Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (20 page)

The beggar stood and bowed immediately. “Ah
thank ye, milady,” he said, backing out of the room, almost
crawling. “Ah thanks ye, me does.”

The Tulalane leaned aside to whisper
something in Olivia’s ear. Olivia smiled, looked France over
carefully. “I am told you are a master of weapons, swordsman.”

“Not all weapons, madam,” France said, still
with no trace of a common accent. “Merely the sword, milady, and
its accompaniments.”

“Truly a swordsman then?” she asked.

He nodded politely.

“Well then, vagabond. How good of a
swordsman are you?”

France spoke without hesitation. “The best,
madam.”

“You claim to be the best among all
commoners?”

France shook his head. “I make no
qualifications, madam. I am merely the best. No more. No less.”

Olivia raised an eyebrow skeptically. “You
claim, then, to be the best swordsman among all men, commoner and
clansmen alike?”

“As I said, I am the best.”

Morgin was not alone in his astonishment.
For one to speak to the Lady Olivia in such a cavalier fashion was
rank stupidity. All there well knew her anger.

Her eyes narrowed. “I cannot believe
that.”

France shrugged, bowing slightly. “As you
wish, madam. But do not confuse magic with swordsmanship. A
clansman may win a duel using his magic, but that does not mean he
is the better swordsman, merely the better wizard.”

To Morgin’s utter surprise, Olivia smiled.
“A point well taken, swordsman. But if you are so skillful, and not
merely arrogant, why did you allow yourself to be taken by my
armsmen?”

France held his hands out, palms upward, and
cocked his head slightly, a faintly polite smile at the corners of
his mouth. “I thought you might forgive a little arrogance, milady.
But killing your armsmen . . .”

“Indeed! And do you think you could have
succeeded?”

“In killing armsmen, madam?”

“In that. Or in whatever else you might have
chosen to do.”

France shrugged. “One never knows.”

Olivia’s brows shot up. “There is some
doubt? The best of all swordsmen doubts his own ability?”

“No, madam. You misunderstand me. I doubt my
ability not in the least, but nothing is ever certain. Chance is
always waiting in the wings to lend a hand, or create a misstep.
Sometimes it is wiser to place your trust in others, and since I
have committed no crime here, I felt I could trust myself to your
justice.”

“You felt you had a better chance with my
justice.”

“Perhaps,” he answered. The faint smile
returned to his lips. “Even making that decision is a chancy thing
at best, milady.”

“And if you thought that my justice might be
too harsh for your tastes?”

“Then, madam, I suppose I might seek justice
elsewhere.” He finished with a polite smile, a nod of the head, and
a deep bow.

Olivia laughed suddenly. “Well, swordsman,
you were right. Arrogance I can forgive, but of course, not murder.
Would you care to demonstrate this great skill of yours?”

“If that is your wish, madam, it would be my
pleasure.”

“Very well,” she said, standing. “You shall
fight our best swordsman: the Tulalane.”

The Tulalane grinned a wide, toothy smile,
and Morgin had no doubt the
twoname
had whispered that
thought in the old witch’s ear.

A servant was sent to bring France a pair of
breeches, so he could be rid of the beggar’s rags. Others were sent
to spread the word that a contest of swordsmanship would take place
shortly in the practice yard, and that Olivia would begrudge no one
a short break from a busy day’s work. The entire castle turned out
to see the arrogant swordsman taught a lesson.

The practice yard, a large open square just
within the main gate of the castle, was bordered on one side by the
stone wall containing the gate, and on the other three by various
buildings in the compound. Spectators crowded several deep along
all four sides of the yard. They overfilled the parapets that lined
the battlements high on the wall, and in the castle proper windows
high and low were jammed to capacity with faces, all anticipating a
few moments respite from the drudgeries of the workday. It was a
fine, sunny, winter afternoon. The air had warmed. The snow had
melted. The ground was dry.

France and the Tulalane limbered up
carefully. Olivia gave them a few moments to do so, then stepped
out into the middle of the yard and all fell silent. The old witch
was always one for a show, and warmed up to a good audience
quickly. After an appropriately dramatic pause, she said, “This is
not a duel in anger, or revenge. He who draws the other’s blood
first, will lose. The purpose of this duel is for each of you to
demonstrate his skill with the sword. You will attempt to bring the
tip of your sword as close to the other as possible, without
drawing blood. No other weapon will be allowed, and you may not
make bodily contact. The match will end on my command, or at first
blood.”

The crowd gave a short round of applause in
recognition of her shrewd choice of rules. The two men would be
taxed to the utmost, forced to use their skills to the limit.

The applause died. Olivia looked at the two
swordsmen. “Are there any questions?”

Hwatok Tulalane’s hawk face stretched into a
broad smile, the scar on his left cheek puckering visibly. “I have
no questions,” he said.

“None here, milady,” France said flatly. He
bowed.

“Then begin,” Olivia cried, and walked from
the yard with a flourish.

The two contestants bowed formally to each
other, stepped back and raised their swords, then touched the two
blades one to the other lightly. They paused for a motionless
second, waiting, each silently daring the other to strike the first
blow, and it was the Tulalane who moved. He cut low with lightning
speed, then thrust high toward France’s face. But France, having
moved with even greater speed, was no longer there.

France took the offensive then, testing the
Tulalane’s reflexes, thrusting and slashing within inches of his
skin. And while the magician parried each stroke, holding France’s
sword at bay, backing across the yard, yielding ground slowly,
grudgingly, it became obvious to all that France would not be the
easy prey they had thought.

Both men were stripped to the waist, and as
they danced about the yard playing their deadly game the Tulalane’s
bulky muscles made him seem larger than life, yet at the same time
trim and agile.

France, on the other hand, was a lean, wiry
strap of leather, sun baked, tough and gristly. Where before he had
stood so casually in front of Olivia, each muscle now seemed to hum
like the string of a bow after the arrow has been struck on its
way.

The Tulalane next took the offensive,
changing the tempo of the match, backing France into the center of
the yard. Their swords rang out in a constant din as France now
appeared to be weakening. The Tulalane sensed victory; his eyes
flashed greedily, but France, suddenly and without warning,
quickened his back-step. The Tulalane charged forward to keep pace.
France halted rock still, locked swords with the overbalanced
magician and thrust against his weight. The larger man stumbled
awkwardly. France’s sword leapt to within a hair’s breadth of his
neck then sliced across his throat. The spectators gasped, thinking
a death stroke had been delivered in a mere contest of skill. But
as the two men separated, all could see that the Tulalane was
untouched, bloodless. The audience gave France a rousing round of
applause.

The Tulalane’s face turned an angry red. The
two swordsmen reengaged, but now the Tulalane seemed just the
slightest bit quicker, and all there who understood magic knew that
the wizard had called upon his for speed. Then moments later the
flavor of the match changed as he brought his sword through a long,
flat arc aimed at removing France’s head. France ducked beneath it
and the crowd murmured unhappily. The Tulalane attacked again, his
eyes on fire with hate, the air about him glowing with magic.
Morgin tried to catch Olivia’s eye, to stop what was about to
become an execution, but she ignored him, looking delightedly
on.

A gasp from the crowd brought Morgin’s
attention back to the two contestants, locked chest to chest in
combat. France fell backwards, the larger man falling on top of
him, but France turned the fall into a roll, used his knees to
throw the Tulalane over him and into the dust. And as both jumped
to their feet, France stepped lightly beneath the Tulalane’s guard
and cut him on the cheek.

Olivia cried out, “The contest is done.”

The Tulalane ignored her, even more angry
than before, steam rising from his perspiration soaked shoulders.
He thrust at France again, and their swords rang out once more.

“Halt I said,” Olivia cried. “I command it,”
and all fell silent, for when she used that voice, not even the
Tulalane dare disobey her.

The two swordsmen separated, and as they did
so it appeared that the Tulalane’s old scar was bleeding of its own
accord. Breathing heavily, still angry and almost in a rage, he
looked at the old witch as if he might actually defy her.

Into the silence that followed she said
calmly, “By the rules, Lord Hwatok has won this match.”

The Tulalane suddenly realized that
according to the twisted rules laid down earlier, he had won. He
grinned in triumph, while France bowed deeply from the waist in
acknowledgement of that fact. But to all there it was clear that
France was the better swordsman, and the audience broke into cheers
and applause, many of the men whistling and stomping their
feet.

Olivia stepped to the center of the yard and
asked both swordsmen to take a bow. The cheers rang out anew. Then,
as the acknowledged winner, she asked the Tulalane to take another.
But while the Tulalane had won according to the rules, Morgin felt
he had cheated by using his magic.

Olivia broke up the festivities quickly,
reminding them all it was a day of work and not play. Then, with
France and Morgin in tow, she led them back to the Hall of Wills.
“Swordsman,” she said. “Your actions bear you out. In my lifetime I
have seen none better, though I will not insult the Tulalane by
acknowledging that when he is present. Would you consider taking
service with House Elhiyne?”

France’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
“Perhaps. But I must know what my duties will be before committing
myself.”

“To serve as one of our lieutenants in
battle.”

“Battle?” France asked. “But there has been
no war for many years, madam.”

“And let us hope there will be none in the
future,” Olivia said. “But there are always border skirmishes, and
bandit holdings to clean out. And in between you might give lessons
in the art of the sword.”

France started, scandalized. “I am no man to
be teaching young boys how to fight with wooden blades.”

Olivia shook her head. “We have a weapons
master for that. What I had in mind was one specific student.” She
nodded toward Morgin. “My grandson here is sorely in need of a
tutor. And his lack of skill is such that I fear only a master will
do.”

France looked at Morgin, eyeing him as if he
were a piece of steel whose quality must be judged. Morgin looked
back, tried to say with his eyes, ‘Please. Would you?’

France smiled. “Very well, madam. I would
accept such a responsibility. But before doing so we must discuss
the price of my services.”

“No. No. No. No. No,” France bellowed. “I’m
not teaching you how to duel, I’m teaching you how to fight.”

Morgin lifted his face out of the dirt of
the practice yard and let France’s words sink in. Just when he
thought he was getting the hang of it, the hilt of France’s sword
had come crashing out of nowhere into the side of this head.

“Come on, lad,” France said more kindly. “Up
with you now. Let’s try ‘er again.”

Morgin stumbled to his feet, though the
ground swayed ominously beneath him. He thought back to the day
France had first come to Elhiyne two years ago, and how then he’d
wanted nothing more that such a tutor, and now he wanted nothing
less. He raised his sword, but couldn’t hold it steady.

“Ahhh!” France screamed. “Ferget the damn
rules, yer almighty lordship.” He reached out, put his finger on
the tip of Morgin’s sword and pulled the point down. “Lower yer
guard some. And square off yer shoulders more. This ain’t no duel
and we ain’t fightin’ by no rules. If ya get the chance, kick me in
the balls, ‘er punch out me eye.”

Morgin shook his head. France’s image seemed
to ripple and sway in the hot spring sun.

France peered at Morgin carefully. His brow
wrinkled, then he casually brushed Morgin’s sword aside and stepped
in close to him. He reached out, pushed one of Morgin’s eyelids
back and looked closely into his eye. Then he felt along the side
of Morgin’s head.

“Ah! A nice bump there, lad. I give ya good
one back there, eh?” France held his hand up in front of Morgin’s
face, his fingers spread wide. “How many fingers you see?”

Morgin looked carefully at the swordsman’s
hand, and instead of the usual six fingers he saw seven, then
eight, then seven again. He closed his eyes, shook his head,
groaned miserably.

“That’s what I thought,” France said. He
slid his sword back into its sheath. “Put yer sword away, lad. Yer
in no shape fer any more fightin’ today.”

France turned toward the porch. “Come on.
Let’s get out of this sun.” He sat down in the shade near a leather
bucket of water and Morgin sat down beside him. France drew a ladle
of water from the bucket, sipped some and splashed the rest on his
face. He dipped another ladle and handed it to Morgin. “You see yer
mother a little later about that head of yers. I don’t think yer
hurt much, but she’s best to judge that.”