“So, what?” I say. “Why bring us here? Why not just shoot us in the street, since you’re such a fabulous shot?”
Alistairtsk-tsks me. “Please. Like a common delinquent? Where’s the honor in that?”
“As opposed to the honor of drugging people and dragging them to a murder dungeon,” says Grant.
Alistair sighs. “No, no. You’re getting this all wrong. It is an unskilled hunter indeed who simply traps his prey. There is no victory in that. No, my good man, this is atest. A test I alone can offer you.” He leers at me, his pale eyes glimmering. “And do you know why that is?”
“Because you’re Allison Walmart-Horny, Nineteenth Earl of Who the Fuck Cares?”
“Good one,” says Grant.
Alistair ignores me and continues, “Because I am among the last who treasure the old ways. Who know what constitutes true nobility—a distinction that can only be inherited, orearned.”
He drifts toward the fireplace, and Grant and I exchange nervous glances.
“The art of the duel,” he says quietly, “is one of many noble customs lost to the cruel sweep of time.” He steps up onto the outer hearth and reaches for the crisscrossed swords displayed above the mantel. Carefully, he grasps them by the handles and lifts them from their resting place, then makes his way back toward us. “That is,” he adds, “lost to all but thetruestof gentlemen.”
With a quick series of sudden and highly improbable slashes, he slices through the ropes around Grant’s torso, then frees his wrists and ankles. Dread creeps up to me like floodwater.
“This isn’t a death sentence, you see,” says Alistair. “It’s a chance to prove me wrong, to prove yourself worthy. To duel for your life and hers.” He holds out one of the swords to Grant, who blinks at it before emitting a harsh, incredulous laugh.
“You havegotto be kidding me.”
But Alistair doubles down on his stony stare and tosses the sword at Grant. I flinch as Grant catches it clumsily, just barely missing the blade.
“But I don’t know how to—”
Alistair clicks his tongue. “Oh, do have some faith. It’s alongsword, not a unicycle.” He studies his own sword as he strolls to the center of the room. “Besides,” he says, “do you think Arthurknew howto pull the sword from the stone?”
“Let me do it,” I blurt, though I’ve never even held a sword, much less fought with one. Still, my well-practiced defense instincts must be good for something. Or maybe I’ll just get a nice, clean decapitation out of the deal.
But Grant looks at me earnestly and shakes his head no.
I feel sick as he gets to his feet and takes his place opposite Alistair. This isn’t fair. None of my training accounted for an attack of the eighteenth century. I start twisting and pulling against my restraints, but they hold fast.
“I don’t suppose you feel like telling me the rules here,” Grant says. He handles his weapon with trepidation, as though hoping for aHow to Fight with Swordsmanual to fall out.
“The rules are simple,” says Alistair, slicing the air with a few practice swoops. “If you win, you’re free. Both of you. And if I win, you’re dead.” He smiles and drops his voice to a near-purr. “You should know:I always win.”
Grant reluctantly holds his sword up, like a child play-fighting with a pool noodle.
Alistair leans into a starting position, fixing Grant with a deadly sneer.
I can’t watch. I squeeze my eyes shut and claw fruitlessly at the ropes around my hands, less out of hope of breaking free and more because I need to dosomething. Anything to pull me away from the horror about to unfold before me—the tang of blood in the air, the sound of the blade piercing his skin. Bile rises in my throat.
An earsplitting clang threatens to crack me in half, and it takes a moment to realize what it is—metal on metal. Not a death strike, but a blow deflected. I squint through one eye and see Alistair frozen in surprise. Grant rolls his shoulders, standingthe slightest bit taller. Alistair jabs his sword forward, and again, Grant blocks it—easily, like swatting a fly. Confusion clouds Alistair’s face.
There’s not a trace of apprehension in Grant’s eyes now, only unshakable focus.
“These aren’t longswords, by the way,” he says casually. “They’re rapiers.”
With an indignant roar, Alistair unleashes his wrath.
They are a blur of clashing metal and darting limbs as they alternately advance and retreat, and I’m stuck on the sidelines in a gobsmacked daze.
Well, then.
I guess this solves the mystery of Grant’s weird hidden talent.
