“Arthur met the Fey host outside the walls of their great Mound-City. Seeing that he could not overthrow them with his host owing to their great numbers, he sent forth a message that the two sides would pick their champions, and that they would fight in single combat. The Fey agreed, for they feared the carnage Arthur, his war-hosts of forgotten Britain and the men of Genia had wrought upon the last Fey army they had met. If Arthur’s army was victorious, Arthur and twelve others would drink from the Cauldron of Life, the Fountain of Youth, the Holy Grail. If the Fey won, Arthur would return home, and gift them a weapon he claimed could kill gods.”
Bran the Wise, The Conquest of Anwwn.
Tane Bayder, 10 September 1582 AAA. Trackford.
They rode in silence to Tane’s lodgings, Tane itching for a fight, Mene glaring at the road ahead.
The details of the fight had been hashed out in a side alley, both her and Traharns seconds away from drawing there and then. Tomorrow morning, Westwark gardens. Rapiers and their choice of companion weapons excluding pistols, unarmoured. Traharn had challenged her, so she had the right to choose the weapons.
When they reached the stables, Tane dismounted, vaulting down from her saddle, while Mene awkwardly began to clamber down. Tane held out a hand for her, and Mene took it.
“You’re going to kill him, or he’s going to kill you!” Mene hissed as soon as she had both her feet on the ground.
“No I’m not. I’ll go for his arms with cuts, or try and disarm him.”
It’s not a tactical problem, you idiot.
“Then he’ll kill you! Why the fuck didn’t you back down?”
“He insulted your honour and challenged me. There was no choice but to fight.” Tane said it like it was the simplest thing in the world.
“I don’t have any honour worth defending.” Mene said. “I’m a bloody criminal. I don’t even have honour amongst thieves, because I turned thieftaker.”
“So what if you had to steal to eat? Your own damn brother called you a liar to your face. He had you beaten and didn’t even have the balls to do it himself.”
“I don’t want you to get yourself killed for m-“
“I’m an officer. You know what happens to officers who are thought of as cowards? No promotions. Troops don’t take us seriously. Shunned by other officers. Career dead.”
“Better than being killed. Traharn’s a veteran, an Arluk. He killed a man in a duel a few months after he arrived here”. Tane thought she could sense fear in Mene’s voice.
“So am I. And I’ve fought in half a dozen duels. Won all but one of them.”
Mene sighed. “If you’re going to do this, at least get something out of it. While Traharn and his thugs are distracted, I’m going to try and break into his house and grab anything incriminating.”
“That’s..” Tane began.
“Less dangerous than fighting Traharn one on one, and more useful.” Mene shrugged. “If I can’t talk you out of trying to get yourself skewered, you can’t talk me out of throwing myself into the lion’s den.”
Tane didn’t have anything to say to that but reluctant agreement.
*
Tane restlessly fingered the quillons of her rapier. They were nearly an hour past the arranged time to fight in Westwark, a park in one of Trackford’s suburbs, and it was starting to shift from dawn to full daylight.
Soon, Westwark would be inhabited by more than just duellists. Her whole body buzzed with anticipation and trepidation; the possibility of actually coming to blows with the Carfani mixing with the hard-earned knowledge of how uncertain and dangerous a duel could be.
“Bastard’s running scared, I bet” Artorius said besides her. She’d picked the Captain of Marines as her second; she didn’t want to bring Sace or Bydevere, since it would risk leaving her company with only one officer if something went wrong during the duel and Gryff didn’t recover well enough to return to service.
Tane nodded. “I reckon he’s doing it on purpose. Trying to unnerve me.”
“Mind games don’t work if the enemy knows what going on” Artorius said with a voice of faux wisdom. Connor O Carrene, her company surgeon, laughed in agreement.
“He wants to run late, then that’ll give Mene more time” Tane said.
“Captain Tane, I presume?” someone said behind her.
Tane snapped around, hand going to her hilt.
Traharn stood behind her, a doctor and second at his side.
“Hoja Klass, Lieutenant of Arluks, my second. Doctor Angharad”
Klass and Angharad couldn’t be more different.
Angharad was a pretty, skinny, blonde woman, in a modest dress with a valise on her hip. Klass was Gryff’s evil twin who’d run away to join the Arluks.
“No firearms, no armour, rapier and companion weapon as agreed?”
Traharn nodded. “I won’t need them.”
“Then let’s begin”
Tane pulled her cloak and woollen coat off, leaving herself dressed in doublet, breeches and hose. She thumped her chest, showing there was no metal armour concealed under her doublet. Traharn did the same.
Normally, they would have stripped down to shirts, but the cold prevented that.
She felt fear rising in her stomach. A little fear was good; it would her more prudent, more alert. Too much would make her jumpy and panic prone.
Calmness, vigour and judgement.
One mistake could mean both fighters ran each other through. Or it could mean the fight ended at first blood, with a small nick on the wrist.
“Ready?” Klass asked from across the small dip that was would soon turn into a flowing creek.
“Yes”
She buckled her parrying gauntlet into place on her left hand then drew her rapier, wrapping her finger over the quillions. She left her dagger on her belt, just in case.
They turned and saluted, raising the blade then whipping it down. She noted Traharn’s rapier was a swept hilt, with a longer, narrower blade than her own plate-hilted weapon.
He’s taller too; he’ll have the edge in reach. I’ll need to concentrate on his arms to make up for that. Swept hilt means I can target his hands more easily, but he can trap my point.
The seconds and doctors scrambled back.
They adopted their guards, Traharn a low Hessalene guard, his body coiled like a spring, arm held bent, Tane a Hassarchene straight-line guard, legs and torso fully upright, arm and sword extended straight towards Traharn’s face.
About 15 feet stood between them.
The shade of trees blocked much of the sunlight. Tane welcomed it; trying to fight snowblind would be an unpleasant experience.
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She moved forwards with small, cautious steps, keeping her point levelled at his face. Snow squelched under her feet.
He took a few steps forwards.
The tips of their blades met, briefly.
Traharn shuffled forwards, in Second, his knuckles facing outwards.
Covering the outside line, forcing me to go for the inside line. If he’s fencing Hesselene style, he’ll beat that with a quarter-rotation and a parry in fourth(2), following by him gaining my blade and striking in fourth.
She retreated slightly, keeping him at her defensive distance where she would have time to parry his attack before it connected, acutely aware of his needle thin point levelled at her chest.
Whoever attacked first was at a disadvantage; it was easier to hit someone extended after a failed attack than one in a prepared guard.
He raised his foot as if to lunge, then slammed it down, kicking up a puff of snow. A smirk broke the blankness of his face.
He wanted her to attack first as well, clearly.
Time to force his hand.
Tane stepped forwards and took a subjection on his blade, placing her blade over his and levered it off-line, and stepped in to strike under cover(1).
He didn’t try to fight the subjection and instead disengaged and lunged, thrusting to her outside line.
A flurry of thrusts and parries followed, Traharn twisting and lunging in the same instance. Tane protected herself and attacked with fast, controlled footwork, constantly moving offline, trying to feel the pressure of his blade, waiting for an opportunity to seize his rapier. He overextended on a lunge and she went for it, but his long rapier whipped away and cut at her leg as she came in for the grab. She parried low, and threw a thrust at his head as she retreated out of measure.
He regathered himself back into his Second guard. In the course of the exchange, they’d almost swapped positions. Tane started moving again, circling around him, working herself to have Artorius watching her back.
She flicked the tip of her rapier against his, trying to provoke him into movement once again.
He didn’t take the bait.
“You scared?” Tane asked.
Traharn grunted in response and lunged.
She sidestepped his point and thrust to his inside line, aiming away from his vitals , and felt the tip of her rapier hit bone as it punched into his shoulder. She yanked the point clear and moved out at an angle, maintaining her straight line guard. It was like a drill, only with the hit being acknowledged by blood and screaming rather than a salute and a return to guard.
Angharad and Klass scrambled down to Traharn. He swore in pain, making flicking cuts at thin air. Tane didn’t know whether it was in anger or trying to check that his arm still worked.
“Yield!” Tane barked, flicking the blood from her rapier. It seemed almost silvery as it caught the light reflected off the snow.
“Let me see your…” Angharad began.
“It’s only a flesh wound” Traharn grunted, pulling away from his attendants.
He charged, rapier held straight out. Tane moved back and to the side, trying to force him to slow down, to change directions. There was nothing more dangerous than a fencer who didn’t fear being struck, both to themselves and to their opponent.
She parried with a hanging guard as he came in, and grabbed his rapier by the blade, the mail lining her gauntlet protecting her hands, then threw a circle-cut at his head. She stopped her blow an inch short of his throat, their feet sliding on the snow as she turned with his momentum.
“Yield.” Tane barked.
Traharn let go of his rapier, parried her attempt to slit his throat with his dagger and kept coming, throwing himself onto Tane’s point as she returned to straight line guard, then seized it as she tried to withdraw the point from his ribcage. He rushed in, dagger glinting, the movement of his body jerking her rapier about. She checked his thrust with her gauntlet, but that was just cover as he ducked down and tackled her, locking up her legs and throwing her to the ground. Her vision swam as she hit the snow.
“Yield!” Traharn screamed, straddling her, her rapier pushed almost up to the hilt in his chest. She smashed her gauntleted palm into his face and tried to go for an eye gouge, and in the same moment let go of her rapier and grabbed his daggers shell hilt, but he pushed her hand away then pinned it under his knee. With two hands to grapple with, he easily got his dagger hand free.
“Yield” he snarled, nose broken, blood running down into his moustache. He pressed his dagger to her throat. “Yield!”
Tane didn’t have a choice.
I lost. I lost to a dead man.
Moments later Klass and Angharad were pulling Traharn off her. He stumbled like he was drunk, his whole body running red, her rapier still sticking through his chest. He grabbed it by the hilt and pulled it loose, grimacing. Klass grabbed the hilt and helped him. Angharad was yelling something about making the wound worse.
Tane stared, stunned.
People high on the battle-rush sometimes did strange things, and even seemingly deadly wounds sometimes didn’t kill quickly or at all. But even so…
She dragged herself to her feet, shaking the snow out of her doublet.
If that had been to the death, I would’ve been killed.
“You hurt?” Connor asked.
Tane shook her head.
Only in pride.
“Need this?” Traharn said, hacking up blood with as much concern as if he merely had a bad cold. He roughly wiped her rapier clean with his coat hem and held it out to her.
Tane blinked in shock, then numbly accepted the weapon, checked the blade for damage and any remaining blood, and sheathed it, falling back on old instincts.
Traharn lurched off, Klass going to support him.
“What the fuck” Artorius said behind her.
I lost. I surrendered without taking a scratch.
She’d only ever lost one duel before, when she was young and foolish and hadn’t known how to fight. After that, she’d been wounded, sometimes badly, but had always managed to eke out a victory.
Focus. I’m not dead or even injured. Traharn won’t survive his wounds. Mene should have hit his house by now. Doesn’t matter that I yielded, I won.
1: In real world Destreza(what Tane’s fencing style is based off, and what I practise) this is known as an Atajo, or literally “shortcut”, and is an extremely important part of the system.