Reckoning (The Empyrean Chronicle) (4 page)

“Be that as it may—” Cormik said.

“We will never—and I mean never—sell to your greedy, fat,
poor-excuse-of-a-man, father,” Danica said, her words spoken forcefully and
slow and laced with venom. “And my brother could humiliate you in the fencing
circle.”

Cormik stiffened and his nostrils flared as he inhaled a
sharp breath. “You hear that folks,” he said, raising his voice so as to be
heard by the score of bystanders, “Elias has challenged me to a duel. I’ll see
you in a quarter of an hour, Duana, providing you don’t follow in your father’s
footsteps and give up the sword so that it may be taken up by better men.” Cormik
turned on his heels, flourished his cloak, and strode away.

Elias seethed. His anger distributed itself equally between
Cormik and his sister. He fastened his black eyes on Danica. “I was trying to
ignore his taunts and be the better man, but now you have forced my hand.”

Cowed, she bowed her head. “Elias, I’m sorry...I just can’t
bite my tongue around that pompous fool.”

Elias sighed and said, not unkindly, “Since when could you
bite your tongue around anyone?”

Danica smiled ruefully and Elias found himself returning the
gesture—he could never stay mad at Danica for long. “Besides,” she said, “you
don’t have to fight him. No one will think less of you if you don’t enter the
contest.”

“Hell, Elias, you can best him, Kveshian steel or not,” Lar
said. “And, there isn’t a person at the fair that wouldn’t like to see that
whelp eat his words.”

“Shut it you big oaf!” Asa cried. She turned to Elias and
took his hand. “Don’t fight him! The Macallisters never play fair. That fancy
sword with its practice sheaf will end up accidently running you through, and
quite a convenience it would be for the Macallisters considering your father
can’t run the distillery without you.”

“Cormik may be a horse’s ass, but he’s no killer,” Elias
replied. “Not that it matters now. He’s announced that I challenged him and
I’ll look a coward if I don’t show. I’m backed into a corner, and my name is on
the line. Losing would be better than not fighting him at this point.”

“With that blade, doubtlessly perfectly balanced and easier
a hand longer than a practice foil, he will have the advantage over you,”
Danica said. “Elias, you will have to outthink him.” Asa glared at her, eyes
sharp as daggers. “What? It’s true.”

“This is your fault Danica,” Asa said, her voice brittle
with emotion. “You just can’t keep your mouth shut, can you?”

By now Elias’s temper had cooled. He figured since he
couldn’t change the situation there was little sense in belaboring it further. “Listen,
you two, calm down. It can’t be helped now so there’s no point in placing
blame. Let’s not give the Macallisters the satisfaction of seeing us ruffled.”

Asa nodded, but her posture remained stiff. Lar clapped
Elias on the shoulder and put an arm around Danica, who favored him with a
raised eyebrow, but her jade eyes danced with mirth again.

Elias closed his eyes and cleared his mind as his father had
taught him, an exercise he called entering the void. He relaxed tense muscles
and willed his heart to slow. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous, but
he didn’t want anyone else to know it. Elias stood to his full height, held his
head high, and tried to affect the whimsical half smile that Danica always
wore, as if she laughed at some private joke, and strode toward the fencing
circle.

The Woman in the Red Dress

“The match,” said Mayor Bromstead, “consists of up to
five rounds.”

Elias swallowed the lump in his throat, which felt at once like
it was closing in. A bead of sweat wound down his back, tracking along his
spine. He eased his grip on his fencing foil and tried to redirect his
attention to the Mayor. Elias let slip a nervous laugh despite himself. He was
engaged to Ulric Bromstead’s daughter, but he still thought of him as
The
Mayor
.

Bromstead arched an eyebrow at Elias. “Points are earned
from a strike on any part of the body, or by driving the other fencer out of
the circle, at which point the round ends. The first to three points wins. No
late blows, kicks, punches, or conduct unbecoming a gentlemen will be
tolerated. Is this clear?” Ulric Bromstead fastened his slate-gray eyes on each
of them in turn, waiting for each man to indicate his assent with a nod. “Very
well then.”

Ulric walked out of the center of the circular dais. As he
passed Elias he smiled, but the gesture did not touch his eyes, which were
troubled and hooded by drawn brows. The mayor raised his arm above his head
and, after a dramatic pause, dropped it in a single, fluid motion. “Begin!”

For a pregnant moment the duelists stood still on opposite
sides of the dais, each taking the measure of the other. Elias kept his face an
emotionless blank mask. His stance remained loose, and he gripped his foil lightly.
Cormik rested the point of his blade on the granite dais and wore a toothy
smile.

The sight of the long and wide-bladed rapier, though tightly
contained within the leather sheaf, gave Elias pause. Cormik’s weapon boasted a
gleaming swept-hilt, ornate as well as functional, and an oblate pommel that suggested
perfect balance. Elias’s own, standard foil seemed paltry in comparison.

Elias knew that Cormik sought to goad him into attacking by
keeping his guard down and resting his sword point on the dais, a grave and
purposeful insult to any fencer, but Elias refused to rise to the bait. Rather,
he took a step back as if cowed.

As Elias moved Cormik exploded toward him like a
thoroughbred off the starting line. Cormik kept his blade close to his body,
coiled to strike as he charged. The rancher launched a high, overextended
thrust, but Elias, anticipating him, stepped to the side and forward at the
last possible moment and dropped his right shoulder to skirt the attack.

Elias followed with a backhanded blow, driving the pommel of
his foil into the dimple between Cormik’s shoulder blades. Cormik, already off
balance, stumbled onward and out of the circle.

Danica, Asa, and Lar erupted in applause, and the crowd
cheered with them. House Macallister’s reputation ensured respect the same way
that a grizzled old guard dog did—out of a sense of fear rather than affection,
and many folk took satisfaction in seeing one brought to heel. That it happened
in public made it all the sweeter, and would be the talk of the town for weeks
if not months to come.

Roderick Macallister watched the exchange silently from
beneath his rancher hat.

Cormik’s blood went up, but, educated in courtly etiquette,
his manner did not betray him, save for a faint flush high on his cheeks. He affected
a lazy smile at the crowd and said, “Drat! Who knew the bruiser could move so fast!”
His jibe earned some few chuckles, but his father, who peered at him with eyes
as cold as blue granite, was not amused.

The second round went quite differently than the first. Although
bubbling with fury, Cormik reined in his ardor and fought by the book. He
opened the round with a deft lunge followed by a deceptive backhand slash at
Elias’s midriff. Elias barely brushed the cut aside, and with a flick of his
wrist countered with a low thrust. The rancher twisted to avoid the stab, and
both men scrambled back a step to recover their equilibrium.

So went the lengthy second round, with each man alternately
launching adroit thrusts, slashes, and feints, while the other riposted,
parried, and dodged. Cormik fought like a demon, never relinquishing the
offensive. Elias fielded the relentless Cormik and found openings where he
could, but his foil was not designed to block blows from the rancher’s heavy
rapier and his arm tired beneath the constant barrage.

Ultimately, the second round went to Cormik. Elias’s arms
and legs grew leaden, and he felt as if he had been fighting for hours. Cormik
tired as well, but when both men delivered desperate, simultaneous thrusts, his
longer blade proved the victor, taking Elias in the hollow between his belly
and chest.

Elias felt like he had just been kicked under the ribs. Whereas
his foil ended in a flat nub, Cormik’s rapier, although blunted, still had the
weight—and the sting—of folded steel. He wondered how the Mayor could, in good
conscience, have possibly agreed to let Cormik use his rapier, even with the
practice sleeve. It provided Cormik a distinct advantage, but the Macallisters
were nothing if not adept at getting their way, and Elias knew he shouldn’t be
surprised. As his father was wont to say, not all fights are fair. Elias
figured he had better stop dwelling on it and start figuring out a way to best
Cormik, and fast.

Cormik paced in his corner, eager to begin the next round. With
a tied score, Cormik knew as well as Elias that the next to land a hit would be
in a much better position to win the race to three points, and the match. The
rancher wanted to strike again while the momentum still tipped in his favor. He
met Elias’s eye, winked, and sketched a mock half bow.

The gesture incensed Elias, and the distiller felt his
fatigue burn away, leaving behind a consuming desire to defeat his childhood
rival.

Cormik had an air of superiority that had ever rankled
Elias. While Cormik had been tutored by the finest academes Galacia had to
offer, Elias attended the provincial village school with the other children
from Knoll Creek where he learned the basics of grammar, history, and
arithmetic. Yet, his education did not end there. Padraic Duana schooled his
children at home as well.

Padraic exposed Elias and Danica to a more comprehensive
history of the continent of Agia and the seven nations that comprised it than
they were taught in their modest schoolhouse. In addition, he introduced them
to the higher mathematics, philosophy, etiquette, and composition, while his
closest friend, Doctor Phinneas Crowe, taught them anatomy and basic alchemy. As
a result, when Macallister and his son sauntered about boasting an expensive
education, forays to court, and noble blood, extolling their superiority in
every insolent roll of the eye and snicker, it nettled Elias to no end. Cormik
thought he and his were better than other men, and while Elias tried to follow
his father’s advice and ignore his childhood antagonist, at that moment he
hungered for nothing more than to strike him down.

Perhaps Cormik saw something in Elias in that instant, for
his smile faltered and he leaned back on his heels, as if repelled by a
magnetic force.

Danica, who had kept a close watch on Elias, grew alarmed. She
had been attempting to make eye contact with her brother, and offer him a
reassuring wink or nod, but he seemed intent on ignoring the crowd. She
recognized the change that stole over his bearing at once. His head bowed down
between hunched shoulders and he leaned forward, standing on the balls of his
feet, black eyes smoldering from under his pinched brow, and that meant one
thing—Elias had the rage on him.

Though he was loath to admit it, her brother had a red
temper. While Elias did not anger easily or often, when he did he became a
force to be reckoned with.

As soon as the next round began Elias leapt at Cormik with a
high slash angled at his head. Cormik scrambled away from the blow, startled by
its vehemence, and retorted with a hasty swing, designed not to make contact
but to push Elias back. Elias ignored the feint, skirting the wild attack with
a sidestepping lunge, and continued to press the offensive. He could have
easily driven Cormik from the circle and so scored a point, but Elias wanted
the satisfaction of striking his opponent.

Elias’s incessant blows forced Cormik to adopt a defensive
style, but the distiller began to tire from his heavy-handed offensive. It
dawned on him that if he expended all of his energy prematurely it could cost
him the match in later rounds. He drew back, feigning exhaustion. When Cormik
assumed an offensive posture once again, Elias lunged. He cried out as he did
so and stamped his forward foot onto the granite platform with an audible clap.
Cormik, unable to dodge the attack, brought his rapier low to intercept Elias. But
the thrust did not come. Elias had stayed his hand.

His overt, telegraphed lunge with the stamping foot
diversion had been designed to startle Cormik into drawing back or trick him
into a premature parry. Cormik realized his mistake mid parry and threw himself
into a hasty strafe, but was too late.

After Cormik’s rapier swept harmlessly by, Elias had but to
extend his arm and poke Cormik in the belly, thus ending the third round.

Danica hooted, the crowd buzzed with excitement. She
hazarded a glance at Macallister who stood statue-still and looked on with a
darkened expression. The wide brim of his rancher hat concealed most of his
features, but she could see the angry set of his jaw and all but hear his teeth
grinding.

Elias wiped sweat from his brow. His fury had cooled, but he
had no intention of letting up. The taste of victory on his lips drove away any
thought of exhaustion, and he eagerly anticipated the look on Cormik’s face
when he realized that he had been beaten by a mere commoner. Needing only a
single point to win the match, Elias figured Cormik would fight desperately,
which would provide him with ample openings.

The fourth round began and the two men rushed each other. The
sound of clashing steel rang into the night, accompanied by grunts of effort as
the fencers thrust, parried, and riposted as fast as their bodies allowed. The
villagers looked on, silent to a man, transfixed by the drama unfolding before
them.

Elias sought advantage and opportunity by continuing to
buffet Cormik with a rain of heavy-handed blows. Cormik, though, remained an adept
swordsman, and, despite having underestimated Elias earlier, fought with skill
and panache.

After some long-felt minutes of combat, Elias drove Cormik
to the edge of the circle with his relentless offense. Cornered, Cormik fought
like a caged animal. His face contorted into a feral mask as his lips drew back,
teeth bared in a snarl. Elias, so close to victory renewed his efforts. He fell
into a rhythm of strokes, yielding his conscious mind to instinct and waited
for an opening.

Then, everything turned upside down.

Elias lay on his back, still registering out how he had
gotten there. Cormik’s lips had moved all but imperceptibly as he breathed out
a couple of barely audible words while gesturing with his free hand. He kept his
hand low and close to his body, to cloak the gesture. Then Elias had tumbled
backward as he was struck in the torso by an invisible force.

Cormik pounced, reversing his grip on his rapier, and
stabbed down at Elias. Reflexively, the prone distiller caught the rapier by
the blade with his left hand. Cormik leaned his weight onto the rapier, teeth
clenched in effort, while Elias strained to hold it at bay. Elias cast aside
his foil and added his right hand to the effort. He attempted to push Cormik’s
blade to the side so that he could regain his feet. Elias heard Ulric Bromstead
screaming as he mounted the dais.

Elias was able to keep the rapier from descending any
further, in a struggle that took mere seconds but to the beleaguered distiller
felt an eternity. Then he heard a ripping sound. At first confused as to where
the sound came from, his eyes focused on the rapier’s leather sheaf. The
threads that held the sheaf together at the point began to snap under the
pressure—the steel of the rapier was sliding through.

Elias saw a flash of red. The rapier tore from his hand. He
rolled to the side and off the fencing dais, hands raised to ward off further
blows. When no such assault came, Elias turned his attention back to the dais.

Elias’s mouth fell open in shock. The woman in the red dress
that he had seen dancing by the gazebo, stood in the fencing circle with a boot
on Cormik’s chest. Sensing eyes on her, she turned her gaze from Cormik to
Elias for a beat and gave him a nod.

Danica and Asa rushed to Elias’s side, with Lar a step
behind. Elias’s eyes remained fixed on the woman in the red dress, while their
hands roamed over him checking for injuries. Roderick Macallister climbed onto
the dais and demanded that his son be unhanded. The crowd roared. Elias,
Danica, Asa, and Lar climbed the dais as well so as to avoid the pressing mob.

“Enough!” cried Ulric Bromstead.

Asa had once confided in Elias that she suspected her
father’s success as Mayor was largely due to his voice, which could be heard
from miles away and had the thunder to shatter glass. Incidentally, the villagers
fell silent.

“Everything is under control,” said the mayor. “This was
nothing more than a misunderstanding, so I would appreciate it if everyone
would just calm down and go about enjoying the fair. This contest is over.” He
waited a moment as the crowd lingered and then shooed them with a wave of his
hand. “Go on! Get!”

With that the reluctant villagers melted into the night,
many casting furtive glances over their shoulders. Satisfied they were on their
way, Ulric turned his attention to those on the dais—Elias, Cormik, Roderick
Macallister, Danica, Asa, Lar, and the woman in the red dress.

“What the hell happened here?” he asked, addressing no one
in particular, before turning his attention, and ire, to Cormik. “I never
should have allowed you the use of real steel, even with that ridiculous
sparring sheath, Cormik. I don’t know what in the nine hells ever possessed me
to agree to it in the first place, except that perhaps your Macallister whiskey
has dulled my wits.”