Erik de Bie - Downshadow

He took pride in his charms, and in his skill. And like many warriors past their prime, Treth saw the need to assert his dominance among the "young pups," as it were.

Kalen saw no reason to stand in his way.

"I've work to attend." He refused to meet Treth's eye. "Perhaps when I am at leisure-"

"I'm sure"-Treth dropped the ledger in the dirt-"this can wait."

Kalen looked up at him and around at the silent training yard. The folk-Guard and Watch alike-watched the confrontation intently.

"Vigilant Treth," Kalen said. He coughed. "You know I can't-"

"Fleeing behind your weakness of the flesh, eh?" Kalen looked around once more, seeing uncertain, expectant faces.

The Watch and Guard knew of his illness only in part. Certainly none knew he pretended it had grown worse than it truly had. Ir had been months since he had wielded a sword while wearing a uniform. But when he had… Those who had served with him knew of his ferocity, and he saw in the eyes of those gathered that tales had spread.

"I must decline," Kalen said.

"Then Rayse told true," Treth whispered in his ear. "And you are a coward."

That stabbed into Kalen's chest like a searing knife. It struck not because of his own ego-though he confessed there was some-but because of the truth in Treth's words.

He shouldn't do anything to risk revealing himself, but everything was going so very wrong. And Kalen was angry.

"Very well, Dashing Jack," said Kalen, invoking the man's hated moniker.

Treth sneered.

Kalen rose, stiffly, and stepped to the center of the yard. He heard gasps at first, then applause. Rhagaster Stareyes saluted and took a high guard with his padded blade.

Kalen took the weapon handed him by Bront, who smiled. Kalen shrugged.

"Tymora's luck on you," said Treth-mostly to Kalen. "Begin!"

They circled each other slowly, the ring of Watchmen backing away to give them room. The half-elf skipped from foot to foot, keeping himself loose. Kalen flexed his legs. The front of his thighs felt as if they bore heavy pads, but the sensation was merely his numb flesh.

Stareyes came at him with a plunging cut that Kalen knocked aside easily. He coughed and sidestepped, not holding the parry or countering.

Stareyes turned back toward him. "To you, sir," he said. Kalen shrugged-and attacked high. He didn't move fast-he didn't have to.

From his hanging guard, Stareyes parried high. He could have countered, but as Kalen had expected, he didn't. Rather than pull back, Kalen ran a hand along the length of his own sword, caught the end of his blade, and twisted to set the edge near the hilt at the half-elps throat.

A gasp passed through the yard.

"You hesitated to reply," Kalen said. "You don't need speed-just readiness." He pulled back a step and set his sword against Stareyes's raised blade. "You just parried. Now stab."

Stareyes, blinking, pushed forward, and the padded blade punched into Kalen's belly.

"A counter in every parry," he said. "Do not hesitate, but commit yourself."

The half-elf shook his head. "But my parry needs to be-"

"Firm, I know," Kalen said. "Trusr yourself to set a strong position, and there is no way the other blade can hit you."

He demonstrated, slapping his blade against Stareyes's parry. With the guard wide enough, his blade could nor reach Stareyes's arm.

The gathered watchers-who had grown in number, Kalen saw- murmured agreement.

Treth laughed. "Try a master, Sir Dren." He tossed his hat and black watchcoat to a junior Watchman, then unbuttoned his uniform and unlaced his white undertunic to the belly.

"The winner goes with Rayse to the ball tonight at the Temple of Beauty," said Treth.

Coughing, Kalen nodded grimly. He'd known it would come to this.

Treth sneered. Gray-black hairs bristled along his chin and neck. Kalen shrugged. He handed the sword ro Stareyes with a nod, then brought his fingers up to the buttons of his uniform.

Apparently, an attractive form-such as the one she had donned in the Skewered Dragon-was more a hindrance than a help in a barracks filled with wandering eyes.

Fayne had arrived at the barracks earlier, and now wore the illusory form of a junior Watchman whose name she hadn't asked. She could have done so, but why bother? The boy, who had been only too eager ro follow her into the stuffy Room of Records, now slumped senselessly under a desk, trapped by magic that bound his mind into a relentless nightmare. Fayne had invoked the power in her wand, taken his face, and gone out into the warm sunshine. She found Kalen in the courtyard, just in time to see him handily defeat a rather handsome half-elf with dark hair and the most beautiful eyes.

Fayne made a mental note to visit the barracks more often.

Then a good-looking man of middling years-Vigilant Treth, she heard a Watchman whisper-challenged Kalen, and they proceeded to disrobe in the middle of the yard.

Fayne had to restrain herself not to squeal. She wasn't a gambler, but she /of^cockfighrs.

She shared in the collective intake of breath when Kalen stripped offhis shirt. His body was covered in scars-knife cuts, arrow holes, burns. Some of them, Fayne recognized: the finger-shaped lines on his forearm were the spellscar burns he had suffered in Downshadow the night they had met. His tightly woven muscles carried not a drop of fat.

Treth was a whip-wire of a man, like a curled snake, ready to lunge. Kalen, on the other hand, was a wolf. Fayne saw it in his movements and the way he stood-and the way he glared.

Her cheeks grew warm, and she cursed herself for a brainless child.

The men faced each other across the courtyard. Sneering, Treth held his steel low. Kalen held his high, and coughed. Part of his disguise, Fayne realized.

Then Treth lunged toward Kalen, fast as a striking viper, and Kalen caught his spinning, shifting cut with a solid, low-hanging parry. The padded swords thumped.

Treth pulled back and struck again, reversing, and Kalen parried easily. Where Treth attacked wildly, with great sweeping slashes and flurries, Kalen's movements were quick and precise-conservative. It was obvious to Fayne-who knew as little about swordplay as a stray kitten-that Kalen was better. But could he win, and still maintain his mask?

That held Fayne's interesr-that, and Kalen's glimmering skin. Mmm.

They came together again, and again. Every time, Treth attacked, lunging fast, and every time, Kalen warded him off. He didn't presshe was holding back.

They broke apart for the eighth time, and Treth, hopping from foot to foot, grinned madly. "Don't say you grow weary yet, youngling," he said. "I'm enjoying this."

Kalen dropped a hand to his heaving chest. It curled into a fist.

Treth came again, his lightning strike harder-more brutal. He hammered into Kalen's high guard, both hands on his sword, and Kalen compressed toward the ground.

Then the older man dropped a hand unexpectedly from his sword and punched at Kalen's face. Fayne bristled at the injustice, but Kalen seemed to have expected it. He grappled his left arm around Treth's and threw their flailing swords wide. They wrestled, each trying to push the other away, and finally half a dozen Watchmen rushed forward to pull them apart.

Fayne saw that the watching horde had grown-sixty or more folk were in the yard. Some commotion arose at the gates, but she couldn't see what it was.

Treth thrust, but Kalen moved so suddenly and quickly that the crowd gasped. He attacked high into Treth's attack, locking blades. The clash of steel rang blasphemously loud.

Kalen punched forward to shift his blade under Treth's and inside his guard. Treth's arm was hopelessly twisted and wide. Kalen grasped the older man's throat.

"Low guard," Kalen said. "Surely you know better than that."