The initial cuts were merely scratches and pricks. Enough of those would leave a man dead as sure as a plunge through the heart.
Charlemund slapped Adamat’s sword away with the tap of his own and stepped forward. He thrust twice. Adamat stumbled backward to avoid the stabs. He recovered his footing and tried to raise his sword. His arm would not obey him. A quick glance down saw the red stains spreading in two dark circles on his coat. One was just over his heart, the other on his shoulder. Adamat felt his body sag, weakened by the sudden anticipation of death.
Charlemund spun away from Adamat, barely parrying a sword thrust. Tamas’s bodyguard pressed upon the arch-diocel, attacking with ferocity. Charlemund danced away from Adamat and Olem, into the middle of the gravel walk for clear footing. Olem sprinted after him, sword first, not giving him a moment’s respite.
Adamat stumbled to a rock in the garden and sat down. He gripped his sword weakly with one hand, checked his wounds with the other. He shoved his fist into the worst of his two wounds. His head spun, though he couldn’t be sure whether it was because of his losing blood that fast or if it was simply from the excitement of the duel and the prospect of death. He watched Olem with a light-headed exhilaration. If Olem fell, Charlemund would kill them both and make his escape.
Olem was clearly a better fighter than Adamat. He went at Charlemund with the reckless bravery of a soldier, a man whose life was dedicated to the sword and the gun. Olem’s swordsmanship was less controlled than the arch-diocel’s, less clinical, but he made up for that in savagery. His teeth were clenched, his eyes lit with anger, determination, his off hand balanced carefully in the air over his hip. Charlemund took a few more steps back, the onslaught catching him off guard, before he regained his footing and began to press his own attack.
Adamat watched as Charlemund studied Olem’s patterns, tracking every movement carefully. His face lacked Olem’s sense of determination—it contained the quiet, reserved watchfulness of a student in his favorite class. Olem’s thrusts slowly became easier for Charlemund to counter, his parries less effective. Charlemund wasn’t just fighting, Adamat realized. He was learning as he went, adapting to Adamat’s moves. This was how a master dueled, and Adamat had never seen anything like it. Olem continued to lose ground.
The duel could have been hours, as Adamat felt it, though he knew that only moments had passed. Olem retreated farther, and the two duelists moved past Adamat and closer to the carriage. Olem held his ground there for several seconds, sweat beading on his brow, eyes desperate for some opening. His face was easy for Adamat to read. He was growing tired, worried. He could not keep up with Charlemund.
He saw one, finally, and lunged. His cut nicked Charlemund’s side as the arch-diocel stepped aside. A dagger appeared in Charlemund’s off hand, and he stabbed Olem between the ribs. Olem’s eyes widened, his sword falling from his hand. Charlemund stepped away and drew his sword back for a finishing thrust.
Adamat looked away. We’re finished.
Olem coughed out a laugh, drawing Adamat’s attention. Charlemund paused.
“You’ve worse than me to face,” Olem said.
Charlemund gave a quick glance toward the villa. He left Olem in the dirt and ran for the carriage. “Go!” he said, leaping onto the sideboard.
“Don’t do it!” Adamat called to Siemone.
The priest huddled on the driver’s bench, reins in hand. His arms shook. He didn’t move.
“Go,” Charlemund commanded.
Adamat thought Siemone was about to snap the reins. The priest looked toward the heavens, then at his hands. His lips moved silently.
“Fool,” Charlemund said. He swung up the sideboard and into the seat next to Siemone.
The priest cringed away from him. “I can’t do it,” he wailed.
Charlemund pushed him from the seat. Siemone gave a yell and tumbled from his perch. He hit the ground with the sound of a melon being split open and then lay still.
“Coward.”
The word wasn’t spoken loudly, yet it drew Charlemund and Adamat’s gazes all the same. Tamas stood on the back step of the villa, just above the garden. He leaned heavily on an air rifle, barrel down, in place of his cane. He looked like an old man then, tired and beleaguered. The front of his uniform was soaked in blood. Adamat remembered the mage’s quarters in Skyline Palace, and the specks that had covered Tamas then.