Gregory Keyes - The Briar King

“Anne! Austra!” he hissed.

The two spun, and he saw it was indeed them.

“Cazio?” Anne asked, sounding hopeful. Then her voice sharpened in pitch. “Stay away from me, you—what have you to do with all of this?”

That took him flat-footed. “What? Why, you—”

But in that moment the second knight broke from the trees. Cazio tossed Anne a contemptuous glance as he planted himself in front of the mounted man. He was emerging from between two trunks, so he would have to come through Cazio to reach Anne and Austra, or else back out and try another way.

“Will you fight me, casnar?” Cazio shouted at the knight. “Do they make men where you come from, or just rapists of helpless women?”

The knight’s visor was up, but Cazio couldn’t make out his features.

“I don’t know who you are,” the knight said in an accent that suggested he was trying to swallow something and speak at the same time, “but I advise you to stand aside.”

“And I advise you to dismount, sir, or I shall impale your fine horse, something I do not wish to do. You may continue to wear your turtle shell, for I would not disadvantage you by asking you to fight fairly.”

“This is not a game,” the knight growled. “Do not waste my time, and I will let you live.”

“A lesson in dessrata would not be a waste of your time,” Cazio replied. “At least you will have something to mull over, whiling away the long hours in hell or curled weeping on your mother’s couch—depending on how merciful I am.”

The knight didn’t say another word, but dismounted, taking a shield shaped like a curved triangle from the side of his horse and drawing an incredibly clumsy-looking broadsword with his free hand. He closed his visor and advanced toward Cazio at a walk. Cazio grinned and settled into a broad dessrata stance, making passes in the air with his blade, bouncing on his knees a little.

The knight didn’t salute, or strike a stance, or anything of the sort. When he was within two pereci he simply charged with the shield held in front of him and the sword cocked back on his shoulder. That startled Cazio, but at the last instant he did a quick ancio , swinging his body out of the way and leaving his point in line for the knight to run into.

Caspator slid over the shield and arrested against the upper part of the breastplate, where the steel gorget stopped the point. The knight, unimpressed by this, swung the shield backhand, forcing the rapier up and slamming Cazio’s forearm into his chest with such force that he left the ground. He landed on his feet but nearly didn’t keep them under him, stumbling back as the knight quickly overtook him, sword still cocked. Cazio found his balance just in time to parry the overhand blow, which came with such force that he nearly lost Caspator, and his already abused arm went half numb with shock. Without thinking, he riposted to the thigh, but again all he got was the sound of steel on steel. It gave him time to recover, however, and he danced back out of range while the knight brought his sword back up.

Cazio recalled something z’Acatto had told him once, something he hadn’t paid too much attention to at the time.

“Knights in armor don’t fence, boy,” the old man had said, after taking a drink of pale yellow Abrinian wine.

“Don’t they?” Cazio had replied diffidently, whetting Cas-pator’s long blade.

“No. Their swords weigh eight coinix or more. They just hit each other with them until they find out who has the better armor.”

“Ah,” Cazio had replied. “They would be slow and clumsy, I imagine.”

“They have to hit you only once,” z’Acatto had replied. “You don’t duel knights. You run from them or you drop something very heavy on them from a castle wall. You do not fence them.”

“As you say,” Cazio had replied, but he hadn’t been convinced. Any man with a sword could be beaten by a master of dessrata. Z’Acatto had said it himself, in his more sober moments.

The thing was, this knight wasn’t nearly as slow or clumsy as he ought to be, and he did not fear being struck by Caspator in the least. Cazio kept dancing out of range, trying to think. He’d have to hit him in the slit of his mask, he decided, a challenging target indeed.

He tried that, feinting at the knee to draw the shield down. The armored man dropped the shield incrementally, but brought it back up when Cazio lunged, pushing the rapier high again. Then that huge cleaver of a sword came whistling around the side of the shield, a blow aimed to cut Cazio in half at the waist. It would have, too, but Cazio coolly parried in prismo, dropping the tip of his weapon perpendicular to the ground with the hilt on the left side of his head, guarding that entire flank.

Another rapier would have been deflected harmlessly, but not eight or nine coinix of broadsword. It beat Caspator into him, and all of the air out of him. Cazio felt and heard ribs crack, and then he was off his feet again, this time flopping painfully onto his back. He grabbed his side and it came away wet; some edge had gotten through. The cut felt shallow, but the broken ribs hurt so badly it was nearly paralyzing. The knight was coming toward him again, and he didn’t think he could get up in time.

It occurred to Cazio that he might be in trouble.

As Muriele stared at the thing from Black Marys and children’s tales, darts of fever seemed to pierce her lungs. For an instant, they all stood like statues in some strange pantheon—Neil MeqVren with her dying daughter in his arms, the beaked monster, herself.

Wonder is a terrible thing, she thought. Her mind seemed to be drifting away from her.

Then she saw Neil reach for his sword.

“No!” she shouted. “Do not!” It felt like shouting in a dream, a sound no one could hear.

But the young knight hesitated.

“I am your queen,” she cried. Terror was a tiny voice in her now, nearly silenced by madness. “I command it!”

That seemed to get through to the young knight. He turned on his heel and, still carrying Fastia, followed Muriele at a staggering run back toward the inner keep they had just abandoned. The gate was shut, however, and barred from the other side. There was no escape for them there.

Muriele glanced back. The monster was padding softly toward them, in no great hurry. Why should it be?

In sudden epiphany she understood that the entire world— Crotheny, her children, her husband, she herself—existed on the edge of a vast, invisible pit. They had trod its upper slopes, never recognizing that it was even there. Now they were all sliding into it, and the beast behind her was at the bottom, waiting for them.

Waiting for her.

Almost as unhurried as their pursuer, she looked around and saw there was only one place left to go.

“The horz!” she said, gesturing.

The horz occupied an area between the keep and the garrison. The doorway was only about ten yards away. Muriele ran toward it, and the greffyn followed, increasing its speed a little. She felt its eyes burning into her back, imagined its breath on her neck, knew by her renewed terror that she wasn’t yet entirely mad. She ran toward the arched gate of the sacred garden. Perhaps the saints would protect them.

As they crossed the threshold into the horz, Sir Neil seemed to get his senses back. He quickly but gently placed Fastia on a bed of moss near the central stone, then drew his sword and turned quickly. The gateway to the horz had no door, but was open to all.

“Hide, Your Majesty,” he said. “Find the thickest part of the garden and hide there.”

But Muriele was staring past him. The greffyn, which had been just behind them, was nowhere to be seen.