Still, if Niel let that sword so much as touch him, it could mean a lost limb or a lost life. Rolling his left ankle slowly, he narrowed his mind to one single goal: kill the man before him, at any cost. Even if Niel died in the process too.
The crowd parted to let Corin in. Niel’s brother stood at the edge of the circle, halfway between the two of them, and looked first at Niel, then at Blackfell, then at Niel again. The soldiers and watching townsfolk were silent now as they watched, no longer calling questions, or screaming as they had when Niel was marched in.
“Sir Niel,” Corin said. “You sought a knight’s honor-duel, to the death, and Sir Ditmar agreed. Do you still seek satisfaction?” Corin paused, and Niel nodded in response. “Will you swear a knight’s dueling oath, even be it that you have broken faith with the crown?”
Niel recognized the language, traditional as it was, though it sounded stilted on his brother’s tongue.
He sank quickly to one knee. The ground was cold and hard, frozen over. Blackfell town was small enough that its square was packed dirt, instead of cobblestone.
“I swear to the truth of my cause, and the evil of my enemy’s. By my body and my life, I seek justice. I will fight honorably,” Niel said without emotion. He rose.
“Sir Ditmar,” Corin said, turning to the older man.
Ditmar didn’t kneel. He dug his swordpoint into the frozen ground, resting his weight on the pommel.
“I won’t swear oaths to a traitorous rat,” Ditmar said. “But if he wants to die by my blade, I’ll gladly take his head off myself.”
Corin stared at Ditmar in what Niel could only interpret as open disgust. Niel, unbothered, finished stretching.
“So be it,” Corin said at last, after a short silence. “Take your marks.”
Neil straightened, hands loose at his side, and drew a steady breath. There was no sense panicking. He knew what he had to do. The dread settling into the base of his stomach couldn’t be helped, but it could be ignored.
He had to believe Ayla had found the cloak. That she would live, and find happiness without him.
Ditmar swung his longsword up in front of his face in salute, to Corin rather than Niel, then dropped it.
For a moment Niel could feel his brother’s eyes on him hard, studying Niel, as if committing him to memory.
“You do not have the right to yield, unless the other chooses to accept it,” Corin said, his voice flat. “The match ends when one of you is dead. Do not attempt to leave the circle. If you step outside it, you will find these men’s spear-hafts pushing you back in, for the crowd’s protection.” He gestured at the soldiers ringing the crowd. Then Corin stepped back into the first ring of the crowd.
“Say your prayers, boy,” Ditmar said. Niel kept his mouth shut.
“Begin,” Corin announced.
Ditmar paced forward, sword loose in his hand. Niel paced a quarter of the way into the ring. He couldn’t let himself get too close to the edge. If he were caught between the sword and the soldier’s spears, he’d be done for. As Ditmar closed the distance, Niel saw his hand tighten on the sword’s hilt. Blackfell’s lord hefted the weapon, raised it up, and then slashed down diagonally at Niel. Niel ducked and weaved away from the strike, missing it by inches.
He hadn’t expected Blackfell to move that quickly. The blade itself was some three feet long; its reach even greater at the end of Blackfell’s extended arm. For a moment Niel was at Blackfell’s unguarded side, the sword pointed away from him.
He didn’t take the opening. Not before he’d gotten Blackfell’s measure. Someone like Corin could’ve gotten the sword around and through Niel’s gut before Niel could so much as tap him on the shoulder.
Niel slipped behind Blackfell instead.
The crowd was shouting, but he could only hear them distantly. Most were yelling for his own death, worked into abloodthirsty fervor at the idea of a traitor’s downfall. A few shouted back that Blackfell was a coward. But all Niel’s focus was narrowed to the fight. He kept his eyes on Ditmar’s torso, not the sword, so that he would see the man’s movements before they became full-fledged strikes.
It was easier for Ditmar to turn and face Niel than it was for Niel to get back behind him. With the sword’s reach, Niel would have to run a wide circle, while Ditmar had only to pivot in place. That was no good. Niel would wager his stamina far outpaced his enemy’s, but he needed to keep it that way. Ditmar raised his sword for another blow. Instead of circling under it again, Niel slid back just barely out of reach. Ditmar lunged, and Niel skipped back further.
He didn’t bother looking over his shoulder to see the rope. He couldn’t afford to take his eyes off the blade, and he didn’t need to. He could see how far he was from the edge in front of him, and he’d studied its shape well enough as he stretched that he was fairly confident about how much distance was behind him, down to the half-foot. He was going to need to stop retreating soon, or get Ditmar behind him. He was getting too close.
Ditmar’s face turned red with what Niel thought was fury. With a bellow, the lord charged at Niel, sword primed at his side to thrust forward on an impale.
For a half-breath Niel stayed frozen, watching the blade draw near.
And then he pivoted, side-stepped, and spun behind Ditmar. As the lord’s feet carried him past, to where Niel had been, Niel thumped the man’s right shoulder with a fist. Then Niel jumped back, to keep out of Ditmar’s sword range as the man turned.
It hadn’t been a good blow, but he allowed himself a moment of cold triumph all the same. He’d landed the first hit.
Now he just had to keep Ditmar from landing one in retaliation.
