Flash of the Blade
A Korst Story
by
Robert J. Morrison
Prologue.
12th Zakkthim, 2NT, the Year of Avarice
Nerrid, Kalmon, Balafrea
A thin stream of morning light cut through the darkness of the throne room like a sharp blade slicing through the soft flesh of a new-born. A small fire, mainly embers, burned softly in the huge fireplace, the flickers of light illuminating the drawn features of a tall shadowy figure. Robes cascaded down around his ankles, the dark purple of the silk appearing black in the meager light. His hands, barely visible beneath him voluminous sleeves, seemed more like clawed talons than true hands. His skin was as pale as a newly fallen snow and his gleaming blue eyes almost glowed in contrast. Dark bags shadowed his eyes, like a man that had known little sleep in many days. His blond hair, streaked with gray, flowed down his back almost to his hips, loose it fluttered in a breeze that was not there.
"How long Dancard? Every time I summon you before me you give me the same noncommittal responses and my temper begins to fray. I will not be played a fool in my own country." A strong voice said in a dangerous tone, the speaker hidden in the darkness.
"Your country Regobart?" Replied the silk clad wizard a wry smile splayed across his gaunt features.
"Yes my country! A country my by right and if I must by might! I have had enough of your stalling, how long have you been making your vague promises to me? And how long do you think I will accept your feeble excuses?"
"The next time you forget to address King Regobart correctly sorcerer you will feel two spans of steel blade in your belly," growled the third and last occupant of the grand throne room. His voice had the clipped harsh tone of a practiced soldier.
"Sorry, your majesty," Dancard said with little enthusiasm as he bowed slightly in apology. Dancard the Dark was a wizard of no small power but even so he had to be careful not to anger the self-styled king of Kalmon in his own palace, more than a few of his brotherhood had made that very mistake and had paid for it with their very lives. 'King' Regobart was a man of much anger and he had the backing of almost half of the country, tens of thousands of warriors, priests and mages were at his command and Regobart had been known to use all of these to achieve his goals.
"Tell me of your Orb Dancard and I want to hear no more excuses and delays. How long?"
"It is not as simple as His Majesty seems to believe," replied the warlock, his hands resting comfortably on his belt, where he kept a wide variety of wands and other magical gewgaws. "My work progresses well, better than I had expected in fact. I am hoping that within the year my work will be complete."
"Hoping within the year? I can summon the Northern Hordes and ransack Overkember by hand in that time wizard!"
"Then by all means General why do you not do so?" Dancard snapped back. "I can return the gold that Rego...King Regobart has paid me if my services are so unneeded."
"Silence! Both of you!" Regobart growled as he rose to his feet, his hands clenched at his sides. "I will not tolerate bickering in my presence. This is not a school yard it is the court of the rightful king of Kalmon!"
"My apologies my liege," General Bryan Telford said with a bow. He was a man unaccustomed to taking orders, lord of all the armies of the north and right hand to the King. But something about the vain and egotistical Dancard the Dark riled his anger like few other men could.
"Accept my humble apologies as well Majesty, I forgot myself," the wizard bowed far more deeply this time, seeing the anger etched on the far from handsome features of the Lord of the North. The 'King's' noble bearing was hard to distinguish, he was said to be the bastard son of King Derrick Tailfirth, the father of the last and much mourned King Starvor. As such he was not a man in his youth, he now neared sixty years of age and was rumored to be the son of a low-born whore. He had the all the regal appearance of a street urchin and the class of a gutter-snipe. His face was pinched in the middle almost as if he were permanently chewing upon the bitter root of the soilstar plant. His eyes, much too closely set, gave him a rodent-like appearance and when angry those beady eyes stared daggers at those that had acquired his wrath. His beard, that he grew Dancard was sure, to hide his gross ugliness, was now entirely gray and trimmed to a small point as the long-dead kings of the past were prone to wearing. He had the look of a tired man and Dancard could not begrudge the 'King' that as he had been heavily taxed in the last few years by the raging civil war that ravaged Kalmon, a war started by this very man.
"I do not want apologies Dancard, I want that Orb!"
"As I was saying, my work progresses well. There are but a few components left for me to gather. I have men and monsters searching much of this continent and the distant lands of Khellest and Cal-Frea as we speak. These are not components that are easily acquired."
"For the cost of this project your damnable Orb had better be all you have claimed and more!" General Telford said, his voice clearly restraining the anger that always simmered beneath the surface.
"Much more General."
"Tell me again Dancard, what this pricey item will achieve." Regobart said, nay, commanded as he once more settled into his massive golden throne, a throne it was said came from the crypt of the great-great-great-great-grandfather of Regobart's illegitimate father.
"It will allow you to conquer any city you wish within days without the cost of troops and coin. The minds of men will be commanded by my whim. And I, as a loyal servant of His Majesty, will speak the words commanded of me by your personage. No wizard or priest here in Kalmon will have any chance of breaking the power of the Orb of Dancard."
"So you say wizard," spat Telford, his hand still resting on the hilt of his much-used longsword. "What of that the wizard Gorrag Spellfire and his companion the High Cleric of Overkember, Father Sneb Whitelight? They are no minor spellcasters from all accounts and have managed to fend off any magical attacks we have made to date?"
"Spellfire is of little consequence, he is but a street wizard with delusions of grandeur. And the god-given magics of clerics are well-known to be no match for the might of a well trained mage such as myself. I would dare to say that many of my apprentices could make short work of the priest."
"You are over-confident Dancard," Telford warned, "those two pests you have mentioned are said to have warred with the very Gods themselves and lived to tell the tale. They were once of The 13." The mention of the ragtag bunch of heroes that were rumored to have saved the entire world of Korst not two years previously bolstered the General's argument. "To make light of Spellfire and Whitelight would be a careless mistake. You talk of your apprentices as if they were great dragonslayers and not pottering little novices."
"The General listens overmuch to rumors and alehouse gossip," Dancard returned, his eyes hurling daggers of hatred at the taciturn warlord. "Let me and mine attend to the matters of magic and the General attend to the sharp sticks and pathetic blades of foot soldiers."
"Enough. I think we have heard all we need to hear from you this day Dancard. Begone and work your fingers to the bone I wish to have that Orb within my grasp by the turn of the year. If I do not possess it by then, I would suggest you make preparations for an untimely execution."
"As his Majesty wishes," Dancard the Dark said with the lowest bow of the morning. With a snap of his fingers the air crackled and nothing was left to be seen of the wizard but a plume of purple smoke.
"I do not trust him my liege," the General growled as he paced back and forth in front of Regobart's great throne.
"Neither do I Bryan and neither should we. He is a wretched creature, as are, in my opinion, all wizards and spellcasters. But we have need of magical aid. Overkember is the prize we must claim if we want to be successful in our attempts to win this damned war. I will pay any price within my limits to claim Overkember, the coin to be made in that city of trade is all that stands between me and my rightful place at the head of the entire Kingdom."
"If he fails us..."
"Then and only then you have my blessing to run the pig through and his head will be hung from the gates of Nerrid for all to see. But until that time he is protected by the crown Bryan, never forget that."
Part 1.
23rd Zakkthim
Overkember, Kalmon
Unlike most taverns in the bustling city of Overkember The Prince's Blade was frequented by the highest class of patron. Nobles, merchants and warriors of great merit were seated around the clean and well turned out common room listening to the tale of Father Whitelight and Archmage Spellfire, heroes of the city. The bard sang with skill, his perfectly pitched voice gave the rendition a life of its own. Though those in attendance had heard this tale sang again and again in the last two years everyone still listened attentively. Everyone that is but one man. Kelvar Cooper had no time for songs and bard-skill he was low on funds, his life as a dandy came at a heavy cost, a cost that his father, the most respected cooper in Overkember, refused to fund. And now, with everyones' attention locked on the elven bard Silvian Tirrilyth of Fas-Allian Kelvar schemed to increase the weight of his purse at the expense of the audience. His nimble hands and small dagger were a match for any thief in the city, a fact he was very proud of. He walked with the bearing of a great man, a man of nobility and wealth. His clothes were made by the finest tailors in the city, no one would, or did, suspect that they would soon lose all their coin to such a well dressed merchant's son. By the time the epic tale concluded Kelvar had made his way around the crowd twice and relieved two visiting merchants and a young merchant's son of their bulging coin purses.
"Damnit Kel you forgot the drinks, where the hell have you been?"
"Privy. I do not think the lamb stew agreed with me," Kelvar said as he sat down next to his best friend Meric Hardwick. Meric was dressed much as was Kelvar, his jacket was crafted from the finest velvet, but unlike Kelvar's blue Meric's was a dazzling emerald green, a color said to be in high fashion this season.
"Well get yourself to the bar my mouth is as dry as my wit," Meric said with a wave of his hand.
"Okay I'm going, make sure no one takes my seat, I hear the Esmerelda the fire juggler is on next and you know how much I love it when she jiggles and juggles and this is the best seat in the house. From here you can see her well formed cleavage performing an act all of its own."
"You have my word, I'll protect your seat as if it belonged to the Regent himself," Laughed Meric, his hand instinctively patting the fine hilt of his beautiful rapier. Kelvar nodded, accepting Meric's word, there were few men in Overkember that could match blades with jeweler's son when it came to a duel. "Just hurry up will you or you'll miss your much loved bust."
Meric watched Kelvar as he disappeared into the pack gathered around the long bar that ran from one side of the tavern to the other. He shook his head at his friend's lack of concentration, often he would wander off for one thing and return without it. Meric would have assumed that Kel was after some lass or other, but unlike him, Kelvar was not a handsome man. Meric took great pride in his regal appearance, involuntarily he stroked his long blond hair back, making sure every hair was in place. Pulled back as it was in a loose tail often did a hair or two find it's way free of his leather hair tie. Satisfied that his hair was in place he turned his attention to the rest of his appearance. He picked a dot or two of lint from his jacket and straightened his string neck tie. He stroked his leather breeches with his hands, making sure that no creases were marring their perfection before lifting an empty silver platter and checking his reflection in its shiny base. His nose was straight and perfectly formed, his blue eyes spaced just so as to accentuate his strong chin. Unlike many nobles and merchants Meric did not wear any powder or make up to keep his appearance looking splendid. In fact he often laughed at the other dandies and their primping, he needed no help to make the women fawn all over him.
By the time Meric placed the empty platter down in front of him Kelvar had reappeared with two fine crystal flutes of ruby red wine. Though Kel was dressed as equally fine as Meric he would never attract the class of woman that he did. While his features were not ugly they would be best described as plain. Even his brown hair seemed dull in comparison to the jeweler's son.
"Best the house has to offer," Kelvar said as he took up his seat opposite his best friend, the pilfered coin of his larcenous act kept him in sweet wines and rich ales at all times. Meric thought nothing of this as his father gave him enough coin to keep him in the richest food, drink and whores the city had to offer, it stood to reason that Kelvar's father was equally as generous.
Soon Esmerelda the fire juggler was up on stage, her curvy body barely contained within her skimpy stage attire. Meric could not argue with Kel's assessment of her wondrous figure, most men in the tavern were unconcerned by her deft handling of her flaming brands. The act continued for some time and finished with a dazzling display of juggling. With a deep bow, a bow that presented her fine bust for all to see, she extinguished her brands in a bucket of water. The plentiful breasts and not her act received a standing ovation from the drunken crowd.
"I could watch that for hours," Kelvar said with a sigh.
"As could every red-blooded male in Overkember," laughed the jeweler's son as he finished off his drink. "Damn look at the time." Kelvar leaned backwards to check the hour on the tavern's highly expensive water-clock on the wall behind the bar.
"My father expected me home hours ago. He is off on a caravan to Sythal-Allias tomorrow and he was meant to give me my allowance before he left. You coming now or are you going to try your luck with Esmerelda, again?"
"I think I will join you, three knock backs from one woman is enough for me," Kelvar said with a bit of a pout. The cooper's son had been trying to win over the fair Esmerelda for many months now with absolutely no luck. Every time he had approached her she was far more interested in the handsome Meric that he always seemed to be with.
"Right then let's make tracks," Meric stood and brushed off his lap then straightened his scabbard making sure his weapon was perfectly at hand. But before the pair could exit The Prince's Blade their path was blocked by the towering figure of one of the well known and well-to-do customers of the tavern, Bellamy Ironcoil.
"You two ain't going anywhere," slurred the tall figure of Bellamy. He was as well dressed as the pair of friends but unlike them he always traveled with a pack of cronies that were of a lesser standing in the city.
"Please get out of my way," Meric asked patiently, Bellamy was rumored to be a bit of a bully and Meric was in no mood to be delayed, if he returned home too late he might well miss his father in the morning and would have to make do for the next five weeks without any extra allowance.
"You can sod off Hardwick I ain't got no quarrel with you. It is with your light-fingered pal that I have a score to settle," Bellamy, like most patrons of the Blade, knew of Meric's skill with the blade. In the last six months Meric had been involved in and won almost a score of duels. Dueling was a common practice among the higher classes, a good way to settle feuds without the intervention of the city guard. It would be a great disgrace for any member of the higher classes to spend even a single solitary night in the cells beneath the House of Law, the towering temple of Kelladorn.
"Light fingered?" Kelvar said in mock, but well acted, surprise.
"My purse has been sliced and there ain't been no one but you drifting around the Blade this evening. I want every coin back in my hand by the time I count to five or you'll be missing more than coin."
"You astound me Bellamy," Kel said with surprise, "you can count all the way to five?"
"Shut up Kel," Meric said, his right hand resting on his weapon's hilt. "We do not want any trouble Ironcoil and I can vouch for Kelvar, he has been at my side all evening."
"Bollocks!"
"I have places to be Bellamy, get out of our way and take your peasant friends with you," Meric said, his patience worn thin by the delay. The comment brought a round of grumbling from the less affluent friends of Bellamy. Yes they were of a lower class but none of them wished to be reminded of the fact, especially here in the popular Blade.
"Like I said you can go, but he owes me big!"
"Kelvar goes where I go and no drunken buffoon the likes of you are going to change that fact. Now for the last time Ironcoil, Out. Of. My. Way!" Meric was growing truly tired of Bellamy's bullying tactics. He, nor Kelvar, had ever been on the receiving end of such treatment but he had seen many lesser men pushed and jostled by the loud-mouth merchant's son.
"You might be good with that rapier Hardwick but never have I met my match with mine," Bellamy boasted.
"That will be due to the fact that you start these little confrontations with men that have no skill with the blade. Such men prove easy targets for your mediocre bladesmanship and small-minded anger. Unless you want to bleed on the King's Garden when the sun rises next you would be wise to move your rouge-covered arse out of the way and forget these pathetic accusations."
"That sounds like a challenge Bellamy," crowed one of the cronies from the relative safety of his position behind the young Ironcoil.
"Is that what it is Hardwick? You fancy yourself against me?"
"Nothing in this world or any other could make me fancy you Bellamy. But if you want to bleed then I will accept any challenge at any time from a craven fool such as yourself. Tomorrow morning?"
"Nay," said Bellamy, his head was already pounding from the hangover that he knew he was sure to get and he knew he would need his whole mind focused to beat the highly regarded duelist. "Three days hence, sixthday, dawn, King's Gardens."
"Then we have a date," Meric agreed, "the first date I imagine you have had in some time that you have not had to pay for."
"You'll be laughing on the other side of your face in three days Hardwick when I carve a second smile on the back of your head." With that he stormed out of the saloon doors and into the windy night streets of Overkember.
"You didn't have to do that Meric," Kelvar said as the last of Bellamy's cronies had disappeared into the darkness of the night. "I have heard he is better than most with that pig-sticker of his."
"Pah, I have seen him fight, he is no match for me. Anyway I couldn't have him slandering you now could I? What sort of friend would that make me if I let him take your father's hard earned gold? Now come on time is wasting and I can't afford to miss father in the morning."
Three days passed slowly for Meric, he had overslept and his father, and his father's purse, had left town before he could drag himself from his large and extremely comfortable bed. It would be a tight few weeks financially, hopefully Kelvar could help pay for a few drinks while Meric was less than flush. But Kelvar had been oddly absent, which was unusual for Kelvar. Unlike Meric Kelvar was not a popular man in Overkember, rumors abounded about him, none as yet had be proved but never the less his standing in the higher circles of society had been damaged.
"Must be the threats of Bellamy," Meric said to himself as he searched the regular night spots where the duo usually spent their evenings. Kelvar was a novice with the blade and he did not even carry a weapon. Wearing a blade when you had little chance of defeating a foe was a sure way to end up gutted and lying face down in a dark alley. It was for this very reason that Kelvar and Meric had first become friends three years before. A merchant or noble without a friend or minder was easy prey for thieves and cutthroats in the dark nights of Overkember. Since the khurl had invaded Korst almost fifteen years ago Overkember, as with all the cities of Korst, had grown to be a far more dangerous place.
So with little coin and no Kelvar to pay for drinks Meric had been forced to stay at home more than was his wont. Raiding his father's wine cellar for a few good vintage bottles of Fas-Allian Orangeblossom Meric had spent the last few days practicing with his rapier. "Practice makes perfect." The words of his old fencing tutor Norn Greatblade had proved to be right on the mark. Every day Meric would spend at least an hour going through a regime that the old half-elf had drilled into him in his early youth. Not only did the practice keep his skill as sharp as his rapier but helped to keep his young body in a fine trim form. Though not strong Meric was wiry and toned.
Soon though the pre-dawn morning of Sixthday was upon him. Meric chose his wardrobe with great care, nothing too restrictive and nothing too loose and baggy. He needed something that offered comfort, class and fluid ease of movement. Finally he settled for a close-fitting shirt of amber silk, its' sleeves were long but close enough to not divert his attention. High soft leather boots that reached up to the center of his calves, no heel and a fine tread that would grant his feet a firm grip on the dew covered grass of the King's Gardens. His trews were soft leather that allowed him quick movement of his legs and yet kept the early morning chill at bay. He had decided against a jacket but wore a heavy hooded dark cloak of shimmering purple velvet that he would discard before the duel began. Content his appearance was fitting he strapped his rapier around his waist, drawing and sheathing it with practiced ease to make sure he was comfortable in his attire.
"Looking fine as ever Meric," he said to himself as he studied himself in his father's six foot and highly expensive silver-backed mirror. With a nod of contentment Meric made his way from the Hardwick Estate and entered the still dark streets of Overkember. His hand he kept on his hilt, this was the time of day that belonged to the press-gangs and rogues. With his confident stride and easy movement he had little fear that such disreputable characters would take their chances with him. It took nearly an hour before the public park known as the King's garden came into view.
A thrill rushed through the young dandy as he stepped on to the dew wet grass of the King's Gardens. Dueling was not a matter of justice for Meric but he fought his fights for the grandeur, honor, and the pleasure that was associated with a successful bout. He fought for the pleasure of the act and the thrill of victory and the adulation of his peers. Many men thought this a ludicrous pleasure pursuit but for Meric it was the pinnacle of entertainment. Matching his skills against those that thought themselves his betters due to a larger estate or a richer family. It was here in the city's grand park that he held his head high and walked viewing everyone else he fought as beneath him, even if was only for a few minutes.
Soon his foe came into view, Bellamy was dressed in his usual finery. Silk shirt with billowing sleeves. What a mistake, thought Meric as he approached. The loose fitting sleeves would only hamper Bellamy by distracting his eye and his concentration. On top of the shirt he wore a sleeveless jacket of bright red, perhaps to hide any wounds that would mean he had lost the duel. His only intelligent piece of clothing were his breeches that were much the same as Meric's. Finally he wore a pair of hard soled, heeled leather boots. Yet another mistake, thought the young challenger, his shoes would offer little purchase on the wet and slightly slippery ground. But what caught Meric's attention the most was the elaborate and beautiful rapier hanging on Bellamy's belt. With a fine steel hand-basket and encrusted with more jewels than Meric could count it was one of the finest weapons the young duelist had ever seen. It glimmered in the early morning light as the sun crept above the maple trees that stood to the east end of the park.
"Where is the thieving knave that this duel is about? He foresees the inevitable does he not and has fled before I can flay him as I will whip you?" Bellamy laughed, his hand resting on the hilt of his fine blade.
"I have not seen Kelvar in a few days, if I find you have harmed him before I can beat you then I will not stop at wounding you the next time we meet," Meric said forcefully, truly hoping that Bellamy had not injured his best friend.
"You insult my honor Hardwick," Growled Bellamy as he glared at Meric, his feet shuffling in an attempt to fight off the early morning chill.
"I'll insult more than your honor if you have. Anyway that is beside the point, we are here to duel, let us state rules and conditions."
"You name them Hardwick, then nobody can accuse me of swindling you after your blood drips from my blade," Bellamy said with a sneer.
"When I win I will take your blade," Meric said confidently.
"My blade?" Bellamy looked temporarily taken aback by the prize. Few knew that the rapier that hung comfortably in his ornate scabbard was no mundane weapon. His father had spent many thousands of golden eagles having it crafted by both the finest smiths in the city as well as it being enchanted by some less reputable wizards that he had in his employ. The blade was gifted with a speed that no mere blade could hope to defeat. Magics that had cost dearly had also given Bellamy the upper hand in every bout he had ever taken part in.
"What have you to offer me when you lose?"
"I will leave Overkember and never return," Meric said, it was a dangerous ploy, if he did in fact lose then his entire life would be irrevocably changed, his father and his wealth would be left behind. Kalmon, in a state of civil war as it was, had few cities that were as comfortable as Overkember. Leaving the city would also mean leaving the country of his birth, probably forcing him to move almost a thousand miles to the west to the peaceful Kingdom of Gelt, the island nation off of the west coast of Balafrea and in the Ocean of Danav.
"I agree!"
"Then when the Temple's prayer bell rings for the first time we start," Meric was dubious that Bellamy had agreed to the outrageous terms so swiftly. Doubt, something Meric never felt before a duel, wormed its' way into his mind. He had thought that Bellamy would have argued the terms, never risking so expensive a weapon as well as his pride for the sake of Kelvar and Meric.
Putting his worries to the back of his mind Meric drew his rapier with a swift and fluid whip of his wrist, the well-forged weapon caught the morning glow, sparkling softly. Meric made sure to sharpen and clean his blade every morning, whether he had a duel or not. One must rely on his weapon during these dark times of war. A blade that was not cared for properly could result in an untimely death or injury.
Bellamy simply stood and watched as Meric swept through the practice routines that Norn Greatblade had made him repeat again and again in training. His moves were swift and sure, never once did the blade waver. Like a bolt of lightning it snapped forward in a blinding flurry. His routine continued on with him practicing his lunges and his defensive parries. His wrist did much of the complicated work while his elbow and lunges added power to the accuracy. Bellamy watching did so with grudging respect. Meric's moves were well honed and sure, his feet moved in a complicated blur as he shuffled forward and then backwards in quick succession. A look of concentration was spread across Meric's face, nothing would interrupt his routine. Not even the fact that Bellamy was still to even draw his own weapon. The minutes passed in a blur for Meric and soon he felt a sheen of sweat building on his face. With an impressive flurry of complicated attacks, feints and parries Meric fell back two steps and in as fluid a motion as the draw he sheathed his rapier.
"Impressive Hardwick," Bellamy said, still his blade in its scabbard, "but dancing with a sword will not keep you from leaving Overkember with your tail between your legs."
Before Meric could respond an almost deafening deep chime echoed through the city. First Bell, the signal to pray and give thanks to Kelladorn, The White Father.
Almost quicker than his eyes could follow Bellamy had drawn his rapier and the blade was as fine as the rest of the weapon. In less than a second Meric's foe was on the attack, the duel had begun.
The beautiful rapier sliced through the air and Meric almost had to throw himself to the wet ground to avoid the thrust. His own blade not yet bared, he had little defense but quick feet to avoid an embarrassingly short duel. He felt his foe's blade whistle past his cheek, less than an inch from scarring his face. Fortunately for Meric Bellamy did not even try to follow up the lunge, he just took a step back and whipped the rapier in a figure '8' routine, a smug smirk on his face.
"This could be over even quicker than I imagined," laughed the young Ironcoil. Meric did not believe the 'sucker punch' of an attack or the comment justified an answer but instead drew his blade and shifted his feet into a comfortable position. "Are you just going to stand there Hardwick or are you going to join the duel?"
"I only thought it fair to let you have at least one attack that you could hope to hit with this morning," Meric retorted. This time it was as he launched the attack, a swipe aiming for the mid-section of Bellamy. Up snapped the wonderful blade easily knocking Meric's attack wide with but a flick of his wrist. Again Meric was impressed with the startling speed that Bellamy seemed to possess, this was going to be harder than he had expected, he suspected.
"If that's the best you have got Hardwick you may as well let me cut you now and save yourself the time and energy of continuing the challenge."
"A great blade-master once told me, 'speed does not win a battle but skill and knowledge.' Shall we prove him correct?" In lunged Meric once more, one blistering attack at the face of Bellamy and then instantly followed by a lower strike at the top of his thigh. To Meric's astonishment both were parried with ease. For the first time in a score of bouts he felt like an amateur.
"I heard you were good Hardwick, it just proves that you can't believe everything you hear," Bellamy laughed as his weapon struck out once, twice and finally a third time. Meric had to keep all his wits about him to clumsily defend against the triple attack. For the second time in the short duel the weapon of Bellamy Ironcoil came scant millimeters from his face. Meric fell back and began to circle his mocking opponent, the smile on Ironcoil's face was making the young Hardwick's blood boil.
Meric was forced more than six times in the next minute or so to fall back, his feet a blur of motion, keeping him perfectly balanced. It was only this that kept him from losing the contest. But it was during this dangerous sixty seconds that Meric noticed something was truly amiss in the situation. No man, no matter how well trained or dexterous, could move at such speeds. All was not what it seemed.
"That is a fine weapon you have there Bellamy, it must have cost your father more gold than I care to guess," Meric probed between two flurries of swift and nearly successful attacks. All four slices and both lunges were slapped away. But Meric knew they would be, it was not the defending weapon he was watching but the slow and clumsy footwork of his foe. The blade may have been unnaturally quick but Bellamy's balance was truly substandard.
"More money than you'll ever own," Bellamy said as he hacked out at Meric's neck. The attack had not been a wounding strike, if it had come in contact with Meric's throat he would not live out the next minute. To Bellamy's surprise all that fell to the floor was a lock of glistening blond hair. "You appear to be lucky Hardwick."
"And you appear to be a cheat!"
"Is everyone that is better than you a cheat?" Bellamy laughed.
"Fisrt there is no one better than me Bellamy. And secondly that blade is more than it seems, with a well trained duelist behind it it would be unbeatable."
Meric had to concentrate to keep the next three angry slashes and slices at bay, his remarks had apparently hit home and Bellamy's composure was falling away. Meric was finding each attack easier to parry than the last for Bellamy had little skill with the weapon, he was relying on its' supernatural haste to defeat his foe. His feet and upper body had difficulty keeping up with the speed of the attacks and as such Bellamy was advertising the attack with his body a split second before it was unleashed.
"You dance and prance like a fairy Hardwick!"
"And you fight like a street drunk Ironcoil," Meric swiftly replied with a condescending smile. As Meric had suspected the remark angered Bellamy yet further. His attacks as rapid as they were became easier to predict and thus to defend against with each passing second. No longer was the young Hardwick on the back foot, now he forced Bellamy on the defensive. As his foe had noticed Meric's footwork was indeed a lot like that of a dancer. In fact Norn had explained that the coordination that the best dancers used was often a valuable skill when it came to fights with the rapier. The fluidity of motion, the balance and the timing were all essential to a good duelist.
"Stand still and let me run you through," Bellamy snarled, "I grow tired of watching you fanny about."
"Have no fear Bellamy it will be over sooner than you would like."
"If so then your blood would already stain my blade."
Meric had no intension of slowing down or ceasing his fluid yet seemingly erratic motion. Before Bellamy could decipher which direction Meric would move next the blade would whip in from another angle. Each one growing closer and closer to a successful and winning blow.
Then it happened!
Bellamy lunged with a growl only to discover that Meric was no longer before him. Slipping to the left Meric moved into Bellamy's blind spot and launched his final telling attack. With a squeal like a stuck pig Bellamy Ironcoil dropped his fine enchanted rapier to the wet grass, falling beside it was a steady stream of crimson fluid. Bellamy glanced down to see Meric's own rapier embedded an inch into his thigh. He looked up to see his opponent standing calmly his arm ready to plunge the weapon deeper into his leg.
"You yield?"
"Damn you! Damn you to Kkrassk's deepest pits Hardwick," snarled Bellamy, "damn you, yes I yield."
With a short sharp pain Meric slipped his rapier free of Bellamy's flesh and in the same movement sliced downwards and hooked his blade in fine had-basket of the defeated man's rapier. With a snap of his wrist he flicked the enchanted weapon into the air and deftly caught it.
"It was a pleasure doing business with you Bellamy," Meric laughed as he sheathed his new weapon in his scabbard and tossed his old one to the ground at Bellamy's feet. "Only fair that you get my cast offs now isn't it?"
"You'll pay for this Hardwick, I swear it!"
30th Zakkthim
Estate of House Beltor, Overkember
"You are not the only one with a quarrel with that pair Bellamy," Beltor the Younger whispered with conspiratorial volume. His hair was dark and plastered backwards against his thin skull, his hooked nose and deep eyes giving him an avian look. He hung at Bellamy's side as the pair walked, cocksure, through the throng. This night like many others Beltor the Elder, Master Merchant and once Trade Adviser to the King, had a thriving party in the feasting chamber of his great manor house. Anybody who was anybody in the noble classes and rich merchants of the city was here.
"I had sensed tension between you and that worm Kelvar in the past few years, he has wronged you too?" Bellamy Ironcoil asked as he sipped at a crystal flute filled with a dry white locally produced wine.
"He has indeed, the details of the encounter are best left for another time but needless to say that you would have my support in any endeavor you have to blacken his already weak reputation." Beltor hissed adding in an even quieter tone, "Or even his health."
The 'encounter' as Beltor called it had occurred almost two years before. Beltor he Younger like Kelvar Cooper was a knave and a thief and as such their paths had crossed. In the bitterness of winter many of the noble houses in the city were left all but empty as the owners often spent the cold months in the south and warmer climes. One of said houses was owned by the extremely wealthy noble, Lord Drenam. Lord Drenam was a well known lover of the arts and as such had many works of great renown and even greater financial worth in his home. By quirk of fate or the humor of the Gods themselves the two knave both chose a cloudy winter night to invade the home and remove the priceless oil painting of the late great Givio Trobador. When in the darkness of the mansion they crossed paths they had been almost upon the perfectly rendered portrait of the first king of Kalmon, Kalliman I. A minor brawl started by the enraged Beltor had swiftly followed, but the wily Kelvar had out maneuvered the scrawny Beltor. Before the noble could regain his senses Kelvar Cooper had removed the portrait and fled into the night. This publicly unknown defeat while secret still stung Beltor the Younger's pride and honor and as such it was disrespect that would not go unpunished. And to make matters worse Kelvar had the bad sense to make wry remarks to Beltor in public, rubbing the defeat in the richer young man's face.
"You speak words of treachery and murder?"
"It would not be murder," Beltor hissed almost silently, "it would be pest control."
"And if by chance I did have a plan it what manner would your support be shown?" Bellamy was not measured by his intelligence but he was surprisingly shrewd when the need arose. He would not incriminate himself in anyway without assurance that Beltor the Younger was equally guilty for any planned deed.
"Come let us take this conversation to more suitable surroundings, follow me my friend."
Bellamy leaned back on the stuffed divan and continued to sip upon a freshly refilled glass of wine. The room, many minutes walk from the crowded festhall, was opulently furnished. Tapestries covered the gray stone walls and a thick shag carpet of a glistening aqua-marine covered the floor trapping the warmth of the huge blazing wood fire.
Beltor the young sat at his oaken desk, drumming his fingers on the hard wood as he eyed the room's lone door (barring the unknown secret tunnel in the east wall that only Beltors both Elder and Younger knew of). Only the sound of spitting damp wood ablaze could be heard in the tense room. The large stained-glass windows were both firmly shut blocking out the sounds of the city.
"He will be here soon." Beltor assured Bellamy as the minutes ticked by on the grand water-clock on the western wall of the room. Beltor the Younger had not spared a copper coronet of his father's money on his personal office. Each ticking motion of the clock's small hand sounded like a gong to the two scheming young men, anxiety accentuating every tiny sound. Minutes dragged on seeming hours as their nerves grew more fraught.
As an hour sounded on the clock Bellamy stood, ready to leave and rejoin the festivities and tired of the seemingly pointless waiting, the door to the room slowly creaked open. Both heads swung towards the yawning portal, hands on concealed daggers. Beltor breathed a sigh of relief when the hooded figure entered the bright room. Deep purple velvet robes almost glowed in the fire-light as the man shuffled silently into the room.
"I am at your service young master," The voice cracked out of the gloom of the cowl, sounding like dry parchment being cut with a rusty blade.
"Close the door Delphinious Timetwister, you are letting out the warmth," Beltor the Younger commanded with as much false bravado as he could muster. With a click of his shrunken twisted talon-like fingers the Mage of Power, Delphinious, softly closed the door, his art working where most men would use a physical push.
"You have need of my skills? Or so said your note, though in future I would think it wise if you did not use the youthful, and curious, pages of this house to ferry your missives. Their eyes have a tendency to wander where they ought to."
"Sound advice sorcerer," Beltor agreed grudgingly, wishing he had thought of that possibility. "But yes, we, have need of you." The young man motioned towards the still standing Bellamy.
"Greetings young master Ironcoil. And in what capacity shall my skills be needed?"
"In deeds most foul," spat Bellamy as he returned to his seat. "Matters best handled by a blackguard dark warlock like yourself. Matters most dark indeed."