The Marcher Lord (Over Guard) Page 31

  Unlike the previous two matches, which had shifted to relatively quick ends, Wesshire ended it much differently.

  With a snap, Corporal Wesshire’s demeanor changed. Very suddenly his attacks were no longer soft, his force doubling without losing any of its range or strategy.

  “That’s it,” Ian said confidently, but only just loud enough that Kieran heard it, as the others were just now beginning to see.

  And it only took all of perhaps ten seconds. Ellis was able to match the first few attacks, but steadily, surely fell further and further behind. It was as though Corporal Wesshire had only just now decided that he wished to win, though Ian really had no idea what he wanted.

  Corporal Hanley made some sort of involuntary sound as Corporal Wesshire brought up their blades up and held them for a moment. Cleanly stepping around Ellis to the left and trailing his sword behind and above him, Corporal Wesshire flipped his sword around and behind him into Ellis’ back before he could recover.

  It wasn’t a hard tap, but certainly enough to make Ellis jolt forward to confirm the touch.

  “Outstanding!” Captain Marsden said. “A pure work—exceptionally graceful swordsmanship, Corporal Wesshire.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Arran Wesshire barely acknowledged as he stepped away, not bothering to look back at Ellis.

  For his part, Ian thought Corporal Hanley handled it and the proceeding consolation well. Ian added his own words of encouragement to the corporal as he passed, but his focus had already shifted to the captain. And while he wasn’t confident enough to call it, he definitely saw all the roots of admiration on the captain’s face that naturally led him to call on Corporal Wesshire once more, rather than pit another two of the privates against each other.

  “Corporal Wesshire,” the captain said, “would you mind having the next go around against Private Anglas?”

  “Of course not.”

  As it followed, there was not much to mind. They touched swords, began, Kieran desperately, even angrily coming hard after Corporal Wesshire. But the corporal was easily able to beat him off, responding in kind fashion, alternating between soft and hard attacks that made it difficult for Ian to call what the next would be. And evidentially for Kieran as well. After fending off one easy attack, Wesshire suddenly repeated the attack in the same place with much more force, catching Kieran’s defense off guard. Kieran’s sword only somewhat slowed the corporal’s, causing it to ricochet and glance across Kieran’s shoulder.

  “Touch! Good show,” Captain Marsden said, “if not as good as the last. It isn’t to be unexpected with the matchings.”

  The captain missed the dangerous look that crossed Kieran’s face.

  “And last but not least,” Captain Marsden said as Ian’s heart accelerated.

  Chapter 15

  “Great riches and power all lose their luster, but a friend is a treasure forever.”

  —Chax saying

  Ian didn’t actually hear whatever else was said. Walking carefully and not looking at Corporal Wesshire at all, Ian redrew his sword and walked to his place.

  —tall arms, longer reach—keep his blows away from my center, le—don’t allow the previous matches to intimidate, they’re irrelevant to—but he’s more tired than he would be, use that—I wish my heart wasn’t beating so hard— Ian absently flipped his sword around in his dominant hand. —don’t waste too much energy trying to push him, allow what I can handle, counter the rest—make sure to—

  “Are you prepared, then?” Captain Marsden asked them.

  Ian looked up and saw that Corporal Wesshire was extending his sword for the opening touch, to which Ian met it as emotionlessly as the corporal did. Ian was glad he had control over his face, was able to hide the fear that was threatening to—he stepped back three long steps as Corporal Wesshire did likewise—push itself at the edges of his mind.

  Arran Wesshire was quietly regarding him.

  “All right, then,” Captain Marsden said, a slight betrayal of anticipation in his voice—“Duel!”

  Ian started forward, Corporal Wesshire not quite matching his pace. Two seconds, Ian thrust forward, quickly pulling it away as it was a dangerous opener and Wesshire easily parried it away. Sweeping it around fast though, Ian brought it low from the opposite direction, to which Wesshire also effortlessly countered. He took another three, quick and successive attacks, Wesshire matching them efficiently and perhaps even a little ahead of Ian’s swing, the resistance the corporal giving hinting at his greater strength.

  Worry—anxiety—Ian bit down on those as Wesshire counterattacked, pushing him back a couple steps, but Ian couldn’t allow that, and quickly regained his attack again.

  His strategy began to coalesce into something a little more desperate than he would have liked in terms of morale. Not losing was first and foremost, which was a difficult idea to hold onto since it felt very impossible. But he knew he would be lost if he couldn’t believe he could win at all. So he decided to ditch ideas of outlasting Wesshire or waiting for a better opportunity. If he could hang onto the attacking, Ian would last longer even if he lost since Corporal Wesshire would hopefully not get a chance to attack him—

  Wesshire took a sudden lunge into his area as he swept their blades momentarily off to the side. Wesshire threw his shoulder down into Ian’s hard enough to send him reeling.

  Unprepared, and as much as that hurt, Ian ignored the shock and his general footing as he threw his sword in a very not elegant manner between them again as the anticipated follow-up and intended kill stroke from the corporal came. Blocking it well enough, Ian fired around a hasty swing across Wesshire’s neckline as hard as he could as he fell backwards. Wesshire blocked it, but was suitably hindered long enough for Ian to make a hard roll away and then to spring back to his feet while moving away from Wesshire.

  To his ever-brilliant credit, Wesshire was in stately pursuit, but his following attacks were much calmer. For a moment they settled to that, as though Corporal Wesshire was rewarding him for surviving all that with a respectful respite.

  “Not so long,” Arran Wesshire said, startling at least one part of Ian’s consciousness, “keep the strokes tighter. Only reach when it is profitable.”

  Confused.

  “Thank you,” Ian said, tightly, confused. But perhaps that was the point.

  After a few more moments of tranquil sparring, the encouragements from the rest of the company momentarily slipping back into his awareness, Ian renewed his assault. It was intensely difficult to try to reach around Wesshire’s defenses, long as his arms were, and it was impossible to get very far into the other’s middle. Try as he might, there was a perceptible perimeter that Wesshire wouldn’t allow anything into. Ian saw that now, and while he had relative opportunity—at Wesshire’s good graces, he thought—Ian spent the few moments of wits he had to watch the other’s movements more. And now feeling them. Ian tested at the edges of them, seeing how the other reacted, because there really was no good descriptor for the corporal’s style. Ian was relatively new to swordsmanship as it was, so he didn’t have a—

  Wesshire took a sudden and harsh swing across his middle, Ian’s sword blocking and momentarily being knocked off to the side. Ian skipped back, into a stream of dying sunlight that came fresh between some gap in the mountains behind him, but Corporal Wesshire didn’t readily follow.

  “Will we be at it all evening?” Ian asked.

  Wesshire didn’t respond, didn’t really move. He merely stared back.

  “Come on,” Ian said, grimacing as he measured up the corporal’s stance, the distance, use the sunlight— “Come—”

  Ian jerked forward and around, throwing his sabre out at the corporal’s face as he reasserted his angle nearly directly between them.

  Ian was off just enough that the sunlight came full across Wesshire’s eyes, their swords flashing as Wesshire’s sought him, but Ian ducked just a little below it, wrenching his sword up at the other’s chest—

  But Wes
shire, squinting against the sunlight, half-dropped to one knee below Ian’s sword as Ian sought to regain his momentum and bring it back down on—

  Then contact came again as Wesshire’s blade came up against his, severely disadvantaged, though even as Ian pressed to take advantage of it, a sharp and fast parrying swept Ian’s sword hard and away from him.

  Ian was falling, half in the attempt to put his weight into his previous down slash, half because he’d lost track of his balance. Coming very near to falling all the way, Ian put his free hand down. It jolted hard against the weight of the ground at his wrist, shoulder, his attention still on trying to drag his sword back toward him, near—anywhere closer.

  But it was too late, he knew, as surely as he was somehow able to trace the trajectory of Wesshire’s sword as it swung around in a tight arc, down along and across Ian’s shoulder, chest, Ian feeling the push that shoved him around before the collision and blooming line of pain.

  It was hard enough that Ian was nearly pushed back down to the ground, but he caught himself, losing grip of his sword somewhere in all of this.

  Wesshire stood, not quickly, not slowly, back up into the streaming sunlight.

  “Clever,” the corporal said before turning and leaving Ian’s sphere of vision.

  Ian sat, holding himself up with his arm, staring at the ground. It was a few seconds after feeling all of that, he swallowed and looked up at the others. Some were clapping, they all seemed to be talking. Rising himself up with what he hoped looked like graceful dignity, Ian brushed the dust and dirt and bits of grass off himself and realized he had really expected that he would win. It had merely been the best possible outcome for him, so he had assumed it would happen.

  Sparing a glance, he saw Corporal Wesshire calmly ignoring all of the bubble of excitement as he gathered his things together. He nodded once in the general direction of the ones next to him and then started back toward camp.

  Which also happened to be by the general way of the margrave’s daughter, Ian thought bitterly.

  “Well, how about that, Kanters?” Brodie threw Ian his coat with his things in it. “It was a brilliant show.”

  “Of course it was,” Kieran added, “no one can lose with as much style as Kanters.”

  “It takes a lot of practice,” Ian said, not really paying attention as he wiped at the sides of his face, and certainly not really enjoying their surprised laughs.

  The others continued on, but Ian watched Corporal Wesshire’s progress as he reached polite hailing distance from the margrave’s daughters. He appeared as though he would have gone on, but Elizabeth had turned and was saying something to him. Ian watched, something unpleasant chasing at the tips of the end of every breath.

  “Who cares anyway?” Ian asked himself, his eyes straying over to the other daughter, who was shading her eyes and of course saying something now as well.

  * * * *

  He wandered further beyond what his patrol probably allowed through the night. It was still, quiet save for the Mombosso walking. Fortunately, Rory either didn’t keep much of an eye on how far and long Ian strayed, or he didn’t care.

  All that Ian’s mind could do was go over the fight, over and over. Not even the first one against Rory, as noteworthy as that normally would have been. It was difficult to even call it to mind now.

  He didn’t try to turn me much—I should’ve been doing that more—he seemed stronger on his high patterns—no, can’t judge that from what little I saw—what I saw seemed like Ques fighting—like back at the academy—

  The details, so many of them the more he dissected, and fast and uncertain the farther he went, kept circling around the question. Because that’s all that really mattered.

  How could I have beaten him?

  And then the anger, those feelings he hated. Then the resolution.

  How will I beat him?

  * * * *

  Sunday dawned bright and clear. Ian had been aware that it had previously been Saturday, but he had forgotten the Sabbath was going to follow.

  So as it stood, not much was left for traveling another day. Lieutenant Taylor prepared them a meal of eggs and left over fish. After that, they had some time of rest, and then they all generally assembled on a grassy area near the river and the trees where it was cool, especially in the morning air.

  Captain Marsden was tasked with chaplain duties as their company was too small to have one of their own. And as they sat and waited for him to begin, seated generally by ranks and seconds, Ian beside Rory, Ian found himself interested to hear what the captain would say. He supposed all of his feelings toward his superior would have been far more convenient, easier, if Captain Marsden wasn’t so knowledgeable.

  And though it was a fiercely unspoken ordinance that everyone attend, only Will and one other Chax did, off to the side and far behind as they were. The margrave’s daughters put on their formal best and daintily sat on a blanket laid out on the grass. Corporal Wesshire also attended, but he stood throughout it off to the side against a tree, his arms crossed.

  But most notable was Lord Wester himself. He was never all that far away, but wandered apart from them, perhaps just within hearing.

  “The Sabbath,” Captain Marsden began, after much clearing of his throat and his eyes wandering once after the margrave, “is a very solemn day, not because it is created by man, but by God. Then, as well, it is a very special day, not because it is created for God, but for man, for his rest and wellbeing.”

  It was a good topic, as Ian thought. The air of restlessness on this particular Sabbath was still very tangible, and even though there was talk that they would move later in the afternoon, they would be staying for at least the morning.

  But after Captain Marsden’s clearly well-rehearsed preamble, his flow grew less concise, and he wandered a great deal. Ian didn’t think it helped much that he cited unexciting parts of the Old Testament for references.

  Ian did his best to listen but found it extremely distracting how distracted some of the others were. The women conducted themselves with polite attention, and most of their company as well. But Kieran and Brodie in particular kept wavering, glancing about when the captain wasn’t looking. Rory looked as though he was just trying to stay awake.

  “Traditionally, of course,” Captain Marsden was saying, “the Sabbath was observed on Saturdays, but with the advent of Christ … and the rising, as it is, or rather was, falling on the first day of the week, we in Christendom have considered the Lord’s day to be Sunday. It is actually a very interesting tension between traditions in the early church …”

  Ian watched the back and side of Kieran’s head, whom he had the best view of. The other private was staring off at the ground, eyes occasionally coming back to Captain Marsden with the touches of annoyance.

  Staring, Ian observed Brodie doing something of the same, who glanced over at Kieran, smiling at something Ian had missed. All of this was of course keeping with the kind of people they were. Ian couldn’t understand how someone could be a Christian and still—

  Lieutenant Taylor cleared his throat. Ian looked back at him and saw that the older man was glaring at him. Chastened, a little angry, he went back to staring at their captain.

  But we’re all Christians, Ian thought as he kept himself sitting up straight, though inwardly he felt more than a few things slouching uncomfortably. He wondered at just how little it was worth to be one then.

  * * * *

  “Won’t get any hunting in today,” Kieran said, back near the camp and the brisa after the service had adjourned.

  “Afraid not,” Brodie answered, “though I’m not sure I would have had the heart to after all that murder that just went on. Did you hear yourself on that hymn? It was—” laughing, he skipped away from Kieran, who made the motions of pursuing him.

  “Can’t wait until we do,” Rory said. He sat along one rock, his gun and cleaning kit out. “And something besides long buffalo, something harder.”

  “
Some four horn, hopefully,” Ian said, quietly.

  “Hopefully,” Kieran said, “you think you can handle shooting something like that, Kanters?”

  Ian looked over at him. “Do you think you will?”

  “Of course,” Kieran scoffed.

  “Good,” Ian said, “because I’ve been shooting better than you so far, so it shouldn’t be all that difficult.”

  “Oh ho,” Brodie laughed. “I suppose we’ll have to see, and actually have a paying wager.”

  “I can’t wait to shoot at something covered in bone like that,” Rory said. “It will have to be a great shot, but I’ll be able to do it. We just have to find them.”

  “Yes,” Kieran said, “then we just have to tie one to Kanters’ gun so that he can hit one, too.”

  Ian smiled faintly. “That’s amusing.” It was hard to leave it at that. But he could see nothing good that could come of it.

  Kieran laughed, in his way. It certainly wasn’t Ian’s favorite laugh to hear.

  But Brodie was already going on about something else, and soon thereafter they left. Ian had been in the process of making it look as though he was doing something in his yeoman, but finding nothing else exceptionally interesting to do, he decided it would be good if he looked over some scripture since it was Sunday. Skimming, he was vaguely aware of some of the others moving about, Rory across from him still working on his rifle.

  He fell toward the beginning of Exodus, as he frequently did, when God first appeared to Moses and tasked him with freeing His people. Moses was protesting, saying that he was not eloquent but slow of speech and tongue. The Lord answered with a question, about who had made man’s mouth—Ian had usually glanced over that, but it suddenly struck him as such an exceptionally effective answer, and so true that—

  A bit of color caught his eye, and he looked up. Elizabeth Wester was walking a little ways off, at the edge of camp with her reader in hand, but she didn’t look as though she was in the mood for reading either.