The Blade Itself

“Oh come on!” he shouted. A surge of laughter flowed around the stands. Broya gritted his teeth and came on with everything he had, but it wasn’t much. Jezal swatted his feeble efforts aside, dodged around them, flowed across the circle while his witless opponent lumbered after, always three steps behind. There was no precision, no speed, no thought. A few minutes before, Jezal had been half-terrified by the prospect of fencing with this gangling fool. Now he was almost bored.

“Hah!” he cried, switching suddenly onto the attack, catching his opponent off-balance with a savage cut, sending him stumbling back. The crowd came alive, roaring their support. He jabbed and jabbed again. Broya blocked desperately, all off-balance, reeled backwards, parried one last time then tripped, his arms flailing, short steel flying out of his hand, and pitched out of the circle onto his arse.

There was a wave of laughter, and Jezal could not help but join in. The poor dolt looked quite amusing, knocked on his back with his legs in the air like some sort of turtle.

“Captain Luthar wins!” roared the referee, “two to nothing!” The laughter turned to jeering as Broya rolled over. He looked on the verge of tears, the oaf. Jezal stepped forwards and offered his hand, but found himself unable to entirely wipe the smirk off his face. His beaten adversary pointedly ignored his help, pushing himself up from the ground and giving him a look half hating, half hurt.

Jezal shrugged pleasantly. “It’s not my fault you’re shit.”

“More?” asked Kaspa, holding out the bottle in a wobbly hand, eyes misted over with too much booze.

“No thanks.” Jezal pushed the bottle gently away before Kaspa had the chance to pour. He looked blearily bewildered for a moment, then he turned to Jalenhorm.

“More?”

“Always.” The big man slid his glass across the rough table top in a way that said, “I am not drunk”, though he clearly was. Kaspa lowered the bottle towards it, squinting at the glass as though it was a great distance away. Jezal watched the neck of the bottle wobbling in the air, then rattling on the edge of the glass. The inevitability of it was almost painful to behold. Wine spilled out across the table, splashing into Jalenhorm’s lap.

“You’re drunk!” complained the big man, staggering to his feet and brushing at himself with big, drunken hands, knocking his stool over in the process. A few of the other patrons eyed their table with evident disdain.

“Alwaysh,” giggled Kaspa.

West looked up briefly from his glass. “You’re both drunk.”

“Not our fault.” Jalenhorm groped for his stool. “It’s him!” He pointed an unsteady finger at Jezal.

“He won!” gurgled Kaspa. “You won, didn’t you, and now we got to celebrate!”

Jezal wished they didn’t have to celebrate quite so much. It was becoming embarrassing.

“My cousin Ariss wa’ there—saw whole thing. She was ver’ impressed.” Kaspa flung his arm round Jezal’s shoulder. “Think she’s quite shmitten with you… shmitten… shmitten.” He worked his wet lips in Jezal’s face, trying to get his mouth round the word. “She’s ver’ rich you know, ver’ rich indeed. Shmitten.”

Jezal wrinkled his nose. He had not the slightest interest in that ghostly simpleton of a cousin, however rich she was, and Kaspa’s breath stank. “Good… lovely” He disentangled himself from the Lieutenant and shoved him away, none too gently.

“So, when are we starting on this business in the North?” demanded Brint, a little too loud, as though he for one couldn’t wait to get underway. “Soon I hope, home before winter, eh, Major?”

“Huh,” snorted West, frowning to himself, “we’ll be lucky to have left before winter, the rate we’re going.”

Brint looked a little taken aback. “Well, I’m sure we’ll give these savages a thrashing, whenever we get there.”

“Give ’em a thrashing!” cried Kaspa.

“Aye.” Jalenhorm nodded his agreement.

West was not in the mood. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that. Have you seen the state of some of these levies? They can hardly walk, let alone fight. It’s a disgrace.”

Jalenhorm dismissed all this with an angry wave of his hand. “They’re nothing but fucking savages, the lot of ’em! We’ll knock ’em on their arses, like Jezal did that idiot today, eh, Jezal? Home before winter, everyone says so!”

“Do you know the land up there?” asked West, leaning across the table. “Forests, mountains, rivers, on and on. Precious little open space to fight in, precious few roads to march on. You’ve got to catch a man before the thrashing can start. Home before winter? Next winter, maybe, if we come back at all.”

Brint’s eyes were wide open and horrified. “You can’t mean that!”

“No… no, you’re right.” West sighed and shook himself. “I’m sure it’ll all turn out fine. Glory and promotions all round. Home before winter. I’d take a coat with you though, just in case.”