51
The khopesh was slippery in Fletcher’s palm. He tried not to think of what might happen if Zacharias or the Favershams decided to cut the mana off at the wrong moment. A tragic accident – that is what they would claim.
‘Come on, Fletcher, we haven’t got all day,’ Rook sneered, walking into the centre of the arena. ‘There are three more battles to get through this round.’
Fletcher ignored him and instructed Ignatius to go and sit on the steps, away from the battle. If the demon interfered, they would be disqualified.
‘Begin!’ Rook uttered, giving the contestants an exaggerated bow.
Fletcher took a few steps forward, trying to acclimatise to the new landscape. Whereas before they had trained on flat sand, now the place was strewn with jagged rocks and debris from the first round.
As Fletcher circled, Malik stood like a statue, watching him. The young noble had chosen his place well, an area surrounded by loose rocks where an attacker might lose his footing. Fletcher decided he would not allow him to choose their combat ground.
Instead, he looked to the tower, with its spiral pathway to the top. He remembered what Othello had said, about how the dwarves built their stairs in an anticlockwise spiral, so that the attacker’s sword arm would be encumbered by the pillar when fighting downwards. By that same logic, an attacker would be equally encumbered in a clockwise pathway on their way up!
Fletcher darted to the pillar and clambered up on to the pathway. Keeping an eye on Malik, he manoeuvred himself around until he stood just below the broken stump that he had blasted a few minutes before.
‘Come at me, if you dare!’ Fletcher shouted, for the benefit of the spectators.
‘I will not fight you on the pillar, Fletcher,’ Malik’s voice was calm and considered. ‘Why not come down and meet me in the middle, on neutral ground?’
If impatience was supposed to be Fletcher’s weakness, he would wait Malik out. He did not give a damn what the generals or nobles thought of him. But Malik did. If they were to stand at this impasse for too long, it would ruin both their reputations in the eyes of their audience. And if it was reputation that Malik cared about, Fletcher would use it to his advantage.
‘So, the son of the great Baybars refuses to fight! Perhaps the apple falls far from the tree in the Saladin family.’
Malik bristled at Fletcher’s words, taking an angry step forward.
‘A Saladin will fight anytime, anywhere. We have fought from the desert to the trenches, into the deepest jungles of orcdom itself. I doubt you could say the same of your family.’
‘So prove it! Come show me what a Saladin can do,’ Fletcher goaded, twirling his khopesh in mock confidence.
Malik needed no more provocation. He raised his curved scimitar high and mounted the pathway, taking long, measured strides. Even in his anger, the boy was a natural swordsman. Fletcher hoped that the pillar would give him enough of an advantage.
The first blow came whistling around the corner, chopping at his legs. Fletcher caught it in the curve of his khopesh and turned it aside, before cutting at Malik’s head. The noble ducked, leaving the blow to crunch into the pillar.
Malik stepped further out and came at him head on, feinting a crooked slice around the pillar at Fletcher’s head, then sweeping again for the legs. Fletcher leaped, letting the scimitar whistle under his feet. Landing in a crouch, he punched out and caught Malik on the cheek, knocking the noble back a few paces.
They glared at each other, panting. Fletcher had felt the silky smoothness of the barrier in the punch. He ran his palm along his own hand and felt the same, but barely. It was probably only Scipio who was channelling mana correctly to it. He put it to the back of his mind. There was nothing he could do about it now.
The scimitar swung back and forth, held lightly in Malik’s hand. It was not unlike a khopesh, with a curved blade and sharp point. With a flick, Malik tossed it from his right hand to his left.
‘My father taught me to fight left-handed. Did Sir Caulder ever teach you that?’ Malik snarled.
Fletcher ignored him, but a cold sweat trickled down his back. With the scimitar in Malik’s left hand, the pillar was no longer a barrier between them. Still, at least Fletcher had the high ground.
Malik stabbed at Fletcher’s stomach, but Fletcher caught it in the curve and forced it into the ground. They struggled, chest to chest, the wooden pathway creaking under their feet.
Fletcher could feel Malik’s hot breath on his face as the noble used his height and strength to lever the blade towards Fletcher’s crotch. He heaved, but the sword scarcely wavered as it slowly inched upwards.
He felt the point scrape along the inside of his thigh. Was that blood he felt trickling down his leg? The blade was just an inch away now. In a few seconds, it would be buried in his flesh.
Fletcher saw his life flashing before his eyes, images of Berdon, Didric, Rotherham. His first fight. Rotherham head-butting Jakov, a man twice his size.
It clicked. Fletcher looked up to the ceiling, then whipped his head forward, smashing Malik on the bridge of the nose with his forehead. The boy stumbled, and then fell, flailing, over the side.
Malik bounced off a jagged rock, which hit him squarely in the stomach. He lay in the sand, gasping like a beached fish.
‘A killing blow! The rock would have impaled him,’ Fletcher shouted.
‘Not in my opinion,’ Rook replied with a sneer. ‘It doesn’t look so sharp to me. See, he’s getting up already!’
Malik was indeed getting up. He glared up at Fletcher, taking deep, rattling breaths.
‘Give up! You’re injured, and I have the high ground!’ Fletcher implored.
But Malik would not. Fletcher had pushed him too far, hurt his pride too much. The young noble raised the scimitar with a roar and sliced it into the pillar. It clattered loudly, but Fletcher saw flecks of clay come spraying off.
Malik swung again, this time with greater success. Great chunks of red clay crumbled and the platform shook under Fletcher’s feet.
‘You give up!’ Malik shouted.
But there was no time for Fletcher to even reply. With a crack, the pillar began to collapse in on itself, hairline fractures spreading up the column like forked lightning.
With seconds to spare, Fletcher leaped from the top, praying for a soft landing. As he rolled into a crouch on the sand, the pillar crashed beside him, sending a maelstrom of ceramic dust into the air.
He could see nothing, the red powder coating his lips and tongue. It was hard to breath. A shadow went by on his left, then his right. Was it Rook? Or Malik?
Suddenly, Malik burst from out of the red haze, screaming in fury. He swung down hard, but Fletcher dodged aside, feeling the blade graze his forearm. Malik disappeared again, blending into the rusty gloom.
Fletcher looked at his arm. Blood welled, but it was just a scratch. He knew one thing now. This was for real – the barrier was useless. Just one lapse in concentration, and he was a dead man.
He spun around, looking for the shadow once more. A figure moved, just out of sight. He squinted, watching, as the dull figure raised its arm. A rock came flying out of the fog, cracking him on the forehead. Stars burst across his vision, and he was on his back, staring into the billowing dust.
Fletcher swam in and out of consciousness, the edges of his vision bruising. It would be so easy to just let it all go.
A searing pain flared in the palm of his hand, bringing him back from the abyss of unconsciousness. His head lolled to the side and he saw Valens, biting into his flesh with his mandibles. Fletcher coughed and shook his hand, trying to dislodge him. The beetle gave him once last nip, than shot off into the dust, his job done.
Fletcher began to stand, but the khopesh was kicked from his hand and a foot was pressed down on his throat.
‘I’m going to knock you out cold, Fletcher. Nobody disrespects the Saladins.’ Malik’s voice was faint, as if Fletcher was hearing it from a great distance. He needed help. Ignatius? No, he was too far away.
His hand scrabbled for a rock, anything, but all he could feel was sand. Malik raised his sword, his teeth stark white against the red dust that coated his skin. As the dust began to settle, he could see the watching crowd through the haze. Their cries of excitement reached a fever pitch.
‘Good night, Fletcher.’
Fletcher hurled a handful of sand at Malik’s face. The noble screamed and span away, blinded. Fletcher got to his feet unsteadily, then, with his last ounce of strength, tackled Malik to the ground. There was a thud as the noble’s head slammed against a rock, then silence.
They lay there for a while, the dust settling around them like a warm cloak. It was peaceful, lying in the dirt. He barely felt the hands that lifted him to his feet, or the glass of water that was pressed to his lips. But he did hear the words that Scipio was shouting.
‘Fletcher wins!’