Robert Asprin - Phule's Company

To O'Donnel, the reason was immediately clear. Everyone else might have expected Corbin to win, and his rival commander might have fielded Escrima as a long-shot chance, but either the strategy hadn't been snared with Escrima or the message had failed to sink in. The proud, scrappy little warrior had apparently expected to emerge from the bout triumphant, and was now suffering the crushing aftermath of not only having lost but of having let down those who had counted on him as their champion.

As the major watched, Captain Jester appeared, first standing behind the sergeant, then kneeling to talk with intimate, earnest intensity. Though they were too far away for him to hear the exact words. O'Donnel had no difficulty constructing the conversation in his mind.

The commander would be explaining again the impossibility of the fight Escrima had just undertaken, possibly even apologizing for sending the sergeant into a hopeless situation instead of undertaking the job himself. It would be pointed out that the sergeant had scored several hits against a seasoned champion, which was more than many practiced fencers could do, and that he had, indeed, more than upheld the honor of the company.

Eventually the sergeant's head came up, and a few moments later he was nodding at what his commander was saying. The two men rose to their feet, and the captain clapped Escrima fondly on the shoulder, leaning close to share a few last words before leading him back to the bleachers.

O'Donnel found himself nodding as well.

Good. The little sergeant was much too good a man to be abandoned by his own during such a trauma. The major's appreciation of his rival went up yet another notch as he turned his attention to the bout in progress... the initial attack misses... passe... then the counterattack lands before the final replacement of the point. The touch is right... Score, three to one!... Gardez!...

Three to one?

O'Donnel focused his attention on the action.

What was going on here? How could his man be down 3-1 so fast?

"Allez! Fence!"

In the quick flurry of swords that followed the director's signal, it became clear what was happening.

The little fencer representing the Legionnaires-what was her name? Oh yes, Super Gnat-had found a way to compensate for her shorter reach. She would hang back at the edge of Davidson's lunge range, obviously too far back to launch an attack of her own, and bait the Eagles' fencer into initiating the action. Sometimes she would simply step back out of the reach of the attack, but then...

The major scowled as Super Gnat dodged the oncoming point and stepped in close to her taller opponent. Davidson tried to reverse his advance to bring his point to bear again, but she followed him back down the strip and...

"Halt! The initial attack falls. On the recovery, the counterattack lands! Touch is right! Score, four to one!"

The bitch was so small her target area was almost nonexistent! Hell, she could inhale and disappear behind her foil! And that footwork she was using...

O'Donnel watched closely as Super Gnat skipped and danced backward down the strip, leading Davidson like a terrier teasing a bull. He had seen that floating, pivoting footwork before. He couldn't quite put his finger on where, but it wasn't on a fencing strip! The Legionnaires had run another off-style martial artist in on him, but this one had managed to translate her moves into fencing! What was more, Davidson lacked Corbin's experience and was clearly thrown off his normal form by his opponent's unorthodox movements.

The Eagles' fencer managed to rally and score two touches in a row, but to the major the outcome was already a given. The scrambling little fencer was simply too resourceful to let a three-point advantage slip away, and...

As if in response to his thoughts, Super Gnat launched a running, diving flèche attack, taking the offensive for the first time and catching Davidson napping as he planned his own attack.

"Halt! The attack carries! Touch is right! Five to three! Bout to the Space Legion! The meet is tied at one bout each!"

The spectators exploded with cheers and applause as Super Gnat saluted her opponent and pulled off her mask, revealing a beaming face that shone like the sun. She pumped the hands of her adversary and the director, nodding her thanks at their murmured compliments, then turned toward the Legion bleachers.

No cue had been necessary from their commander this time.' The entire company was on its feet saluting its victorious champion. Still holding the jubilant smile that seemed to pass her ears, Super Gnat returned the salute with a flourish of her weapon that ended in an exaggerated mock curtsey. At that, the Legionnaires broke their stiff poses and swarmed out of the stands to surround their teammate.

"All right, Gnat!"

"Way to go!"

The first to reach her was the tall, misshapen nonhuman Legionnaire whose mere presence made the Red Eagles uneasy. In a move that could only be genuine affection, he snatched her into the air in a huge bear hug that was at once enthusiastic and gentle, then, without setting her down, shifted his grip and held her aloft to the cheers of the rest of the company.

"Sorry about that, sir."

The terse apology pulled O'Donnel's attention back from the other end of the gym.

"Don't worry about it, Davidson," he said firmly, lightly punching that notable on the arm. "Nobody wins all the time. Looks like it's up to me to try to settle up."

"Yes, sir," the corporal said, shooting a glance down the floor to where the Legionnaires were still celebrating. "Do you think you can do it? They may be goofballs, but they're tricky as hell."

The major nodded his agreement of the corporal's assessment.

"To tell you the truth, Corporal, I don't know. Ask me again in about ten minutes."

Davidson flashed him a quick smile.

"Right. Good luck, sir."

"Our next and final bout..." The director's mike boomed through the loudspeakers, and he paused to wait for the Legionnaires to quiet down and take their seats again before continuing.

"Thank you. Our next and final bout will be épée For those of you who have been confused by my explanation of the right-of-way rules, you'll be glad to know there is no right-of-way in épée! Whoever hits first, gets the touch!"

A brief ripple of applause and laughter greeted this announcement, which the director acknowledged with a grin.

"This is because the encounter épée is re-creating a duel from the period after the Code Duello was changed to accept 'first blood' rather than death to settle an affair of honor. First blood can be drawn from anywhere on the body, including the hands and feet, and accordingly the entire body is fair target when fencing épée."

O'Donnel gathered up his mask and his weapon, plugging his body cord into the socket hidden inside the weapon's bell guard. The movements were automatic and ritualistic as he began to mentally set himself for the upcoming bout.

"By watching the lights on the scoring machine," the director was continuing, "it is easy to see who has scored the touch. The machine, which both fencers will be attached to by means of feed reels and body cords, determines within a twentieth of a second who hit whom first. If both fencers score a hit within that time frame, which happens more often than you might think, both lights will come on and it will be scored as a double touch. That is, a hit will be awarded to each fencer for that particular exchange."

The major wished the bout would get under way. He was starting to feel the tension of the deciding bout creeping into his shoulders. Nervously he shook his sword arm to keep it loose. Tension meant stiffness, and stiffness meant slowed reflexes, a potentially fatal error in a sport where the winner and loser were often divided by split seconds.