Nightbred(32)

Lucan picked up Sutton’s sword and tossed it to one of his men before thrusting Piel’s sword into the earth at the center of the ring.

Vander looked over at his crew. “Ho. We’ve a warrior-priest among us, brothers.” He sauntered to the center and jabbed his blade into the ground a handspan from Lucan’s before glaring over it. “Best you pray for him.”

Lucan stepped back to the edge of the circle, and there waited until Vander mirrored his position.

Men on both sides shouted the count in the traditional Latin: “Tres, duo, unus, ineo.”

Lucan reached his blade in three strides; Vander’s shorter legs made it in four, but as soon as he grasped his hilt, he tumbled out of the way of Lucan’s attack and came up on his right to deliver a side sweep.

Lucan parried as he pivoted to face the man, who artfully dodged a riposte as well as a boot to his leg.

“The Temple never taught you that,” Vander said, grinning as he edged out of striking range. “Can’t bow before God on a shattered knee.” He feinted to the left before he lunged right.

Lucan, who regularly trained in private with his seneschal, had no difficulty defending himself from Vander’s sly attacks. The shorter man displayed some limited skill with the blade, but he had no form to speak of, and depended too heavily on deception and close-quarter strikes as he sought to gain the upper hand.

Amused, Lucan permitted his opponent to come within a breath’s width of wounding him before he drove him back again and again. As his frustration mounted, Vander grew more reckless, hacking at Lucan with no regard for his stance or position. At the proper moment, Lucan hooked the man’s ankle and sent him sprawling to the ground.

As Vander sputtered and cursed, Lucan stepped over him and kicked his blade out of the circle. He brought the tip of Piel’s blade to rest against the back of the man’s thick neck, pressing just enough to draw blood.

Both sides of the circle fell silent, and Vander quickly held out his hands in surrender. “You prevail, warrior.”

Lucan lifted the blade and nudged the man over onto his back. Only then did he pull back the hood. “As you see, Mr. Vander, I do not spend all of my waking hours swiving my wench.”

“Forgive me, my lord. Fighting always loosens my tongue.” He grimaced. “The match is yours.”

“So is this garrison, and they are not accustomed to being challenged by those who enjoy my hospitality.” He took in the dismayed faces of the visitors. “While you are welcome to train with my men, you will not pick fights with them.”

“Apologies again, my lord,” Vander said quickly. “We have been fighting for our lives for so long that we know little else.”

Lucan didn’t care for mewling sycophants, but he knew too well how it felt to have no place in the world to call home. He held out his bare hand, and after a slight hesitation Vander reached up and grasped it.

“You and your men will report to Captain Aldan for training at tomorrow sunset,” Lucan said as he helped him to his feet. “Single-handed combat form to begin. I expect to see some genuine progress within the week.”

Vander offered a bow of respect. “As you say, my lord.”

“One more thing.” Lucan brought the tip of his sword to Vander’s throat. “Speak ill of my lady again, and you’ll not have a tongue to flap during a fight.”

Vander gave a tiny nod of his head.

As Lucan returned the blade to Piel, the men of the garrison parted and formed two-column ranks. Instead of bowing when Lucan walked down the center to leave, they drew their daggers and tapped the hilts against their chest armor, a show of respect usually reserved for a fellow warrior who had distinguished himself in battle.

Ernesto Garcia stood waiting outside the lists. “Good evening, my lord.” He bowed and smiled a little. “I take it someone has just greatly impressed the garrison.”

“So it would seem.” He felt annoyed by how much the impromptu accolade had moved him. “Come, we will talk inside.”

Garcia accompanied him to the penthouse, where Lucan directed him to wait in the study. After looking in on Samantha, who had not stirred, he changed into more formal garments and rejoined Garcia, whom he found studying one of his bookshelves.

“You can borrow whatever you like,” he told the tresora, “but if you crease the spine, I’ll rip out yours.”

“I appreciate the offer, my lord, but I value my mobility slightly more than a first-edition Oscar Wilde.” Garcia handed him a typed report. “The flowers delivered to your sygkenis were purchased from a downtown exotic florist. The customer paid for them with cash and signed the receipt with an illegible scribble.”