‘You must be getting old, Sparhawk,’ Martel panted, hammering at his former brother’s shield.
‘No more than you are, Martel.’ Sparhawk delivered a massive blow that staggered his opponent.
Kalten, Ulath and Tynian, followed by Berit, who swung Sir Bevier’s hideous lochaber, fanned out to advance on Otha and Annias. Slug-like Otha waved one arm, and a shimmering barrier appeared around his litter and Martel’s companions.
Sparhawk felt the faintest of tingles along the back of his neck, and he knew that Sephrenia was weaving the spell which would block the stairs. He rushed at Martel, swinging his sword as rapidly as he could to so distract the white-haired man that he would not feel that faint familiar sensation which always accompanied the release of a friend’s spell. Sephrenia had trained Martel, and he would know her touch.
The fight raged on. Sparhawk was panting and sweating now, and his sword-arm ached with weariness. He stepped back, lowering his sword slightly in the traditional wordless suggestion that they pause for long enough to get their breath. That suggestion was never considered a sign of weakness.
Martel also lowered his sword in agreement. ‘Almost like old times, Sparhawk,’ he panted, pushing open his visor.
‘Close,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘You’ve picked up some new tricks, I see.’ He also opened his visor.
‘I spent too much time in Lamorkand. Lamork swordsmanship is clumsy, though. Your technique seems to be a little Rendorish.’
‘Ten years of exile there,’ Sparhawk shrugged, breathing deeply as he tried to regain his wind.
‘Vanion would skin both of us if he saw us flailing at each other this way.’
‘He probably would. Vanion’s a perfectionist.’
‘That’s God’s own truth.’
They stood panting and staring intently into each other’s eyes, watching for that minuscule narrowing that would preface a surprise blow. Sparhawk could feel the ache slowly draining from his right shoulder. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked finally.
‘Any time you are.’
They clanged their visors shut again and resumed the fight.
Martel launched a complicated and extended series of sword-strokes. The series was familiar, since it was one of the oldest, and its conclusion was inevitable. Sparhawk moved his shield and his sword in the prescribed defence, but he had known as soon as Martel swung the first stroke that he was going to receive a near-stunning blow to the head. Kurik, however, had devised a modification to the Pandion helmet not long after Martel’s expulsion from the order, and when the renegade swung his heavy blow at Sparhawk’s head, Sparhawk ducked his chin slightly to take the stroke full on the crest of his helmet – a crest which was now heavily reinforced. His ears rang nonetheless, and his knees buckled slightly. He was, however, able to parry the follow-up stroke which might well have disabled him.
Martel’s reactions seemed somehow slower than Sparhawk remembered them as having been. His own blows, he conceded, probably no longer had the crisp snap of youth. They were both older, and an extended duel with a man of equal strength and skill ages one rapidly.
Then he suddenly understood, and the action came simultaneously with understanding. He unleashed a series of overhand strokes at Martel’s head, and the renegade was forced to protect himself with both sword and shield. Then Sparhawk followed that flurry to the head with the traditional body-thrust. Martel knew it was coming, of course, but he simply could not move his shield rapidly enough to protect himself. The point of Sparhawk’s sword crunched into his armour low on the right side of his chest and drove deeply into his body. Martel stiffened, and coughed a great spray of blood out through the slots of his visor. He tried weakly to keep his shield and sword up, but his hands were trembling violently. His legs began to shake. His sword fell from his hand, and his shield dropped to his side. He coughed again, a wet, tearing sound. Blood poured from his visor once more, and he slowly collapsed in a heap, face down. ‘Finish it, Sparhawk,’ he gasped.
Sparhawk pushed him over onto his back with one foot. He raised his sword, then lowered it again. He knelt beside the dying man. ‘There’s no need,’ he said quietly, opening Martel’s visor.
‘How did you manage that?’ Martel asked.
‘It’s that new armour of yours. It’s too heavy. You got tired and started to slow down.’
‘There’s a certain justice there,’ Martel said, trying to breathe shallowly so that the blood rapidly filling his lungs would not choke him again. ‘Killed by my own vanity.’
‘That’s probably what kills us all – eventually.’
‘It was a good fight, though.’
‘Yes. It was.’
‘And we finally found out which of us is the best. Perhaps it’s the time for truth. I never had any real doubts, you know.’
‘I did.’
Sparhawk knelt quietly, listening to Martel’s breathing growing shallower and shallower. ‘Lakus died, you know,’ he said quietly, ‘and Olven.’
‘Lakus and Olven? I didn’t know that. Was I in any way responsible?’
‘No. It was something else.’
‘That’s some small comfort anyway. Could you call Sephrenia for me, Sparhawk? I’d like to say goodbye to her.’
Sparhawk raised his arm and motioned to the woman who had trained them both.
Her eyes were full of tears as she knelt across Martel’s body from Sparhawk. ‘Yes, dear one?’ she said to the dying man.
‘You always said I’d come to a bad end, little mother,’ Martel said wryly, his voice no more than a whisper now, ‘but you were wrong. This isn’t so bad at all. It’s almost like a formal deathbed. I get to depart in the presence of the only two people I’ve ever really loved. Will you bless me, little mother?’
She put her hands to his face and spoke gently in Styric. Then, weeping, she bent and kissed his pallid forehead.
When she raised her face again, he was dead.
Chapter 30
Sparhawk rose to his feet and helped Sephrenia to stand.
‘Are you all right, dear one?’ she whispered.
‘I’m well enough.’ Sparhawk stared hard at Otha.
‘Congratulations, Sir Knight,’ Otha rumbled ironically, his sweaty head gleaming in the light of the fires, ‘and I thank thee. Long have I pondered the problem of Martel. He sought, methinks, to rise above himself, and his usefulness to me ended when thou and thy companions brought Bhelliom to me. I am well rid of him.’