A/N: Hello again! New Zealand was absolutely amazing. Seriously one of the most beautiful places in the world, after Canada (why no, I'm not biased…) And I celebrated my 21st birthday over there, which was awesome. Everybody should go to New Zealand; Wellington has the most restaurants, cafes, bars, pubs, and clubs per capita than any other city in the world! And it's the birthplace of Peter Jackson.
Before we resume with our tale, let me just say that I was terrified of writing this chapter. Despite how violent this story has somehow become, I still get nervous whenever I write a bit of action – especially extended fight scenes. Anyway, welcome back and enjoy. Oh, and happy Canada Day!
Thanks for the correction, May!
Single Combat
Captain Javen sat alone in a scarlet and gold tent, reflecting on his situation. He had never been more nervous in his life, not when he waited on the steps of Holehallow to face his attackers, and not even before the birth of his first child. Being nervous was certainly nothing new to the Captain of the Royal Guard, but he could actually feel himself shaking – not a good sign. And as they were too far south to access the Charter, the Captain felt even more vulnerable without that familiar presence.
Delegations from the Kingdom and Ancelstierre were camped out on the estate of an Ancelstierran lord friendly to the Old Kingdom, presumably to make them feel "safe". The isolation also sheltered them from the many assassins who were after the Abhorsen, the King, the Wallmakers, or any combination of the above. Of course, assassins were the least of Captain Javen's worries at the moment. Somehow he had been selected to represent the Kingdom in a trial of single combat, and in a few minutes he would be facing the best fighter in Ancelstierre. The Captain supposed his situation warranted a bit of nervousness, but that did not make him feel any better about what he was going to do.
Reactions to the Council's decision had been varied. Javen himself was forced to accept the task with as much grace and false happiness that he could dredge up. The guards were proud that their Captain had been chosen from all the swordsmen in the Kingdom, and boasted openly to the soldiers. In reply, the soldiers maintained that their own officers were too valuable to risk in single combat. And upon his arrival at the estate, Cassiel Abhorsen had been so pathetically relieved that Javen would be fighting that it was almost insulting.
Princess Farelle, however, had immediately confronted her father upon hearing the news. Their conversation had escalated into a shouting match overheard by half the palace, in which Farelle accused her father of using the tournament as a convenient way to get her husband killed. That would have been treason from the mouth of anyone else, but from the Crown Princess it was impudence. Their "conversation" was not helped by the fact that the King was even more short-tempered than usual, due to the Prince's recent bizarre behaviour.
From what Javen could gather from his wife, a letter from Prince Andromis to the palace had contained mention of a mysterious woman in the northwest. The news had spread like wildfire through court, as such news has a wont to do. Lady Charsia's family had been scandalized at the dishonourable treatment of their daughter, a girl who had been a shoo-in for the next Princess. King Dantalion had been obliged to smooth the whole thing over, and as he rarely exerted himself in order to please others, the result was a very irritated King.
In short, the King and the Crown Princess were hardly speaking to each other any more, which made it all the worse for Javen who was trapped in a nightmare scenario. If the Captain had ever been in need of comfort, it was now – but with his wife too angry at her father to even speak coherently, there seemed little chance of that.
The flap of the tent was thrown back, and Lieutenant Staunis ducked inside. He gave his Captain a tight smile. "How are you feeling, sir?"
Javen wanted to say something nonchalant and witty, but he only succeeded in grunting a little. Staunis, damn him, gave a knowing smile, before walking over to help him on with his gethre coat. It hung down to Javen's knees and was split for riding, although this particular battle would be on foot. He wondered idly if he would ever ride a horse again.
The Captain had just struggled into the right sleeve, when the tent flap was thrown back a second time and in strode – the King?
Out of long habit Javen and Staunis sprang immediately to attention, which was awkward for the Captain, not to mention uncomfortable. King Dantalion regarded the younger men coolly before jerking his head at the Lieutenant. Staunis did not need to ask for clarification; he gave a smart salute and left the tent quickly.
Ignoring the urge to stare wistfully after his Lieutenant, Javen squared his shoulders and faced his father-in-law, attempting to look as dignified as possible with one arm stuck inside his gethre armour. The two of them stared at each other, and the King eventually broke the silence: "How are you feeling, Captain?"
Javen resisted a mad urge to laugh. This was the second time in ten minutes that he had been asked that ridiculous question. He was only minutes away from facing the champion of Ancelstierre in single combat, and the outcome could very well determine whether the two countries went to war or not. How did everybody think he was feeling? But the King would probably not appreciate an honest answer, so he replied, "I'm all right."
King Dantalion walked over to the younger man and lifted the dangling gethre coat. Javen glanced at him questioningly before pulling the armour over his head. It was during that tricky moment when one's head is stuck just below one's collar that the King decided to speak: "My daughter has accused me of something quite serious."
Fumbling around in the darkness inside his gethre coat, Javen stifled a sigh. "Did she, your Majesty?" he asked, yanking the coat over his head and brushing back his mussed hair.
The King started to buckle the armour up the sides, and Dantalion lifted his arms to allow better access. "Yes, Captain. She told me that she believes I won't mind if you die, and that's why I elected you for this fight. She said I wished to find her a husband I considered more – ah – suitable."
Now Javen really could not suppress a smile. "The thought had crossed my mind," he admitted.
King Dantalion deftly fastened the last leather buckle, and reached for a pair of hobnailed boots. He knelt and placed a boot on Javen's foot, steadying it on a stool as he laced it up. Tightly. "I told Farelle that she was being foolish. I certainly don't want you killed, Captain." Hardly able to believe his ears, Javen looked on in surprise. "Think of what Tralusan would do to the Kingdom if we lose this fight," clarified the King.
Captain Javen sighed. "I know that," he admitted heavily. "Farelle is just worried, and I am sure she did not mean what she said about you nominating me just to be killed." Mustering his courage, he decided to be direct, for once. "But in all honesty, your Majesty, it is no secret that you do not approve of me."
The King kept lacing up the boot, his sharp eyes thankfully intent on the task. "It is true that I consider your ancestry to be greatly beneath my daughter's," he said simply. "It is true that I would have preferred someone of high nobility as a son-in-law, an heir to an old estate perhaps. And I ended up with the third son of a minor nobleman!"
Javen remembered just in time that it was not polite to scowl at the King, but it was a near miss. King Dantalion had finished lacing the boot and reached for the other one. "But despite your origins, the Council chose you as the Kingdom's champion," he continued. "And against all of my inclinations otherwise, I have to admit that I am quite relieved that Farelle married a man of the sword. Your low birth might have been enough for me to interfere, but fortunately for you, you've no small skill with a blade."
Javen couldn't think of anything to say. He wasn't sure whether to be flattered or offended. The King finished lacing up the boot and stood, reaching for a red surcoat that had been slung over the chair. "Your wife will be the Queen one day, Captain. She will need someone to watch over her. In protecting Farelle during her rule, you will be protecting the Kingdom itself." He held up the surcoat, and the golden tower insignia on the chest gleamed. "That is what you are doing right now, Captain. You may as well get used to the job."
It took a while for Javen to realize that his mouth was hanging open, and he closed it abruptly. He said nothing as King Dantalion helped him on with the surcoat, and still said nothing as he buckled his swordbelt with fumbling fingers. Finally, the King clasped his arm. "May the Charter protect you, Javen," he said. The young man gulped and nodded, staring after the older man as he left the tent with a swirl of his cloak. Had the old man really just called him by name?
After a moment of confusion, Javen attempted to focus on the task at hand. "Right," he said under his breath, seeking desperately for composure. He reached for his helm, dropped it, picked it up again, and placed it firmly upon his head – before realizing that it was on backwards. "Charter take me!" he cursed, settling it the right way around. He picked up his shield, squared his shoulders, and ducked out of the tent before he could make any more ridiculous mistakes.
It was a grey day with a chilly wind, especially on the meadow which offered no shelter. A large circle had been marked out with wooden posts; at one end was gathered the Old Kingdom delegation, and at the other a mixed group of Ancelstierrans. The glares they were shooting him made it difficult not to run over to his countrymen, so he settled for a very brisk walk.
"Javen," Farelle whispered, throwing her arms around him. "Oh darling, please, please don't do anything stupid. Keep your eyes open, and your sword up, and don't forget to move your feet." The fur lining of her cloak tickled his cheek, and as her words swept over him that was all he could feel.
Nodding absently, he looked over her head at the King whose expression he could not read. Cassiel Abhorsen stood beyond him, between the Wallmakers Felio and Nehima. All three of them looked as if they were going to be sick, which was hardly reassuring. But the King's mad sister Princess Merabel was giving him an encouraging grin, and the guardsmen were beaming at him. Their complete confidence made the Captain feel a bit better, and nodded over at the Ancelstierrans, striving for a look of nonchalance. "Which one is it, then?"
Staunis knew what he meant. "Sir Palidren, the black-armoured one."
Javen squinted his eyes at the knight, and a second later all of the breath had left his body. A flash of remembrance – a figure in black armour glimpsed in the blade of his sword on the steps of Holehallow. The Captain licked his lips nervously. So this was his fate.
"Javen?" The Captain blinked and looked down at his wife, who had sensed that something was wrong. "What is it?"
He forced a smile. "Nothing." He looked out over the meadow undulating like a restless sea under the grey sky. "Let's get this over with."
Hefting his shield, the Captain of the Royal Guard walked out into the ring.
The black knight came forward to meet him, followed by the Hereditary Arbiter. Healers were also on hand to stop their wounds, a sight that strangely failed to comfort the Captain. The old man held up his hands for silence, and after clearing his throat several times addressed the watchers: "Here we stand, eighth year of the rule of King Dantalion I, year sixty of Ancelstierre, to witness a duel between Lord Javen of Belisaere, and Sir Palidren of Thanet. It is to be a trial of single combat until one or the other is killed or yields. Swords are the only weapons to be used – any other is strictly forbidden. Including magic." The Arbiter said this with a warning look at Javen, but the young man rolled his eyes. This far from the Wall with a southerly wind, he doubted if the Abhorsen himself could access the Charter.
"If the victory goes to Sir Palidren, Chief Minister Tralusan will publicly denounce the construction of the Wall. If the victory is Lord Javen's, Chief Minister Tralusan will voice no opinions on the Wall, but retains the right to step in upon completion if abuse against the Bright Shiners is perceived. These are the terms, as agreed at the Moot three years ago to the day, as witnessed by myself. Are they clear?" King Dantalion and Chief Minister Tralusan glared at each other across the length of the field, but voiced no objections. The Arbiter took some time placing the two swordsmen so that no advantage of sun or wind was given to either. Once this was done, he stepped out of the ring.
Javen sized up his opponent. Sir Palidren was a powerfully-built man, from what could be seen under the mass of black armour. Plates of the stuff covered his body, to the closed helm concealing his face. Slowly the knight drew his sword, and Javen stared at the spiked mail gloves. He himself was bare-handed for better mobility.
Blowing a wayward strand of hair out of his face, Javen drew his Charter blade and put one foot carefully in front of the other. He cast his mind back to his boyhood, stalking deer in the Great Sickle Wood. He paused just out of range of the knight's sword, licking his lips as he gauged the distance. The Captain found it very unsettling that he could not see his opponent's eyes through the slitted visor; he just had to time this as well as he could.
He lashed out quickly, only to stagger back under the force of the knight's block and counter-attack. This one was good. Javen kept his distance, ducking nimbly out of the way of swipes that would have been enough to bowl him over if they connected. For the few stabs he managed to get in, he aimed at the gaps and chinks between Palidren's heavy plate armour. His persistence finally paid off, and with a bellow of pain the knight dropped his sword, drew back his mailed fist, and smashed it into the side of Javen's face. The Captain's helmet flew through the air, and he staggered and dropped his sword. His ears were ringing as he knelt in the grass, and he spat out a mouthful of blood – and a tooth.
This was definitely not going as planned. "Fine," panted Javen as blood dripped down his chin. "Fine. If you're not going to play nice, then I won't either." With his free hand he snatched up a handful of dirt and flung it at the face of the advancing knight. Some of it must have made it through the visor, because the other man stopped and scrabbled ineffectually at the front of his helm with a mailed glove.
Javen had not even regained his feet when the knight bore down on him again. The Captain rolled away from a wild sword strike, landing awkwardly on his shield, only to receive a savage kick to the stomach. Forcing himself to his feet, the young man smashed his elbow into Palidren's neck. The move bought him some time, and Javen staggered out of reach as he tried to remember how to breathe properly. He snatched up his fallen sword and spat out more blood, ignoring the shooting pain in his jaw and stomach. He couldn't even bother looking for his helmet at this time. The ringing in his ears had lessened somewhat, at least.
Sir Palidren slowly bent and picked up his sword, hefting the broad blade easily in his hand. Javen clenched his aching jaw and brought up his shield, standing ready. He waited, bare-headed in the centre of the ring, the wind causing his eyes to smart. "Come on," he whispered, adjusting the grip on his sword; his palms were slick with sweat.
The knight made an impressive lunge, for his size, and Javen managed to duck to the side. They exchanged blows once more, Sir Palidren's strength pitted against the Captain's speed. Javen led them in a merry dance around the ring, bobbing and weaving and retreating, but soon the constant barrage started to tell on the younger man. He just missed avoiding a powerful swipe, which grazed the front of his chest and sliced his surcoat. And as Javen glanced down at the torn fabric a drop of sweat dripped into his eye, causing him to blink against the salty sting.
His heel caught on a bump in the ground, and before Javen knew it he had gone down hard, his sword flying clear. Sir Palidren stood over him, dark and menacing. The Captain gazed at him with a mixture of fear and resignation.
A scream of pain ripped from Javen's throat as the knight drove the blade through his right hand, pinning him to the ground. Through a red haze of agony the Captain looked up at his opponent. He knew that if Palidren asked him to yield, he would be forced to give in. This was the end. He had failed them all.
But the knight did not speak. Instead, Palidren raised his shield high above his head with the clear intention of smashing in the Captain's face. Thinking quickly, Javen brought his legs up and kicked Palidren in the knees. The move had not caused the knight any real harm, but it did successfully drive him back. During this brief moment of respite Javen dropped his shield and wrenched the sword out of his hand, pushing himself to his feet to face his opponent. The Captain backed away slowly, hefting Sir Palidren's sword in his left hand to test its weight. The knight had picked up Javen's blade, and they circled each other warily.
"Well done, boy," said the knight. "Most impressive. But I nearly had you there."
"You did not ask me to yield," said Javen, keeping his eyes on the Charter blade gripped by that awful armoured hand. "You mean to kill me."
"Yes, that's right," the knight answered. "If you wish to live, boy, you should give up now. You're no use without a shield, with only one hand, and using an unfamiliar weapon. Go back to your home and your family. Leave the arguing to the politicians."
The young man narrowed his eyes. "I would rather die than so dishonour my country and my King."
Sir Palidren laughed. "Have it your way then."
Javen moved in first, and soon they were blocking and striking in a flurry of flashing silver blades, slashes glancing off armour and whistling through the air. The Captain mentally thanked his old teacher for insisting he learn to wield the sword with his left hand as well as his right. Without a shield, his gethre armour was all that stood between him and his own sword. The Wallmakers' best-kept secret lived up to its reputation as an indestructible material, and the young man shrugged off the frequent connecting blows as he pressed his own attack.
Finally, Javen saw on opening. He ducked Palidren's swipe, and the knight's momentum carried him forward. The Captain slid past him, and turned to slice at the unprotected back of his opponent's leg. Palidren stumbled to the ground and Javen pounced on him, wrenching off the other man's helmet and levelling the sword at his unprotected throat. "Do you yield?" he demanded, breathing hard.
Sir Palidren gulped and nodded, signalling his surrender with a hand. The faint cheers of the Old Kingdom delegation reached Javen's ears, but he was feeling very light-headed now that his adrenaline was gone. He collapsed beside the knight, letting the sword fall to the ground.
Soon Farelle was cradling his head in her lap, and an odd dreaminess had come over Javen's senses as he looked up into his wife's face. The only thing to ruin this perfect moment was a woman screeching nearby for a surgeon. He turned his head to look at her. The woman was tearing away the armour covering Sir Palidren's right leg. "The wound is poisoned!" she sobbed.
Farelle whirled on the wounded knight and his frantic wife. "Your blade was poisoned?" she shouted, furious. Nearby Javen could hear the King arguing heatedly with the Chief Minister. Sir Tralusan was coldly saying that he did not know the knight had poisoned his sword, while king Dantalion was bellowing with rage. Javen wondered what all of the fuss was about, before something in his mind finally clicked – he had been stabbed through the hand with that sword! He had been stabbed with a poisoned blade. Oh, Charter…
A surgeon had scuttled over and was attempting to cut away the right sleeve of his armour. The mail-cutters made no mark on the gethre, and there was a pinging sound as they broke in two. Farelle was nearly hysterical as she fumbled with the leather buckles on the sides of his coat, and Javen would have helped her but his limbs felt strangely heavy. Suddenly Felio and Nehima were kneeling at his side, gently drawing Farelle away and removing the armour with rapid ease.
The surgeon gave Javen a vile-tasting draught of something that started to clear the cobwebs from his head, before tearing away the sleeve of his tunic. The Captain heard Nehima let out a gasp. He turned to look at his right arm, and stared: the flesh was black nearly up to the elbow.
"The poison is spreading," said the surgeon, prodding at the infected limb. "I will need to cut it off."
That remark was enough to shock Javen into full consciousness. He gazed up at Farelle who looked as horrified as he felt. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not let them fall. Finally she clenched her jaw and swallowed, and with that the young man knew her decision. "Very well," she said quietly, and Javen gave her a desperate look as the surgeon turned to summon a stretcher. She pretended not to notice, but the Captain reached up with his good hand and caught her sleeve. "Farelle, it's my right arm," he pleaded quietly. The two Wallmakers looked politely away. "What can I do with only one arm?" he asked his wife, tugging at her sleeve to make her look at him. "How can I lead my men? In my line of work, it is better to die."
Farelle's eyes hardened. "Don't you say that," she hissed. "What can you do with only one arm? Beat the best swordsman in Ancelstierre, for one."
Javen opened his mouth, but the wooziness seemed to have set in again, for he could think of no reply. He sighed and lay back down. In the background he could see the King and the Chief Minister signing a document, overseen by the Hereditary Arbiter. The sight gave Javen some satisfaction. Tralusan would send out a decree that vandalism on the Wall was not condoned, and would look to the Lords of the northern Ancelstierran properties to enforce it. Javen knew that the decree would not change the common views of many Ancelstierrans, but it was something. His wife was right; he had done it.
The stretcher arrived and Javen was hurried over to the surgeons' tent. By all the fuss that everyone was making, he might have been royalty himself. As he was carried by, the Captain caught a glimpse of Sir Palidren, and gawped at the sight of a surgeon holding a heated saw over the knight's poisoned leg. He was feeling quite faint when they set him down on a bed, and Lieutenant Staunis appeared at his side with a flask. "Drink up, Captain," the guardsman said cheerily, although his normally-merry expression was strained. Javen gulped down the fiery alcohol, trying to forget what he had seen, and ignoring the surgeon who was tying off his arm above the elbow.
Farelle was holding his left hand in an iron grip, and at the surgeon's suggestion that she leave the tent she stared at him incredulously. "I'm not going anywhere," she declared, and the surgeon said no more. Javen welcomed the pain of her marriage ring digging into his hand. It kept him aware, for already the alcohol was starting to affect him. The surgeon's features were starting to blur together, for one. Javen blinked repeatedly. Surely the man was not heating an enormous knife over a fire? He must be hallucinating.
The hazy outline of the surgeon came to stand over him, and Javen desperately looked over at the blurry shape that was Farelle. And then he felt pain. Everything went white, then faded to deepest black as the Captain of the Guard thankfully slipped away into unconsciousness.
A/N: The poisoned blade and mixing up of swords was inspired by the final fight scene in Hamlet. You know, the one where everybody ends up dead and the stage is littered with bodies. Also, the knight in black armour is the figure that Javen saw as a reflection in his sword when he was on the steps waiting for an attack, in Chapter 40 "Holehallow".
It's good to be back, but I'm quite busy with studying for the MCAT and applying to med schools. I'll try to get the next chapter up in a week. Until then, I'd love to hear from you!