Saint's Blood: The Greatcoats Book 3 (2 page)

‘This Undriel fellow really is remarkably skilled,’ Kest remarked.

Undriel
. That was the bastard’s name.

Brasti came to my defence, after a fashion. ‘It’s not Falcio’s fault. He’s getting old. And slow. Also, I think he might be getting fat. Just look at him – barely four months since he beat Shuran and already he’s half the man he once was.’

Always nice to have friends nearby in troubled times
, I thought, batting at Undriel’s blade with a clumsy parry that was testament to my increasing exhaustion.

‘Don’t distract him,’ Ethalia said.

I started to glance over to give her a reassuring smile, but instead felt the heel of my right boot slip on the slick floor and stumbled several steps back, trying to catch my balance.

Idiot! Reassure her by not dying.

Undriel and I circled each other for a few seconds, eyeing each other for signs of any growing weaknesses that could be exploited.

Gods, but I’m tired. Why doesn’t he look tired?

The sound of someone sipping tea drew everyone’s attention: Ossia, the rake-thin, elegantly aged Duchess of Baern was sitting upon her high-backed throne at the head of the courtroom. Aline, heir to the Crown of Tristia, and Valiana, Realm’s Protector, sat on either side, perched on considerably smaller chairs, like children made to attend their aunt. Aline periodically looked up at the Duchess in irritation, but Valiana’s barely contained fury was reserved entirely for me.

I couldn’t really blame her.

What had started as a largely ceremonial event meant to introduce Aline to the various minor nobles of the Duchy had taken an unexpected turn when the Margrave of Gerlac, one of six men hoping to replace the ageing and childless Duchess Ossia, took advantage of our presence to launch a legal dispute against the Crown. Through a torturous process of twisted judicial logic, he’d claimed he’d merged his properties with those of the churches on his lands and thus was now – despite still occupying those lands – exempt from paying taxes. He’d even brought in a few token clerics in impressively ornate robes to confirm his story.

Duchess Ossia, ever the diplomat, had elected to defer judgement of the issue to Valiana, who, as Realm’s Protector, had patiently listened to every argument, reviewed every document and then promptly declared the case invalid. Kunciet, as such men do on those rare occasions when they don’t get their way, threw a hissy fit. He began by questioning the validity of the verdict, then Valiana’s standing as Realm’s Protector and then, right in front of us, started making not-very-subtle threats against Aline.

That was when I took over.

Less than six months ago I’d bled buckets to keep Shuran and his Black Tabards from taking over the damned country. I’d risked not just my own life but those of the people I loved best to save those same Dukes who’d been spending a considerable portion of their spare time trying to have me killed. I’d been beaten, tortured and brought to the very edge of death, and all of it so that the daughter of my King could one day take her rightful place on the throne.

Did anyone seriously believe that I was going to let some noxious back-water nobleman like Kunciet make public threats against her?

The hells for that.

Undriel made a rather stunning and unexpected dive below my blade, rolling on the ground and coming up on my left side, then skipping away before I could cut him. In the process, he tagged me again, this time on my left shoulder.

‘Should’ve worn your coat, Falcio,’ Brasti said.

‘Shut up,’ I repeated.

Armour is forbidden in judicial duels, but most legal interpretations limit the prohibition to chainmail or plate. Since our greatcoats are made of leather, albeit with bone plates sewn inside, they’ve never been considered armour, not in the technical sense. After all, that was part of the design consideration behind the coats in the first place.

So why wasn’t I wearing mine? Because Kunciet, Margrave of Gerlac, had declared such protection ‘cowardly’, and because Kest had, through a combination of raised eyebrows and light coughs, apparently agreed with him.
In other words, because I’m an idiot and my friends are trying to kill me.

A line of red began to stain the left shoulder of my white linen shirt, an almost perfect match to the one on my right. Evidently Undriel was using me as a canvas and wanted to balance his composition.

The son of a bitch is trying to bleed me to death.

Undriel is what we call in the duelling business a sanguinist: a fencer whose primary strategy is to go for little cuts – wounds that sting and bleed and distract you, until you start to slow down without even realising it. Sanguinists take their time, pulling you apart bit by bit, until they can end the fight with a single, brilliant flourish – they usually go for an artery so that you end by bleeding out spectacularly all over the floor. It can create quite a stunning tableau for the audience.

I hate sanguinists.

The wounds themselves were more annoying than anything else. Later, assuming I didn’t die, Ethalia would use one of her almost magical ointments to treat the wound, followed by a sticky salve to seal it. One of the many reasons I should already have asked her to marry me was the gentle way she’d pass her finger over the wound to wipe away the extra salve. That experience was so oddly sensuous it almost made you think getting a few more cuts wouldn’t be so bad . . .

I let out an inadvertent and embarrassingly high-pitched yelp as the tip of Undriel’s blade scored another nick, this time on the left side of my jaw.

Focus, idiot. He’s doing a fine job of bleeding you without your help.

Undriel pressed his advantage in a whirling attack, moving the point of his blade in a figure-eight motion, then suddenly striking out towards me like a snake, only to pull back the instant I tried to parry him.

Dashini
, I thought suddenly, barely able to keep myself from fleeing the duelling circle.
He’s using
Dashini
tactics.

Undriel caught the look of fear on my face and, smiling, increased the speed and ferocity of his attack. I swung my own blade in a clumsy counter-pattern to keep him from getting too close, but my heavier weapon made it a tiring exercise on my part. I was sweating now, and not just from exertion.

Stop being a fool! The Dashini are dead, and even if they weren’t, there’s no way this prancing pony is one of them. He’s just practised their style to throw you off-guard.

‘So it’s true, what I’ve heard about you,’ Undriel said. It was the first time he’d spoken and his voice was as relaxed as if he’d just got out of bed.

‘If what you’ve heard is that I’m going to knock you on your arse so hard you won’t be able to sit a horse for a year, then yes, it’s all true.’ My bravado would have sounded more convincing had my lungs not been pumping like a bellows.

‘Rumour has it that since the Lament you wake up screaming every night, begging for the torment to stop.’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ I said. ‘I’ve been having quite a lot of sex lately so I’m usually too tired to remember my dreams.’

Why did I say that? I sound like an idiot. Gods, what did Ethalia do to deserve me?

I swung my rapier in a low arc with enough force to smash the bones in Undriel’s knee, but he skipped out of its path with the easy grace of a dancer before repeating the Dashini pattern that was so unnerving me.

Why was I letting him get to me? More to the point, how was he so good at doing it?

Pieces of a puzzle started to form in my mind: Undriel was intentionally stretching the duel out for far too long. Normally this wouldn’t have been a problem, except that I still tired quickly, the result of the injuries I’d suffered months before. He’d chosen a smallsword, but for the past several years I’d been facing Knights and soldiers who used heavier – and slower – weapons, like warswords and maces. And the Dashini forms, even though they might not be particularly effective when performed with a smallsword, were making me jumpy and clumsy. In other words, he was the perfect opponent to put against me. So what were the odds that Kunciet just
happened
to have a champion at hand who just
happened
to incorporate all these disparate tactics into one unique style?

The bastard’s been training for this very fight.

Undriel grinned as if my thoughts were written across my face and came straight for me, and as I stumbled back, struggling to keep out of the way of his swift, dancing attack, the rest of the pieces fell into place. Kunciet hadn’t lost his temper today. He didn’t care about his damned taxes. This whole case had been nothing more than a pretext for him to pick a fight with the Crown and trick me into accepting an unnecessary duel.

What better way to make your bid to become the next Duke of Baern than by killing off a Greatcoat and defying the Realm’s Protector in front of your fellows, all without breaking a single one of the King’s Laws?

Better yet, Kunciet was doing it right in front of the current Duchess – a known ally of the heir – while she sat powerless to stop it.

That’s
how you stake your claim to a Dukedom.

In fact, there was only one way he could possibly make an even stronger case: don’t kill just
any
Greatcoat, kill the future Queen’s favourite. Kill the First Cantor.

That was me, by the way.

Undriel’s smile widened: all the little cuts were starting to slow me down. A single thought went through my head:
I swear, I used to be good at this.

I once asked a doctor why it was that time seems to slow down at the exact moment someone is about to kill you. He told me that during moments of extreme danger, a certain organ in the body begins to excrete a fluid called the ‘vital humour’ which increases strength in the limbs and speeds up the body’s reactions. This has the effect of making it appear as if time itself has frozen, thus giving the soon-to-be-departed one last chance at survival.

One would think such a miraculous fluid would also focus the mind exclusively on the source of danger, but in my case it had the opposite effect. Even with the point of Undriel’s smallsword darting at me, forcing me backwards and keeping me off-balance as he set me up for the final kill, I couldn’t help but notice all the little things going on around me.

Brasti’s eyes were narrowed in confusion, which told me that he was only now figuring out that I was actually in trouble. Kest’s mouth was open, just a hair’s-breadth, as if he’d been about to call out some obscure fencing tactic that might save me, only to realise there wasn’t time. I could even see Valiana’s hand twitch as though she were about to draw her sword and run to my defence. Ethalia, the woman I loved, the woman to whom I’d jokingly said, ‘You might as well stick around. This whole silly business will be done in a minute or two!’, looked as pale as the dead.

Why hadn’t I asked her to leave the courtroom? Why did I accept the damned challenge in the first place?
The second we’d arrived in the south I should have picked Ethalia up into my arms, found the nearest boat and set sail for that tiny island she’d told me about a hundred times.

With a doomed man’s fervour I beat back Undriel’s blade and lunged, once, twice, thrice, each time sure I’d found an opening in his defence, each time proven wrong by his effortless parry, swiftly followed by another light cut to my arm or thigh or chest. I was using up my last reserves of strength just to stay in the fight.

It wasn’t enough.

From the corner of my eye I saw Kunciet lean forward, wearing the patient smile of a man who has spent years tending a garden and is now watching the first rose bloom. His retainers began patting each other on the back. Ossia, Duchess of Baern, looked disappointed.

Well, I’m disappointed too, your Grace.
I was about to lose, and everyone knew it – everyone except Aline. Unlike the others, she watched me impassively, without the slightest widening of the eyes or trembling of the lips, as my opponent worked me like a puppet around the duelling circle.

She doesn’t see what’s happening
, I realised, horrified.
She’s seen me fight Knights and bully boys and even Dashini assassins and now she thinks I can’t be beaten.

That’s the problem with people who aren’t duellists: they don’t understand that eventually, everyone loses.

The vaguely metallic taste on my tongue – I’d bitten my own lip – brought me back to the fight.
No. I won’t die like this, not in front of the people I love. I swear, all you worthless Gods and Saints, I’m going to find a way to win, and then, after a suitable convalescence, I’m asking Ethalia to marry me.

Undriel, no doubt promised a huge reward if he killed me, was ready to perform his grand finale. He delivered a quick cut against my right wrist – not deep, but enough to make me loosen my grip on my rapier – and followed up with a sudden hard beat of his sword’s crossbar against my blade, sending my rapier flying up into the air above me.

I started to reach out with my left hand in a desperate attempt to grab the hilt as Undriel prepared a high slash meant to sever the artery in my neck. A thrust to the chest would have been a surer target, but it would have lacked the more artistic final flourish of a blood spray.

Arrogant bastard.

I kicked out at his knee, which he shifted out of reach, but that distraction gave me a precious moment to catch my falling rapier in my left hand even as Undriel scored another, deeper, cut against my right forearm. I could already feel it going numb from the pain.

Great, now I’m going to have to fight left-handed.

Having been deprived of his first attempt at a spectacularly stylish kill, Undriel dropped the guard of his weapon low and brought the blade straight up in a vertical line.

A lark’s pirouette? He’s going to end me with a fucking lark’s pirouette!

The flowery name masks a deadly and precarious technique. The attacker leaps past his opponent, whirling his blade in the process – not to slash, but to parry the counter-attack as he comes around the other side. He completes the move by landing in a perfect reverse-lunge, his rear foot and arm thrown back as the tip of his sword drives deep into his victim’s kidney.