For two weeks the contest had continued, until a local noble, Count Versi Dango, had triumphed. To the Kings astonishment, the Count had announced he would reject the prize so that the King might use the sword to pay for the construction of an academy dedicated to the art of the blade, and there hold this recurring contest, thus creating the Masters Court.
The King had ordered the construction of this school, covering an entire city block in the heart of the island kingdoms capital, and over the years it had been rebuilt and refined until it now resembled a palace as much as a school. When it was finished, another tourney was held, and Count Dango had successfully defended his reputation as premier swordsman in the world. Every five years swordsmen gathered to compete for the title of Champion of the Masters Court. Four times Dango had prevailed as the ultimate victor, until a wound had prevented him from competing further.
Now, the instructor who was Master of the Competition signalled for the two combatants to return. Both young men assumed their positions as the Master held out his arm between them. They approached and raised their blades; the Master took hold of the points, brought them together, then stepped back crying, Fence!
Instantly Ty launched a wicked overhand lunge that almost struck home, driving Henry back a step. Then Ty recovered and took a step forward, his sword extended, his left hand resting on his hip, not raised in the air for balance as most fencers favoured. His father had taught him there was little advantage in doing this unless one overbalanced since holding the hand aloft robbed you of energy; not a severe problem on the fencing floor, but one that could get you killed in a battle.
Henry took a slight hopping step and started a circular motion with his blade, and Ty knew he was about to try that same triple move that had cost him a touch. Instead of pulling back on the second feint, Ty extended his arm, gaining right of way, and made an extraordinary low lunge, which struck Henry less than an inch above his belt, but still it was a clean strike. Even before the Master could announce it, Henry shouted, Touché!
Both combatants stood at attention for a moment, saluted one another, then turned to their respective ends of the floor. Henry came over to where his trainer, Swordmaster Phillip, waited. He saw that one coming, said the old warrior.
Henry nodded and removed the basket helmet worn during these combats. Slightly out of breath, he said, I was foolish to try the same move twice. He cozened me into trying that with his high lunge. Made me think he was desperate. He took the offered towel and wiped his face. So now we come down to one touch for the championship.
Too bad your father isnt here. Win or lose this last touch, youve done your family proud, Hal.
Henry nodded. Better than I expected, really.
Your many-greats-uncle Arutha was reputed to be a wicked swordsman. Seems youve inherited that skill.
With a tired grin, Henry said, Good thing, cause Im nothing like the bowman my great-great-grandfather Martin was.
Or your grandfather, or your father, said the Swordmaster dryly.
Realizing the rare compliments were over, Henry returned his mask and said, Or my little brother.
Or that lad who works at the blacksmiths.
So, what youre saying is, I should win this.
Thats the general idea.
The two combatants returned to the fencing floor and the waiting Master of the Court. He held out his hand and the two young men raised their swords. He gripped the two padded points then removed his hand suddenly, shouting, Fence!
Back and forth fought the two young swordsmen, equal in gifts and guile. They measured, attacked, regrouped and defended in an instant. The life of a match such as this was measured in seconds, yet everyone in the audience was not anxious for it to conclude. And they were not to be disappointed.
Across the floor, advance and retreat, to and fro, the two young swordsmen battled. Experienced warriors like Tal Hawkins and Swordmaster Phillip recognized that the two duellists were evenly matched: Ty possessed slightly better technique, but Henry was just a touch quicker. The winner would be decided by whoever made the first mistake, either in concentration, mistiming, or succumbing to fatigue.
With a rhythm of its own, the contest moved in a furious staccato, punctuated by brief pauses as the two combatants took a moment to assess one another.
Then Ty launched a furious high-line attack, driving Henry back towards his own end of the floor. If he could be forced to step across his own end line, he would lose on a fault.
Oh said Swordmaster Phillip as his finest student retreated in a way that looked as if he was losing control. But before he could accept that his pupil was about to be defeated by a clever attack, a remarkable thing happened.
Ty thrust at the highest point a legal touch was permitted the tunic just below the face-guard a move which should have caused Henry to move either to his right or his left, as he had no room behind him. Either step would have taken him off line and out of the prescribed area, causing him to forfeit the match, or to lose his balance.
But Henry simply kept his left foot firmly planted a scant fraction of an inch before the end line, twisted his body and slid his right leg forward, allowing the tip of Tys foil to cut through the air just above his canvas tunic. As he slid forward, Henry extended his arm and found Ty running right up against his foil tip.
The crowd gasped as the two combatants froze in tableau. For the briefest second there was no sound in the room, then the Master of Ceremonies shouted, Judges?
Four judges, one at each corner of the combat area, were required to signal a valid touch. The two closest to Henrys end of the floor looked at one another, each unsure of what he had just seen. Henry now sat on the floor, in a full split, one leg straight ahead and one behind, while Ty held his position, his body bowing Henrys blade. This is really uncomfortable, Hal said just loud enough that those nearby could hear.
Embarrassing, really, said Ty.
The Master signalled for the two judges to join him and said, Contestants, return to your positions.
Ty held out his left hand and Henry took it, letting his opponent pull him to his feet. That looked painful, said Ty as he removed his helmet.
Removing his own helmet, Henry brushed his dark brown hair aside and winced. You have no idea.
As Henry reached him, Swordmaster Phillip said, Ive never seen a move like that before. What was it?
Desperation, said Henry. Taking the offered towel, he dried his face. He really is better than I am, you know that?
Yes, said Phillip softly, but not by much. And not enough for you not to contest. He may win, but so may you.
Whats taking the judges so long?
My guess is theyre arguing about right of way. Tyrone was still extended, so you had no right of way, even though he ran right up on your sword-point. Id rule it a non-touch and make you do it over again.
I dont think I can, said Henry with a wince. I think Im going to need to see a healer if I ever want to have children.
Probably just a muscle. Rest for a while and it will heal.
I can feel my left leg is not what it should be, Swordmaster. It feels weaker than it ought to and if I push off, even a little, it hurts like demon fire.