Murtagh

Murtagh saw many a familiar face in the stands, but no friendly ones. He knew Tornac was watching from the arming room, though, and the knowledge both gave him courage and made him all the more determined not to disappoint his mentor. That, and he would sooner die than embarrass himself before the current crowd. The slightest hint of weakness would earn him a lifetime of derision at court, and his position was already difficult enough.

Goreth entered through the gateway opposite him. The man was tall and clean-limbed, with the sinuous grace of a practiced warrior. Despite Tornac’s assurances, there was no doubt that Goreth was a formidable fighter, and Murtagh knew he would be pressed to the limit of his abilities.

They saluted the king, who was a shadowed shape upon his throne beneath a velvet canopy. Then the heralds made their declarations, and the arena marshal read the rules of combat: No biting. No kicking while a man was upon the ground. No gouging of eyes. No striking of unmanly blows (by which was meant no striking below one’s belt).

At the conclusion of the interminable talking, a horn sounded, the marshal dropped his kerchief, and the duel was begun.

Despite the fire in his veins, Murtagh felt as if he were trapped in quicksand, barely able to move his legs or swing his arms. Yet he dodged and parried and beat his opponent’s blade as he should. They used no shields, as the contest was to be a test of pure bladesmanship, and Murtagh had forgone vambraces that he might move all the faster. He trusted his mail shirt to protect his arms from cuts.

Most times it would have. But the tip of Goreth’s sword found the cuff of Murtagh’s left sleeve, and the length of sharpened steel slid up under the gambeson he wore beneath the mail. A shivering line, hot and cold and agonizing, ran along the outside of his forearm.

Out of instinct, he yanked his arm back. He cried out as the sword cut him again on the return.

The fingers of his left hand spasmed and curled into a useless knot. If not for the onlookers, he would have conceded the duel, but pride, fear, and sheer stubborn anger forbade.

Goreth seized the advantage and stabbed again, quick. Retreating, Murtagh beat aside the attack. Goreth pressed him hard with several more strikes, and then he lunged, and Murtagh took a glancing blow to his hip, upon the skirt of mail. In a desperate attempt to recover, he replied with a swing of his own and caught Goreth’s elbow with the tip of his sword.

Goreth dropped his blade.