The Sword of Wisimir

Chapter 17: Knowledge (Part 1)

Across the mountains she flew. They had changed in the long years of her sleep. The air was thick with the reek of food from below. She could see creatures, crawling across the land as they did before, but far more numerous now. That was to be expected, the world was too cold, the sky empty of her kind, so they roamed unchecked, Kings in the dirt.

Though she was ravenously hungry, she had little time to remind them of their place. Her child called and, even as she flew, those cries became more desperate and the smell of man grew stronger. There would be time to eat when she arrived.

---

For ten minutes back in solitary, Jack lay down and tried to rest.

After that he gave up, dragged the bed over to the little window, stood on it and peered out into the training yard.

From his vantage point, he had a clear view of the roped arena. A large crowd had gathered as most of the billets had emptied to see Hatcher fight Vicoran. The two lieutenants had taken their positions and were warming up. It was the first time he'd seen Vicoran, the man was ginger haired, pale and slim. He wielded a light horseman's sabre, something Jack had occasionally seen being sported by young nobles in the Bell and Horse. He'd won and sold one or two of them at cards over the years. I miss those days, he thought.

It was getting toward noon and Vicoran stripped down to a shirt, breeches and boots in the heat. Jack noticed a lot of bandaging and dried blood around his left wrist; a sign his route through the Annual hadn't been easy.

Hatcher in contrast was immaculate. He wore a deep red doublet with high boots and black breeches. Jack saw no sign of injury, but then it would have been the talking point of the barracks if there were. Hatcher was the clear favourite to win and he knew it. Jack saw Ansell stood beside him. The two of them were talking animatedly. Ansell seemed angry and upset, gesticulating wildly. Hatcher grabbed his hand, urging for calm. Jack couldn't make out what was being said, but it didn't seem too friendly. Ansell shrugged him off and walked away.

Whatever had been said, Hatcher didn't look bothered. He tested the weight of his own sword, similar to Vicoran's but heavier and curved at the point, then nodded to the officiator that he was ready.

Jack watched them close. He'd not seen either man fight, only the results of Hatcher's bout with Estorin, but they both looked agile and eager.

As the two swords met, a cheer went up from the gathered crowd. Jack realised this was the final they'd expected. He wondered if he'd get the same treatment. It was strange; he was starting to care about what the Kingsmen thought of him. Never cared for anyone much before.

He thought about Orri Garner, and his mother, even Brejyt at the Bell and Horse, all people he had known for years, but kept at a distance.

Outside the steel blurred between the two men as they danced around; Vicoran quicker, but Hatcher more purposeful.

If I'm half that quick I'd be proud.

Then Hatcher stumbled, batting away Vicoran's blade, but dropping to one knee. Sensing blood, Vicoran moved in, but Hatcher was ready and flicked his sword across Vicoran's stomach as he caught his sabre in his other hand.

"Point!"

Hatcher stood up wincing, the crowd cheered. He acknowledged them, holding up a bloodied left hand as Vicoran stepped back.

Jack sighed. He wasn't sure he'd have a chance against either of them. He began to feel dizzy standing on the bed and stepped down, sitting on it instead, waiting for someone to come and get him.

Damn it, where are you Malthus?

Steel clashed again and the crowd cheered. Jack guessed the one eyed soldier would be busy amidst the lists, calling the odds and paying homage to his mistress coin. Jack thought about the box in the stores. We aren't that different really, just players in different games.