Constantine (Daughter of War #1)

Chapter 10: Visions

Gilbert and I circle each other warily. Our swords gleam like the fangs of serpents, each awaiting the perfect moment to strike.

The so-called 'showcase of abilities' is taking place in the duelling field, located in the inner ring. The noblemen form a neat circle around us, already placing bets on the possible outcome. Out of the corner of my eye, Father watches, expression closed.

My grip on the hilt of my sword tightens. I cannot lose.

My opponent makes the first move, as he usually does, taking a swipe at my right arm. I jump back easily, knowing that it isn't meant to inflict any damage. In fact, we'd decided that we would just stage a duel, with no real harm intended. What the king wants is what he gets—a show.

He goes on the offensive, launching a volley of strikes and stabs in rapid succession. They are easy to predict; I parry or dodge them with relative ease.

Until he feigns right, then strikes at my left.

I didn't see it coming. His sword grazes my shoulder, drawing a pool of blood. Gilbert looks startled by his own action; he staggers back with widening eyes.

I glare at him. How does he know that that's my weak spot?

While I was still under the supervision of Sir Thrall, I'd accidentally twisted my left shoulder one day, while trying to show off my manoeuvres with a poleaxe to my father. The result? An alarming disability for the following two months, and a long-lasting fear of getting my shoulder injured once more. I've always played it subtly so that other squires won't notice my slowed reflex.

But now I've been found out. By Gilbert, no less. Strange. He never slows down to analyse his opponent during a fight, opting to charge straight on with brute strength.

I don't show my irritation—perhaps it was truly an accident—and recover quickly, slashing lazily at my opponent's torso. His sword meets mine in a silver flash, sending both of us flying backwards. I reposition myself in a heavy, defensive stance, sword raised to meet any oncoming attacks. Gilbert, surprisingly, uses the momentum from the clash to whirl around.

Before attempting a stab at my shoulder with frighteningly fast footwork.

I try to parry his sword away. Somehow, Gilbert has gotten much faster. I barely scratch the edge of his blade when my shoulder flares up in agony.

I give a laboured snort. Gilbert immediately retreats, ripping his blade out of my shoulder. He gives a horrified stare as I let loose a piercing howl of defiance.

Controlling my breathing, I try to calm my shaken nerves. I meet Gilbert's brittle gaze with a level glance, ignoring the throbbing pain at my shoulder. If he wants to fight dirty, then so will I.

I run through the past duels I had with him in my head, trying to pinpoint his areas of weakness. Unfortunately, none comes to mind. Could it be...? I mutter a feverish prayer to my patron. If he wants me to defeat his rival's empowered Champion, then he has to provide me with some assistance.

We circle each other once more; I seize the opportunity to study him. A new countenance seems to transform Gilbert—he's too confident, even for him. His pupils are dilated, the light of his irises a thin gold ring around them; his face is set in a determined, crazed expression; his muscles are tense, ready to spring. He adopts a stance with his feet spread wide apart, one foot in front of the other. His upper body faces sideways, making it much harder for me to land a clean hit on him. A clever trick.

But it's one that doesn't belong to him.

He shifts his right foot. An image flashes before my eyes—he is charging forward, striking my knees with furious strength. His speed is blinding, and I won't be able to block it—