with one of his own, though his was colder. His sword was already in his fist and he took a step backwards and flexed his arm, causing the blade to swing skilfully from side to side. Randall began imagining all the ways in which luck could play a part in the encounter. He thought that Sir Leon was the larger man and that his strength might prevail. The cleric looked like a true fighting man, but maybe he was green and would lack experience against a clever swordsman like Sir Leon. Either way, Randall estimated that skill, youth and fortitude would have to play a minimal part if his master were to emerge victorious.

Brother Torian kept his eyes on his opponent as he walked nimbly from side to side, stepping one foot over the other in practised fashion, his sword point held low. Sir Leon just stood there, not posturing or displaying any particular skill as he drew his treasured longsword.

‘I was wrong, Sir Leon, I called that sword an antique. It seems I judged the blade by the state of the man who wore it.’ Brother Torian looked at their swords. ‘I would judge that our weapons have both seen much combat, though yours is of nobler lineage.’

Sir Leon did not respond with his customary humour. He raised his sword to look at the cleric over the cross-piece. ‘This is the sword of Great Claw, an old noble house of the east. My father wore it before me and it has killed Kirin, Ranen, Jekkan, Karesian… even Ro.’ Sir Leon was proud of his sword and the weight of nobility it bestowed upon him. An old drunk he might be, but he was still a knight of Tor Funweir, and whether he was to die in a stable or not, a knight he would remain. ‘I don’t apologize or ask for quarter, cleric.’

Torian came on guard. ‘The time for apologies is gone and no quarter will be given. I mean to kill you, old man.’

Sir Leon attacked first, a clumsy overhead blow accompanied with a grunt of exertion. The sound of steel on steel was loud as Torian easily brought up his blade to parry the attack. He responded by kicking out forcefully at the off-balance knight and sending him back several feet, causing him to breathe heavily.

Neither man spoke as they began circling each other, Torian swinging his sword, while Sir Leon held his ready and low to the ground. Randall stepped back as far as he could to stand by Sir Leon’s horse, well away from the fight. Both men looked dangerous. The sweat already flowing down Sir Leon’s face made him look fierce, and Brother Torian was moving like a predator.

Again, it was the old knight who attacked – a thrust this time – aimed at the cleric’s chest. Torian stepped to the side and deflected it, giving Sir Leon the chance to fall over if he was too off balance. He kept his footing, though, and pulled back his sword in time to parry an answering blow to his head. Brother Torian did not back off this time but pressed the attack, launching a series of high swings at the old knight. Each block that Sir Leon managed weakened him a little more and Randall thought the cleric needed only to wear him down in order to win. The attacks became relentless, the difference in fitness beginning to show.

The squire watched helplessly as the fight became one-sided, with Brother Torian slowing his attacks and forcibly pushing the old knight back until he was practically standing against one of the mangy horses. Sir Leon was panting and his face was bright red and moist with sweat. He’d parried every blow levelled at him and shown glimmers of skill, but he had not been able to find any small opening through which to test the cleric’s defence.

Tentative faces appeared around the stable as locals, alerted by the sound, came to watch the fight. Several young children with dirty faces had clambered on the roof and now peered down from above. At the entrance to the alley a small group of four city watchmen had come to investigate the duel. Randall’s hope that they would intervene and stop the fight was crushed when they saw the purple adornments of Brother Torian, and they made a display of ushering away the onlookers and standing guard over the stable entrance. Just as nobles and churchmen were allowed to bear arms, they were also allowed to use them.

Sir Leon roared with frustration and did not register the presence of the watch as Torian continued his methodical assault. Several blows began to buckle the knight’s weak defensive parries and dents were appearing in his breastplate. Brother Torian was still fresh and was clearly conserving his strength, as his patterns of attack slowed again. He took several large strides backwards and disengaged, leaving Sir Leon to rave in anger. ‘Come on, you purple pig-fucker,’ he shouted between unintelligible grunts.

Brother Torian said nothing, but waved the knight back towards the centre of the stable.

Sir Leon was bent over and trying to catch his breath, panting heavily and dripping sweat on to the dusty stable floor. He looked at his sword again, the thinnest smile visible to Randall, and then, with a growl, lunged forward at the cleric.

Randall gasped and he desperately wanted to call out and urge his master to say something to placate the cleric, but he couldn’t. The knight knew that this duel would mean his death, though Randall had hoped that something lucky or bizarre would happen to surprise everyone.

Brother Torian was expecting the desperate strike and, with grace and power, stepped forward. Sir Leon’s thrust was weak and easily deflected, causing the old knight to fall to his knees as the cleric stepped past the thrust and kicked hard at the outstretched blade. The sword of Great Claw left Sir Leon’s hand and fell to the stable floor several feet away.

Everything paused; the city watchmen were silent, the children looked wide-eyed and Randall held his breath. Sir Leon was on his knees, the last thrust having taken all his energy, and Brother Torian stood over him victorious. The Purple cleric held his sword against the back of the knight’s neck and spoke clearly. ‘Sir Leon Great Claw, knight of Tor Funweir, I take your head and repay your insult.’

With his last action before meeting the One God, Sir Leon directed a broad smile at his squire. Brother Torian swung swiftly and with great power, severing his opponent’s neck with one blow.

Randall did not cry out, though tears began to form in his eyes as he looked at his master’s headless body. Sir Leon had been all he had known for three years and now he was dead, beheaded in a dirty stable, answering an insult that Randall had given to a Purple cleric.

Torian did not address Randall straightaway, but dropped to one knee over his fallen opponent and offered a prayer to the One God. ‘My sword and my life are yours. I fight for you, I kill for you, I die for you.’ He then straightened and retrieved a stained cloth from his gauntlet and carefully cleaned his sword. The city watch still stood at the stable entrance and whispered to one another as they nervously approached the armoured cleric. They wore chain mail, belted at the waist and covered by a tabard displaying the symbol of the king – a white eagle in flight. As common men they were not permitted to carry longswords and so they all had crossbows and large knives.

‘My lord, I am Sergeant Lux,’ the eldest of the four watchmen said with a bow.

Brother Torian was silent. Randall saw that, despite the one-sided nature of the duel, the cleric at least took Sir Leon’s death seriously and needed a moment to compose himself. ‘Sergeant,’ he nodded in greeting.

A few more onlookers emerged from around the stables, common men of Ro Tiris intrigued by the spectacle of true fighting men. Sergeant Lux waved at one of his men. ‘Get rid of these street rats.’

The onlookers were dispersed quickly with a few directed shouts of authority from the watchmen, and the stable was again relatively quiet.

‘Is he with you, your grace?’ Lux pointed across the stable to where Randall stood, half leaning against Sir Leon’s horse to steady his legs.

‘Yes, I suppose he is, sergeant, though not in the way you mean.’ The watchmen looked confused at this response, but Torian continued, ‘He can remain. This duel was for his benefit on some level.’

Brother Torian sheathed his sword, removed his helmet and retrieved his purple cloak from its resting place across the back of a nearby horse. ‘This is my first visit to the capital, sergeant; I assume you have arrangements for dealing with that…’ He gestured towards the headless body of Sir Leon.