CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN - SPELLCRAFT

Julian turned back around to find the other brigands down. Raedrick and Selam stood nearby, their curved blades red with the blood of many foes. Before them, only Isenholf stood. His pale face was streaked with blood from a cut over his left temple. It made a nice counterpoint to his other scar, really. He no longer wore his mocking expression. In fact, his eyes danced from Raedrick to Selam to Julian nervously. But he did not back down or lower his sword.

“The offer still stands, Theobald,” Raedrick said across the intervening distance between them. “Ride away now, and we will not follow. You’ve lost a lot of men today, but you don’t have to die as well.”

Isenholf chuckled. “I have not yet played all my cards, Baletier.” He cocked his head to the side and shouted, “Lorent!”

From off to the side, a deep, raspy voice replied, “Here, Farzal.”

Julian turned his head and saw the new speaker. He instantly recognized him: the mage.

The mage stepped from behind a jutting balcony that would have hidden him from the archers’ lines of fire. With him were three more brigands. Two of them were dragging a man with a bag over his head between them.

The small group walked over to Isenholf’s position and took up station just behind him. He smirked again and said, “Lower your arms. Or he dies.”

The brigand with his hands free reached out and pulled the bag from atop the prisoner’s head.

Julian already knew who it was, but all the same his heart sank to see Constable Malory in that condition. He had obviously been beaten repeatedly. His nose was broken in more than one place. Both his eyes were black, his cheeks were swollen and he was bruised all over. It took a moment to recognize him, in truth.

But his eyes…

His eyes were fearful, tight with pain. Yet Julian saw a hint of iron within them that he never thought to see. An unwillingness to yield. From the look in his eyes, Malory seemed a totally different man than the Constable Julian had known. Stronger somehow. Which was exactly the opposite of what Julian would have expected, considering the torture he had endured at Isenholf’s hand.

Looking back at Raedrick, Julian could tell that his friend was wavering, and he fully understood. Killing in battle or for justice was one thing. But for all his faults, Malory was a good man and did not deserve this. Julian could hear the thoughts going through Raedrick’s head, because they were going through his as well. How could I live with myself if I caused his death?

But it all came down to numbers. Sometimes you did not risk those twenty men to save the one who was most likely dead already. And sometimes you don’t sacrifice the wellbeing of hundreds in a town for one you happen to know personally. Julian opened his mouth to tell Raedrick this, but was surprised when Malory beat him to it.

“Don’t do it,” Malory called. “He’ll kill me anyway, and then all of you -” His words ended in a pained grunt and a fit of coughing as the brigand who had removed the bag punched him in the belly.

“What’s it going to be, Baletier?” Isenholf saw Raedrick’s hesitation, and that mocking smile returned to his face.

Raedrick looked at Julian. He could see the conflict in his friends eyes. Slowly, Raedrick lowered his saber to his side and bent his knees. He was going to do it.

“NO!” shouted Malory, who had regained his breath. With a sudden jerk, he pulled his left arm free of the brigand on that side, then elbowed the man in the face. The brigand stumbled backwards, his hands grasping at his jaw where Malory’s elbow impacted.

The Constable followed up with a roundhouse punch that caught the brigand who held his right arm in the nose. Even from where he stood, Julian heard the snap of breaking bone as that man also stumbled away. Malory righted himself…

And buckled over as the third brigand struck him again, this time in the chest. But unlike the last blow, he used a knife, not his fist. Malory coughed and a spray of blood flew from his mouth. His expression was one of disbelief as he fell to the ground, clutching at the wound that Julian knew would kill him in moments.

Raedrick halted midway to the ground. His eyes grew wide in outrage and, as Malory fell to the ground, a guttural roar issued from his lips. He heaved himself upwards and forward toward Isenholf, a murderous grimace on his face.

* * *

Melanie stepped through the gap in the barricade in time to see Constable Malory fall from the blow to his chest. She felt the sting of his wound as though it was her own; it made no difference that she hardly knew the man and thought him an incompetent fool.

As Raedrick, Julian, and Selam surged into action, the mage on Farzal’s side began chanting a spell that Melanie recognized. It could freeze their muscles in place if he got the spell off, leaving them wide open to their foes. Without stopping to check her spellbook, Melanie immediately began the chant that she had used to protect the archery platform. The fact that she had not been successful in her attempt at protection never entered her mind.

* * *

Selam leapt to the side to avoid the thief’s thrust. This was the first of the bunch who actually knew what he was doing. He and Selam had made two passes against each other, and each bore cuts as remembrances of the exchange.

He landed square on his feet and spun to face his foe. The thief was slightly off balance, the thrust having taken him farther than he probably expected when it did not meet Selam’s flesh. He was wide open for the kill, but Selam stepped back a pace out of courtesy.

Such a skilled foe should not be done in by a blow to the back.

To his right, Julian cut down another of the thieves, but received a cut to the meat of his shoulder from a second before he could spin out of the way.

Further over, Raedrick and the lead thief faced off. Raedrick’s dance was a beauty to behold. His foe was his equal in grace, if not in cunning, but the lead thief’s greater strength seemed to be making up the difference. Had he the leisure, theirs was a duel that Selam would very much have enjoyed watching.

But his foe had regained his equilibrium and demanded his attention. The thief stepped to his right, circling cautiously as his eyes locked onto Selam’s intently. Selam circled in the opposite direction, his easy movement on the balls of his feet keeping pace with the thief without difficulty.

It felt as though they circled each other for a long time, though Selam knew it had only been a few heartbeats. He was in no hurry to assume the offensive, though. He had taken the initiative on the first pass and nearly taken a mortal blow because of his miscalculation.

He would not make that same mistake again, not against this man.

* * *

The pain of the cut to his shoulder flared counterpoint to the ever increasing ache in Julian’s thigh. He backpedalled, evading a sweeping cut from his opponent by sheer speed of motion, and settled into a ready stance. He tried to flourish his sword, but could not do it properly with the wound to his shoulder.

So as his foe advanced again, Julian switched his sword to a left-handed grip and advanced to meet him with a cut from left to right. His left was not his preferred hand, but he had practiced fighting with it for just such an occasion.

The brigand’s eyes widened in surprise as Julian’s cut came from the opposite angle he was expecting, and it was his turn to backpedal.

But he was not as quick as Julian; he escaped the attack, but his studded leather breastplate was cut clean through from nipple to nipple. The brigand staggered back a half-step, and Julian was gratified to see a slow seep of blood begin to ooze through the cut to the breastplate.

Julian grinned and flourished his blade, easing back into a stylized stance with his weight entirely on his right foot, his left only touching the ground with its toe, his sword parallel to the ground pointing at the brigand’s throat, and his right hand above his head.

The brigand swallowed and recovered himself, his movements a bit more ginger as he no doubt began to feel the stinging from his chest.

Julian winked at him.

* * *

At first Melanie was amused by the expression of shock on the other mage’s face when his spell encountered her protective charm and he looked around to find her the only person not engaged in hand-to-hand combat. The notion that awomanhad been the one to thwart him all this time was no doubt doubly infuriating.

But his shock quickly turned to fury and he turned his full attention to her. Chanting an incantation that would stop her heart in her chest, he flung his hands out wide, casting a quantity of sulphur in her direction.

Desperation lent her swiftness as she shifted the focus of her protective chant from the men to herself. All the same, her chest constricted and she literally felt her heart skip a beat before the charm took effect. It was as though the weight of a dozen horses had been lifted from her chest. She breathed inward, feeling like it was the first breath she had ever taken.

But there was no time to rest. The other mage snarled and began chanting again. This chant was more complex, but she managed to beat him to the punch with a quick incantation of force which knocked him onto his backside. He yelped, his incantation ruined, and clambered to his feet.

His face was a mask of fury as he began chanting again.

* * *

Selam felt satisfaction tinged with a shade of regret as his sword rose above his opponent’s defenses and lifted his head from his shoulders. The thief’s torso stumbled forward, completing the half-step he had begun before his death, then tumbled to the ground, spewing a small geyser of blood from the wound.

Selam stepped back, avoiding the body’s fall, and bowed his head for a moment. He said a silent prayer for the dead thief’s soul; he may not have been a man of honor, but his skill deserved a mention to the Gods. Maybe they would lessen his punishment in recognition of his ability. It was a small thing to hope for, but the notion of an artist like him languishing in never-ending torment caused Selam heartache for a moment.

The moment passed in the time it took for him to raise his head again and survey the field.

He saw Julian’s foe fall beneath his blade, but Julian looked worn, battered. He limped toward Selam, and he was bleeding profusely from his shoulder. He would not be useful in battle for much longer, but his eyes were alight with the heat of bloodlust. He would drive himself to his death if he was not careful.

And no wonder. Selam turned to follow Julian’s gaze and was once again entranced by the duel between Raedrick and Farzal. The two danced as smoothly as if they were a couple on the ballroom floor. Each thrust, cut, and parry was met by precisely the exact counter from the other as neither was able to make any headway.

Julian reached Selam’s side and moved as though he intended to come to his friend’s assistance. Selam reached out and grabbed Julian’s arm, arresting his movement.

The young swordsman turned to look at Selam in confusion and anger. “Let go of me, Selam,” he said in a low, dangerous tone.

Selam shook his head. “This contest is for Raedrick to win or lose on his own. You will dishonor him if you interfere now.”

One of Julian’s eyebrows rose in confusion and he pulled away from Selam’s grasp. He took a step forward, then stopped as he truly saw the duel for what it was. He slowly nodded and stood still to watch the drama unfold as the Gods intended.

Glimmer Vale is the first book of the Glimmer Vale Chronicles, an ongoing heroic fantasy series set in a world of valor and magic. It will be published here, one chapter per week, on Tuesday.

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