Brian McCLELLAN - Promise of Blood

“No, you don’t. He’s an evil man, a traitor. Don’t help him.”

“You don’t think I know?” Siemone said. The words came out a sob. “I’ve known all along. I’m sorry I paid those men to kill you. Please understand, I could do nothing. I can’t be free of him. I’m glad you’re still alive. Now, get out of here before he comes. He’ll cut you down.”

Adamat took a deep breath. “Siemone,” he said, stepping forward.

“Don’t come another step,” the priest warned.

Adamat paused. “Please, Siemone.” He inched forward.

“Guards!” Siemone called. “Quickly!”

A pair of men rushed from the back of the house. They wore the garb of Church guards, and drew their swords at the sight of Adamat.

Prielight Guards. Elite soldiers in the employ of the Church. They protected the arch-diocels with their lives. If they got close to Adamat, he wouldn’t stand a chance. Adamat stepped back and took the rifle in both hands, hoping it was loaded.

He aimed for the first guard and squeezed the trigger. The shot resounded in the yard. The man took a few more steps and stumbled to his knees. The second ran past him, coming fast. Adamat threw down the rifle and drew his pistol. The blast took the guard directly in the chest. He grunted, a look of frustration on his face, and dropped. The first guard had slowly gotten to his feet. He swayed drunkenly. Adamat drew his sword and stepped forward. The man managed to parry four or five thrusts before Adamat landed a disabling blow.

“Siemone!” someone shouted. “We fly!”

Adamat turned. Charlemund ran from the back of the villa, cape over one arm, sheathed sword in the other.

“Go,” Adamat said. “Go without him! You can do it, Siemone!”

The priest squeezed his eyes shut and began to pray. Adamat swore, whirled toward Charlemund.

“You!” the arch-diocel grunted, stopping just inside the garden. He glanced over his fallen guards in disgust.

Adamat stepped forward, between Charlemund and the carriage. The pistol had been his only chance. Charlemund was the best swordsman in the Nine. He’d tear Adamat apart. Adamat raised his sword and swallowed hard.

Charlemund plucked at the string around his neck and tossed his cape aside. He drew his sword and cast away the sheath.

The attack came faster than Adamat could have imagined. Adamat parried by instinct only – he’d been considered a fine fencer long ago, but those years were past and he’d wielded little more than a cane sword since. Adamat fell back beneath the advance. He skipped away, retreating fast. The arch-diocel came on relentlessly, a stab here, a slash there, the tip of his sword mere inches from Adamat’s face and chest.

“A fine fencer” was a relative term against someone like Charlemund. Adamat felt worthless, like a child at his first lesson. These were no wooden training swords, though. When Charlemund flicked forward, effortlessly, he drew blood. The initial cuts were merely scratches and pricks. Enough of those would leave a man dead as sure as a plunge through the heart.

Charlemund slapped Adamat’s sword away with the tap of his own and stepped forward. He thrust twice. Adamat stumbled backward to avoid the stabs. He recovered his footing and tried to raise his sword. His arm would not obey him. A quick glance down saw the red stains spreading in two dark circles on his coat. One was just over his heart, the other on his shoulder. Adamat felt his body sag, weakened by the sudden anticipation of death.

Charlemund spun away from Adamat, barely parrying a sword thrust. Tamas’s bodyguard pressed upon the arch-diocel, attacking with ferocity. Charlemund danced away from Adamat and Olem, into the middle of the gravel walk for clear footing. Olem sprinted after him, sword first, not giving him a moment’s respite.

Adamat stumbled to a rock in the garden and sat down. He gripped his sword weakly with one hand, checked his wounds with the other. He shoved his fist into the worst of his two wounds. His head spun, though he couldn’t be sure whether it was because of his losing blood that fast or if it was simply from the excitement of the duel and the prospect of death. He watched Olem with a light-headed exhilaration. If Olem fell, Charlemund would kill them both and make his escape.

Olem was clearly a better fighter than Adamat. He went at Charlemund with the reckless bravery of a soldier, a man whose life was dedicated to the sword and the gun. Olem’s swordsmanship was less controlled than the arch-diocel’s, less clinical, but he made up for that in savagery. His teeth were clenched, his eyes lit with anger, determination, his off hand balanced carefully in the air over his hip. Charlemund took a few more steps back, the onslaught catching him off guard, before he regained his footing and began to press his own attack.

Adamat watched as Charlemund studied Olem’s patterns, tracking every movement carefully. His face lacked Olem’s sense of determination – it contained the quiet, reserved watchfulness of a student in his favorite class. Olem’s thrusts slowly became easier for Charlemund to counter, his parries less effective. Charlemund wasn’t just fighting, Adamat realized. He was learning as he went, adapting to Adamat’s moves. This was how a master dueled, and Adamat had never seen anything like it. Olem continued to lose ground.

The duel could have been hours, as Adamat felt it, though he knew that only moments had passed. Olem retreated farther, and the two duelists moved past Adamat and closer to the carriage. Olem held his ground there for several seconds, sweat beading on his brow, eyes desperate for some opening. His face was easy for Adamat to read. He was growing tired, worried. He could not keep up with Charlemund.

He saw one, finally, and lunged. His cut nicked Charlemund’s side as the arch-diocel stepped aside. A dagger appeared in Charlemund’s off hand, and he stabbed Olem between the ribs. Olem’s eyes widened, his sword falling from his hand. Charlemund stepped away and drew his sword back for a finishing thrust.

Adamat looked away. We’re finished.

Olem coughed out a laugh, drawing Adamat’s attention. Charlemund paused.

“You’ve worse than me to face,” Olem said.

Charlemund gave a quick glance toward the villa. He left Olem in the dirt and ran for the carriage. “Go!” he said, leaping onto the sideboard.

“Don’t do it!” Adamat called to Siemone.

The priest huddled on the driver’s bench, reins in hand. His arms shook. He didn’t move.

“Go,” Charlemund commanded.

Adamat thought Siemone was about to snap the reins. The priest looked toward the heavens, then at his hands. His lips moved silently.

“Fool,” Charlemund said. He swung up the sideboard and into the seat next to Siemone.

The priest cringed away from him. “I can’t do it,” he wailed.

Charlemund pushed him from the seat. Siemone gave a yell and tumbled from his perch. He hit the ground with the sound of a melon being split open and then lay still.

“Coward.”

The word wasn’t spoken loudly, yet it drew Charlemund and Adamat’s gazes all the same. Tamas stood on the back step of the villa, just above the garden. He leaned heavily on an air rifle, barrel down, in place of his cane. He looked like an old man then, tired and beleaguered. The front of his uniform was soaked in blood. Adamat remembered the mage’s quarters in Skyline Palace, and the specks that had covered Tamas then. He shuddered.

Charlemund hesitated. The reins were in his hands, and though he obviously wanted to snap them and make a run for it some kind of morbid curiosity held him back.

Adamat forced himself to his feet. He stumbled, winced at the pain, his head feeling light. He snagged the horse’s bridle. “No,” he said.