Jack Whyte - The Lance Thrower

He waited, watching my eyes, and then, when it became clear that I was going to say nothing more, he nodded his head. “I see. You have nothing more to say on the topic. So be it then. But I fear, in light of that, that you will have to fight and best our Bedwyr here before you can proceed.”

I looked over to where the man Bedwyr stood glaring at me and shook my head slowly. “No, I think not. There will be no fight between your bully Beddo and me.”

“Why not?” There was genuine surprise in the Magister’s voice.

“Why should I fight him?” I rejoined, turning back to him. “What have I to gain from it? Bruises do not seem like worthwhile rewards to me, nor does the prospect of providing entertainment for the rest of your crew—particularly when I have the option of refusing to do both.”

Bedwyr spoke up then. “If you win you can go on across the bridge.”

I looked at him again, sidelong. “The water in the brook is barely fetlock deep for the most part and I can make my way across anywhere, without fighting, as you pointed out.”

“Are you afraid to fight, then?”

“No, sir, I am not afraid to fight. I simply choose not to fight you, and I do not do so out of fear.” I turned back to look again at the Magister. “I will fight you, however, upon the clear understanding that when I win I will be allowed to go on my way without further trouble.”

There was a chorus of gasps at that, and sounds of growing outrage, but the Magister laughed aloud and quelled them all by the simple expedient of raising his hand. Then, when the noise had died down, he spoke to me again, his hand still upraised, enjoining silence from his men. He was smiling at me openly now, his teeth even and startlingly white between wide lips.

“Let me feed you back your own medicine now. Why should I fight you and run the risk of injury, when I can order any of my men to do it for me?”

I was ready for him, however, and answered him almost before he had finished speaking. “Because you are their leader—their Magister—and I am challenging you directly. Besides, if they attack me, singly or in any other way, you will never learn anything more about my wonderful spears.”

His grin grew wider. “What is to stop us from simply depriving you of them now? It would be no great feat, with eight of my men against you alone. I would not even have to be involved.”

“Very true,” I agreed, finding it easy to smile back at this man. “And there really is nothing to prevent you doing as you wish, if that is what you wish. But even when you have the weapons in your hands you will know nothing of them, or of what they were designed for, or of how to use them. I have only four of them, and you could never duplicate them.”

“Never? That sounds like bluster to me. What do you mean we could never duplicate them? Wait! Wait … Of course, the shafts … bamboo, you said?” He fell silent for a few moments, then resumed. “A few moments ago you said .that if we attacked you we would learn nothing of the spears. That implies, then, that if I myself agree to fight you we might learn something of them. Am I correct?”

“You are. That is what I meant.”

“Dismount then, and let’s try a bout, but I hope you have strong bones and a hard head.” He turned toward his men. “Who has the training swords? Bring them forward.”

There were mutterings and mumbles among the others, but they quickly stilled as I leaped down from my horse and hung my thin bundle of spears from a hook on my saddle before moving to face their leader, who stood waiting for me with a longsword made of heavy, wooden dowel in each hand, extending them toward me hilt first. He was even larger, seen from this level, than I had thought at first, fully half a head taller than me, broader in the shoulders and longer of arm and leg. An intimidating adversary.

“These are our standard training swords,” he said, quietly. “They are made from ash wood, so they have resilience, as well as strength and weight. Choose whichever one pleases you more.”

I reached out and took one in each hand, hefting them and feeling for balance and weight. “They are heavier than I am used to, and much longer.”

“Aye, they are half again as long in the blade as a spatha. Do you normally use a spatha?”

“I do.”

“We don’t, in Camulod. Our swords are longer—stronger, too. Hence the heavier weight of these, based on the principle that a training weapon should be twice the weight of a real one. Will this be too much for you?”

I looked him straight in the eye and managed a smile for him, then crouched into the fighting stance and began the circling dance of the blade fighter half a step before he did the same. Before we had made half a revolution, the others had surrounded us, silent but watchful, plainly expecting to see their leader teach me a lesson in short order. I felt the difference in the practice sword immediately and straightened slightly, realizing that the increased length and weight of the weapon would call for a different technique in handling the thing. It felt utterly alien in my grasp, cumbersome and ungainly, but I noticed, too, that the hilt was twice as long as the hilt on my spatha, and that told me that that the swords these people wielded could be gripped with both hands and swung ferociously.

My opponent immediately taught me something else about these weapons, because he held his in both hands, one on the hilt in the normal grip, and the other cradling the heavy end so that he held the weapon horizontally as he moved opposite me, assessing my capabilities. I could have told him I had none with such an ungainly weapon, but I knew he would arrive at that conclusion unaided, within a very short time. Prior to that, however, I would watch and hope to learn how to survive this encounter without disgracing myself. I began by holding my weapon the way he was holding his.

Decades have passed since that day but I can still recall it clearly and with ease, and the clearest recollection I have is the easy half smile on my adversary’s face, the supreme confidence expressed in his every move and the crouching grace with which he faced me. I knew that the weapon I was holding was going to hinder me, but I found myself taking encouragement from the way it nestled in my hands. And when he opened his attack by springing toward me, changing his grip swiftly to grasp the hilt in both hands and bring a mighty overhead blow down on me, I was ready for him. I could have jumped backward or to either side to avoid the blow, because I saw it coming from the outset, but I chose to step into him instead, raising my weapon high in both hands to meet and absorb his blow before it could develop full momentum.

From that moment of first impact, when his sword hit mine, I lost all awareness of any newness or strangeness in my weapon and I fought as Tiberias Cato had taught me to fight, using all his tricks. Inside the big man’s guard as I was, . I turned and rammed my elbow into the soft, vulnerable spot beneath the join of his ribs. He grunted heavily and staggered backward and as he went reeling I spun again and slashed hard at his left knee. He managed to block the blow with a downthrust blade and then exploded into a catlike leap that won him enough distance to leave him safe for a few moments. And then the fight began in earnest.

The exhilaration of combat and the thirst for victory combined to increase my focus and my concentration, so that all my normal fighting skills seemed enhanced and I adjusted quickly and completely to my new sword, manipulating it at times as though it were a spear with a solid, heavy shaft.

We fought long and hard, neither of us able to gain a lasting advantage over the other. When he attacked me, hacking and slashing ferociously, I would back away, fending off his blows and concentrating wholly on absorbing and avoiding his ferocity until the moment when I felt the vigor of his charge begin to wane. Then it became my turn to pursue him. Back and forth we went, time after time, the entire meadow echoing with the hard, dry clattering of blade against blade. We lost awareness, right at the outset, of the people watching us. We had no time for others. Our entire attention was focused upon each other because we both knew, within moments of our first clash, that we were equally matched despite his greater size and reach, and that this fight would go to the first man fortunate enough to land a solid blow. And each of us intended to be that man. But on and on it went, advance and retreat, neither of us able to land that solid blow and both of us growing more and more fatigued with every passing moment.