Drinks and Disappointments --
A Matter Of Honour --
Watching Brief
Blood, Sport and Honour --
Suspicions --
Charge! --
~oOo~
Rotheric goes home to look after Sigeric and catch a few hours kip. When the town crier announces that's its nine o'clock, he heads off to the 'Old Dog' for a few drinks. If the maid shows up, he thinks, he'll do his best to seduce her and spend the night with her in one of the upstairs rooms. If possible, he'd like to learn a bit more about her mistress and the household, but he's not pushed. He is pleased when the maid does make an appearance, but the rest of the evening doesn't quite go according to plan.
Things start well enough. The young woman, who introduces herself as Prudence, is as attractive and vivacious as he'd hoped and seems only too happy to engage in flirtatious banter with him. Rotheric plies her with drink and soon has her talking freely and with apparent candour about her mistress and the Heligan household.
She has served Amelyn for the past two years and has found her to be a fair, if sometimes stern, mistress. As the noblewoman's personal maid, she has little to do with the other servants and few direct dealings with Amelyn's father or her brother. She describes Lord Heligan (with a small shudder) as 'a bit scary' and confirms Amelyn's description of Everard as a 'foolish boy'. She seems to have little to do with the rest of the household staff. Her only real superior amongst the servants is the majordomo, Alaistair.
"Although my sister behaves like she's in charge of me too, sometimes," Prudence adds. "She's always used to say it's 'cause she's the eldest, but what difference does a few minutes make, I ask you?"
This sister, it transpires, is called Patience. She and Prudence are identical twins and both serve as Amelyn's personal maidservants. Their mistress almost invariably keeps one or the other by her side, but makes a point of ensuring that outsiders meet then only one at a time.
"Means we can be in two places at once," Prudence explains, with a tipsy grin. "Which is useful. 'Specially with my sister's vow, an' all."
"Vow? What vow?" Rotheric asks, absently.
"Vow of silence, like. Mistress is always telling people about it. Says it makes them feel more comfortable talkin' in front of her, 'cause they know she won't go gossipin' afterwards. 'Cept sometimes, see, it en't Patience sitting there all quiet like: it's me," she says with a smirk. "An' - well, obviously, since I'm talkin' to you - I never took that vow."
Rotheric sniggers along with her, but something about the emphasis that she laid on the penultimate word makes him stop and frown.
"Why did you 'that vow'?" he asks, suddenly suspicious. "What does that mean? Did you take some other kind of vow."
Rather unexpectedly, the young woman blushes. "Um... yeah. Sorry. I did. The chastity one is compulsory."
"Chastity?" he says, with a sinking feeling. "Compulsory? What are you talking about? Surely you don't that mean you're a... a..."
"Nun?" she says, with a rueful smile. "Yep, 'fraid so. You're lookin' at a fully-fledged sister of the Order of St Errolan the Obscure. Does this mean you won't be buying me another drink?"
Rotheric looks speechless for a moment and then lets out a roar of laughter.
"That's priceless! A nun! What a perfect ending to the day..."
"No, don't look so insulted - it's just that I've had a few... let's say 'very interesting' days recently... and this is perfect irony."
Rotheric looks up towards the heavens and grins, "Nice one!"
He smiles back at Prudence. "In light of what you just told me, I think this round's on you.."
After spending a few more (hopefully mildy pleasant) hours with the maid, Rotheric staggers home and checks on Sigeric before falling into bed.
~oOo~
The next morning, he wakes up early. Despite his hangover, he dresses carefully and with style. He is looking forward to either fighting against Holwar or skewering Lady Amelyn's twit of a brother on his sword.Only a few moments late, Rotheric arrives at the agreed location, looking cool and carefree.
Lord Elmar is already there waiting for him, looking as gawky, nervous and uncomfortable as ever, in spite of his well-tailored clothes and the mask concealing his features. As Lady Gavon's eldest surviving son he is the idiosyncratic dowager's acknowledged heir, but he seems to have inherited none of his mother's famous dignity. The crow-like figure with him is no doubt the family retainer, Fulshaw.
"Ah, there you are, Rotheric, thank the Regents!" Elmar exclaims. "I was starting to think that I might have to fight this damned duel myself!"
His tone is light, almost jocular, but the relief in his voice is obvious. The elderly servant gives his young master a look of unmistakeable contempt, then coughs politely.
"I believe that your opponent has arrived, Master Elmar," he observes.
Rotheric turns in the direction of the servant's nod, then frowns. He recognises one of the approaching figures as Amelyn's man, Alasdair, and the scowling, bare-faced young man with him is presumably Everard. But where is Holwar? How typical of the man to turn up late for a duel...
"What's with the mask, Elmar?" the young man calls out as he approaches. "Ashamed to show your face? You should be..."
Throwing back his cloak, he places a hand on the hilt of his rapier and makes to draw his weapon. Alasdair hastily places a restraining hand on Everard's arm and hisses something to him. The young nobleman looks at him in startled disbelief.
"What?" He turns to the now-trembling Elmar. "Is this true, you coward? You don't even have the balls to face me yourself? What kind of man are you? My stupid sister tried to talk me into using a proxy too, but I couldn't see the point. Where's the sense in watching a pair of hired swords bloodying themselves for our sport? Damn it man, have you no sense of honour?"
"The use of proxies has a long and noble history, young man," Fulshawe interjects. "Gentlemen who lack the martial disposition for fencing have long chosen to have their honour defended by a suitable alternate. It is no less honourable than relying upon one's second in the event of illness. Why my old master himself, the much-lamented..."
"Martial disposition my arse!" Everard interrupts. "This is a matter of personal honour. Elmar rendered me a grievous insult in front of my peers and he has refused to retract it. Either he has the courage of his convictions or he doesn't. Employing this lackey," he sneers, gesturing dismissively at Rotheric. "To do his dirty work for him is tantamount to admitting that the fault was his!"
"Enough!" Alasdair roars, startling his young master. He continues in a calmer, but still authoritative tone. "I must ask you to hold your tongue now, Master Everard, lest you disgrace your House still further. A duel is indeed a matter of honour, not of petty spite. You have insisted on settling your grievance with Lord Elmar in this manner and so you must abide by the rules that govern the practise."
"But..." Everard begins.
"No buts," Alasdair insists. "If your opponent elects to invoke the right of proxy, then you must respect that decision or invalidate the terms of the duel." He turns to address Rotheric as well. "And I would remind you both that the object of this duel is not to punish or - God forbid - to slay your opponent, but simply and only to defeat him. Whoever yields first shall forfeit the contest and be obliged to accede to the victor's demands. Mister Fulshawe, do you concur?"
"I do," the Gavon retainer responds.
"Very well, then. Might I suggest the duellists and their seconds shake hands and then we shall begin."
Everard impatiently shakes hands with Rotheric, barely acknowledging his existence, then strides purposefully towards the cowering Elmar. Everard, quivering with rage, roughly grabs the other man's hand and draws him close.
"When your dog yields to me," he snarls. "You had better be ready to eat your words, you pathetic excuse for a man."
Fulshawe hastens to his master's aid, but Everard has already pushed Elmar away, stalking off to one side to shuck his cloak and draw his rapier. Ignoring this, Alasdair takes hold of Rotheric's hand and leans close to whisper in his ear.
"And yield you shall, Sir Rotheric," he murmurs distinctly. "If you ever want to see your brother again..."
With a swift movement, Rotheric grabs the servant by his balls and gives a cruel squeeze. "Mind your tongue, cur! I'll deal with you later..."
Pushing the now white-faced and choking man aside, the duellist carefully removes his cloak and neatly folds it.
Sensing that Everard is young and impatient, Rotheric takes his time in everything he does, hoping to turn his opponent's impatience against him.
Finally ready, Rotheric draws his sword, salutes Everard (by raising his sword to a vertical position with the guard just below face level and then lowering it again) and adopts the fencing stance.
Rotheric waits for the referee to call 'Begin!"
~oOo~
"Aren't morals wonderful?" Touchstone quips to Sheri, with a smile, when she grumbles about the lack of payment for their current assignment. Now if he actually took payment for the times he performed similar duties then he might actually be closer to retiring.
Finding a convenient places to lurk the pair settle down to watch the duel. Sheri's instructions are to only use her blowpipe to prevent death or Everard being crippled.
Oh no, not him! Touchstone thinks, as he recognises the other duellist as the peacock takes off his cape. Now, does his previous instruction to stop him being damaged still apply here? Reviewing his instructions from the last time, he decides that they will.
"Change of plan, me dear," he whispers to Sheri. "Don't kill the other duellist if he is going for the kill. Just knock him out..."
~oOo~
Everard, who has been growing progressively more restless during his opponent's preparations, sketches a poor copy of Rotheric's salute. Then, without waiting for one of the seconds to formally announce the start of the duel, he lunges at his unprepared opponent, attempting to impale him with a crude but powerful thrust. The element of surprise grants him a small advantage, but this is still a hugely ambitious gambit, which speaks largely of his recklessness and inexperience.Rotheric's cat-like reflexes and finely-honed skills narrowly save him from a skewering. Hastily trying to side-step, he brings his rapier down smartly to parry the lunge. He knows that this timely deflection will not be enough to counteract the momentum of the attack, however, so the familiar sensation of a blade grazing painfully across his ribs comes as no surprise. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he hears his opponent's crow of triumph and the sound of fabric ripping as the weapon is withdrawn. What cursed bad luck! As if his tailoring bill wasn't big enough already...
'Tis but a Scratch! mutters Rotheric and feels the flow of blood stopping.
Having gained a measure of his opponent's skill, Rotheric executes a skillful check-step, by moving his back foot as in a retreat, then performing an entire advance. He knows that this manoeuvre can trick an unskilled opponent into thinking that he is retreating, when in reality he is about to close distance.
As Everard steps forward with an eager grin, Rotheric lunges straight at his heart.
His opponent, realising his error too late, tries desperately to correct it, flailing impotently with his rapier. Carried onto Rotheric's blade by his forward momentum, the best he can do is to turn into the blow, which consequently strikes him on the left shoulder. It is Rotheric's turn to grin now, as the young nobleman gasps in pain and a bright circle of blood blooms on his shirt sleeve. Both bloodied, the two men back cautiously away and begin to circle each other, looking for weaknesses.
"You should have sent one of your old maids as a proxy," sneers Rotheric. "She would have given me more sport!"
He casually lunges forward again, hoping to give Everard another humiliating cut.
The younger man, who was distracted by the insult and just attempting to fashion a witty response, fails to notice that his opponent is launching another attack. Rotheric's blade pierces his side. The wound first elicits a startled moan of anguish, which is swiftly followed by a bellow of rage.
"Sport!" Everard cries. "Sport! Is that all this is to you? Well, curse you, sellsword! Curse you and all that you stand for! You wouldn't know honour if it bit you! Now... die!"
This last emerges from the wild-eyed nobleman's throat as a gurgling screech as he hurls himself at the duellist in an insanely reckless attack, apparently heedless of the danger to which he is exposing himself...
With an almost imperceptible nod Touchstone signals his lethal girl friend to fire.
The dart from Sheri's blowgun speeds unerringly towards the apparently oblivious duellist, who seems intent on his opponent. At the last moment, however, Rotheric steps comfortably out of its path, almost as if he knew it was coming!
Ah, splendid! This was exactly what the duellist was waiting for - a totally reckless attack.
Now, just to sidestep like so, move the arm like so and then execute his patented "Make sharp thing go through soft thing that screams and bleeds" attack!
Touchstone watches aghast as the duellist moves casually to one side and drops to one knee, effortlessly avoiding the Heligan boy's reckless assault, then holds out his rapier. Everard's momentum carries him onto the sharpened point of the weapon, which skewers him neatly, entering just beneath his sternum and passing right through him. Gasping, he comes to an abrupt halt teeters for a moment, his own weapon falling from his hand. Then Rotheric stands, places a hand on the other man's chest and extracts the rapier with a quick jerk. Everard slowly collapses to the ground, blood pumping from the mortal wound.
Alasdair rushes forward, as Elmar looks on in shock and Rotheric busies himself cleaning the blood from his rapier. After a few moments, the Heligan servant looks up, his face ashen.
"Master Everard is dead," he says, addressing Lord Elmar. "As I shall doubtless be when my mistress hears of this."
Then, turning to Rotheric. "You were warned, sir. Do not think for a moment that the consequences of this callous act will be anything short of catastrophic."
Rotheric ignores the servant as he cleans his bloodied rapier.
He nods to Lord Elmar. "I trust you are satisfied with my services, sirrah? I shall expect payment of the outstanding amount within the morn. And now, I bid you good day."
Rotheric whistles a merry tune as he watches the commotion that has arisen from the duel. His eyes narrow as he looks at Alasdair. Maybe it would be best to discreetly follow the servant and see that harm comes to him.
Alaisdair, with the help of Fulshawe and Elmar, carries the dead boy's body to a waiting carriage on nearby Park Street. Without a word to the other two men, the servant climbs into the carriage and closes the door. The driver gives an expert flick of the reins and sets off up the hill towards Summit Court and, presumably, the Heligan residence beyond.
Fulshawe notices Rotheric watching.
"What, still here, sellsword? Don't worry - you'll have the rest of the money before lunchtime. This is a grim day for Syran," the duellist hears him mutter, as he limps away. "A grim day indeed!"
Elmar follows looking pale and unhappy.
Rotheric ignores Fulshawe and watches the coach leaving. Checking the tear in his shirt, he frowns - that shirt was one of his favourites.
The duellist sets of towards Summit Court. He plans to linger discreetly around the Heligan household until he sees Alasdair, and then to follow him.
Thinking of Amelyn's reaction to her dead brother, he laughs - he would love to see her face...
~oOo~
Damn and blast! thinks Touchstone as he helplessly watches the debacle unfold before his eyes.
How did he know it was coming? That move was no random dodge - he really knew it was coming! Now he had given, and still showed, no sign of spotting the lurking couple. Looking round, Touchstone is further worried as he entirely fails to spot who could have given the game away.
This smells of magic he thinks and furtively tries to sense any lingering remnant of magical energy in the area.
There is a faint whiff of something familiar here, he is certain of that, but it is almost impossible to distinguish amongst the fencing magics that the duellist had employed in his casual slaughter of the Heligan boy and the desperate last ditch efforts of the servant to preserve his master's life.
Frustrated, Touchstone waits until the other parties to the duel have departed, then circles the area, trying to home in on that elusive scent. When finally he admits defeat, he is certain of one thing only: whatever magic had been at work here, it had not been responsible for Rotheric's uncanny escape. That, Touchstone is forced to conclude, must have been sheer instinct, unless the saints are inexplicably watching over the duellist.
No, whatever the unidentifiable magic is that lingers here, it had been applied to the boy, not the duellist. Perhaps this could explain Everard's
Who could have wanted the boy dead?
~oOo~
Following cautiously, he sees the burly driver jump down from the carriage and knock on at the tradesman's entrance, before disappearing inside the vehicle. When he emerges, he is holding the legs of a struggling human form, which seem to be tied together with cord or thin rope. Another man follows, holding the figure's similarly bound torso, which is also covered with a hessian sack. The two men hurry down the steps and through the side door, which has just opened to reveal the servant Alasdair. Before Rotheric can react, however, he too has disappeared within and closed the door.
Rotheric quickly crosses the street and descends the stairs to the side door. He tries to listen to what is happening on the other side of the door. He draws a dagger and holds it ready.
A conversation is taking place on the other side of the door. The voices are slightly muffled, but quite distinct, and Rotheric has no trouble recognising Alasdair's distinctive lilting accent.
"Did you have any trouble?" the manservant asks.
"Nah, gov," comes the drawling reply. "'E were sleepin' like a baby when we found 'im. 'Ad a bit of a struggle once we put sack over 'is 'ead, but it weren't so 'ard to truss 'im up. Di'n't 'ave to knock 'im about too much, neither."
"And there was nobody else there? What about the brother? He would most probably have been heading back to Rivergate from High Park - I trust you came the other way, as I instructed you?"
"Yeah, yeah. Never saw 'im. 'Ere, what's got into 'im now, Spike?"
"Dunno. 'Elp me get 'old of 'im, Lam..."
A low moaning sound, which had been steadily increasing in volume, now becomes a muffled roar of anger. Rotheric hears the sound of a furniture scraping on a wooden floor, followed by a sharp bang, as of a chair toppling over.
"I thought you said had him secure? Idiots!"
"'Ere, 'ow did 'e get 'is legs free, Spike? "
"Raaaaaaaaaarrrrgh!"
"Oh no you don't, matey! Hey, what're you.... Ooof!"
Rotheric jumps at the sound of a heavy impact on the other side of the door...
Shifting his dagger to left hand and drawing his rapier, Rotheric brings to mind his feat of Slicing through Defences. He then aims a solid kick at the door and (presuming the door opens) quickly advances into the room, hoping to kill, maim and mutilate as many kidnappers as possible.
~oOo~
The door bursts open with an almighty crash and Rotheric finds himself confronting four men: two of them standing just inside the door, while while a third behind them wrestles with a struggling figure partially bound-up in sack and rope. The fourth occupant of the room, the manservant Alasdair, looks on from the other side of a large wooden table. A couple of chairs lie on the floor on this side of the table and there's a door on the far side of the room, next to Alasdair.
As the startled men reach frantically for their weapons, the duellist lunges without hesitation at one of the nearest - a burly fellow with a shock of red hair - and succeeds in running him through. As the unfortunate man sinks to the floor with blood gushing from his grievous wound, his mate lets out a bellow of rage and throws himself at the duellist, slashing out wildly with a long knife. Rotheric tries and fails to parry the blow, which fortunately fails to connect, but the ferocity of the attack carries both men crashing into the wall.
A muffled roar issues from the figure in the sack, as he staggers about, crashing into the table and almost tripping over the chairs as he tries to shake off the man restraining him.
"Holy Arkat, this one's strong!" the latter cries. "Damn it Alasdair, don't just stand there - help me!"
Ignoring him, the servant quickly surveys the scene, then opens the door and calls into the corridor beyond:
"Martha! Martha! Call the guards! Now, woman! Now!"
Rotheric roars towards the corridor: "Prudence?! I need your help!"
He then tries to push the man with the knife away from him, hoping to be able to get enough room to skewer him with his rapier.
His opponent stumbles backwards and flails his arms in a desperate attempt to keep his balance. Rotheric's rapier flicks out, drawing a gratifying splash of blood from the man's exposed forearm.
Enraged, the fellow hurls himself at Rotheric once more, but ends up tripping over his injured comrade. Hastening to capitalise on this mistake, Rotheric tries to run the man through, but his aim is off and the blade glances off his opponent's ribs. Gasping in pain, the man crashes into the wall and tries desperately to steady himself.
The figure with the sack over his head seems to have stopped trying to attack the man grappling with him. The latter responds by calling over his shoulder at Alaisdair.
"Quick, help me bind his legs again!" he shouts, bending down warily to retrieve the rope from where it has fallen. Alaisair, however, is still trying to raise the alarm and in the distance, Rotheric can hear the sound of heavy footsteps descending a flight of wooden stairs.
Then, With an inhuman bellow, the captive strains against the stout rope that still binds his arms. This seems at first to be a singularly futile effort, but, incredibly, a strand of rope snaps almost immediately and the man begins to gyrate wildly in an attempt to free himself from the sack and his now-loosened bonds.
Rotheric quickly pushes the man against the wall and quickly presses the tip of his sword into the man's belly. "The pain will be over soon...", he whispers into the man's ear, twisting his sword as he speaks.
His unfortunate victim tries to break free of the duellist's grasp, but his efforts are in vain. Rotheric leaves him in a pathetically gurgling heap on the floor and turns to see what's been happening the rest of the room.
The man grappling with what he assumes is his brother in the sack has been making an energetic effort to refasten his captive's bonds, but ends up with an elbow in the face for his efforts, as the violently struggling figure rips one arm free with a roar of triumph. Clawing at his face, the bound figure rips the sack away to reveals a hideously distorted visage that Rotheric only barely recognises as Sigeric's. Clearly the positive effects of the potion that Damplestone had given him have long since worn off...
Snarling and spitting, Sigeric grabs his erstwhile captor by the throat with his newly-freed hand and lifts him bodily from the floor. Choking, the man manages to grab a knife from his belt, with which he jabs at the demon-possessed brother's wrist. Bellowing, Sigeric drops him and brings the injured wrist to his mouth, glaring at his attacker and hissing like an angry cat. The dropped man lands heavily and starts to crawl under the table, whimpering.
At that moment, three armoured and shield-bearing guards burst into the room on the other side of the table. "Kill them both!" Alaisdair tells the newcomers, indicating the two brothers. The guards make haste to obey, two drawing swords and heading around the table, while the third takes aim at Rotheric with his crossbow.
As Rotheric sees the guard about to fire the crossbow, he uses his fencing training to feint a move to the left. As the crossbow bolt is released, he instead leaps up on the table and tries to kill the shooter and his friends with his sword.
The bolt flies past Rotheric and embeds itself harmlessly in the door. Now the guard nearly drops his crossbow in surprise, as the duellist leaps up onto the table in front of him. All three of the guards are disciplined and brave, well-armoured and well-trained, but even three against one they're no match for Rotheric's dazzling sword play.
The crossbowman falls first, his weapon more of an encumbrance than an aid to defence. The swordsman on the left is the next unlucky victim of Rotheric's cold-hearted assault, the slender rapier easily finding a weak spot in the guard's chainmail. Only the second swordsman manages to put up any kind of defence, deflecting one thrust with his buckler and almost parrying a second with his sword.
Grunting with pain as the rapier pierces his side, the guard immediately slashes out wildly with his sword, catching Rotheric by surprise. The duellist's reflexes step in to save him, but his instinctive dodge throws him off-balance, forcing him to windmill his arms to keep from falling off the table.
Grinning, the guard moves eagerly forwards, intending to cut his opponent's legs from under him... and so completely fails to notice the other brother. Sigeric is by now a truly fearsome sight, with throbbing veins standing out all over his quivering body, his face a terrifying mask of rage. Grabbing a club from one of the fallen, he aims a mighty overhead blow at the remaining guard. The hideous strength that possesses him ensures that the effects of its impact are nothing short of sickening: the unfortunate target's skull shatters like an overripe melon, sending bone fragments and pulped grey matter flying in all directions.
Howling with unholy fury the demon-wracked Sigeric turns blindly to his brother and raises the blood- and brain-spattered club once more...
