Page 88 of The Black Table
The crack of blade on mask echoes through the salle. The Sainte-Odile fencer stumbles back, clearly rattled, and pulls off his mask. Above his eyebrow, a thin line of blood trickles from a fresh, crooked gash.
The official throws up his hand. “Halt!”
Gasps go up from the crowd, but Kai merely shrugs—and at that, the official all but storms onto the strip, a yellow card in the air.
Now Kai’s ripping off his mask too, cocking his head and spreading his arms in disbelief. The ref ignores him, checking the mask, the wound, the blade.
“What’s going on?” I whisper urgently. “What happened?”
“Too much force,” Morgan says. “You’re supposed to score, not crack their skull open. A head cut like that and you could put someone’s eye out.”
My mind flashes to the silk patch on Luther Pendragon.
“Yellow card means they won’t throw him out,” she goes on. “But only if he doesn’t fuck up and lose his cool about it.”
A tense few moments pass as the Sainte-Odile sabrist is examined. Someone produces a bandage, applies it. Questions are murmured, heads nod.
“Swordsmen will reset,” the official calls at last. “Places.”
A sigh of relief ripples through the stands—a few cheers, even. Kai runs a hand through his sweat-slicked hair and grins like he just got away with something—which, I suppose, he did—before slamming his mask back into place.
“En garde. Ready?” Two short nods. “Allez!”
Now the Sainte-Odile sabrist goes for broke. He leaps and lunges, slashing at the air and slicing inches from Kai’s body. ButKai moves, ducking, rolling, arching backward and up in every direction. His opponent is undeterred, tries again, the blade moving so fast I can barely track it, but Kai repels it like a magnet, left when it’s right, right when it’s left, down, down, up, over.
I realize my fists are clenched in my lap. It’s tense.
And then…then Kai lifts his own blade. A feint left, then right, then right again, but—no, he strikes, swift and direct, and the edge of the blade hits square in the chest of Sainte-Odile’s sabrist.
Buzz. The final buzz seems to sound just a little bit longer.
“Touch,” calls the official, “bout to Caliburn, 8-5. Caliburn leads 1-0 in bouts, 8-5 in total points.”
The crowd erupts in cheers and hoots, and I clap too, more stunned than excited, in awe of what I’ve just seen. From what I know of Kai, and that admittedly isn’t much for someone who’s technically now my roommate, he didn’t seem that disciplined. But what I saw just now, that takes strength and skill that doesn’t come about by accident, even by natural talent. He was impressive.
“I know, right?” Morgan says. “Swords are cool.”
I have to admit, she’s right.
“Bout two,” calls the official. “Epée, to your places.”
I’m about to ask Morgan which of the guys is up for epee, not that I can quite tell the difference between the two weapons, but I don’t need to. The swordsman that steps onto the piste is unmistakably Callahan, impossibly tall, implausibly broad, and I wonder how he’ll manage to move as quickly and as nimbly as Kai did just now.
“Swordsman to your places,” calls the official, “en garde.”
Immediately I realize there’s no reason to wonder. Callahan’s on defense almost immediately—the other swordsman is much smaller, smaller even than Kai’s opponent, and what he lacks in size he makes up for in speed—but Callahan dodges the lungeseasily, almost as if he’s waiting for the guy to tire himself out—and then, on the next attack, extends his own blade.
Buzz. A single light on the scoring machine. Callahan caught him on the wrist, like it was nothing. His longer reach paid off.
“Touch right,” calls the official. “Point to Caliburn, 1-0.”
When they resume again, I wait for a burst of action, but none comes—not from Callahan. His advances are cautious—smaller steps, lighter blade motion—and he controls the distance masterfully, maintaining even space between them with deft steps, and I find myself wishing I had the vocabulary to describe it, to put words to this kind of dance-like sport, to know exactly what makes Callahan sodifferentfrom Kai and yet just as good.
“Touch right!”
There’s a buzz. Callahan’s blade point flexes slightly against his opponent’s shoulder. They pull apart. His opponent nods in recognition, which Callahan returns. They take their places again.
“Allez!”
