Page 89 of The Black Table
This time, the other swordsman is too quick, and Cal not fast enough. With a swift lunge, the Sainte-Odile swordsman bores a hole through the air and right into Callahan’s side, buzzing on the score system. I let out a little gasp, clutch my hands to my chin, and then feel silly.
Next to me, Morgan chuckles. “Relax,” she says. “They can lose a point here or there. They’re not going to lose the bout.”
And she’s right. The smaller Sainte-Odile fencer finds his rhythm, cuts through the distance Callahan’s been so careful to preserve, nocks up a score on his hand, then his foot. The crowd tenses, but if the pressure makes it to Callahan, he doesn’t show it. I get the sense that Callahan’s style is more strategic, intellectual, than Kai’s. Less barnburner, but still gets the results.
And sure enough, the next two points are his, and then a third, followed by a long exchange of thrusts and parries that culminate with a narrow point for Sainte-Odile.
But after that, it’s like Callahan locks in. Point, point, point. He makes it look easy, almost motionless, and it’s clear that his opponent is getting tired. Soon he’s a point away from victory, running the poor guy up and down the strip, wearing him out until at last?—
Zzzt.
“Bout to Caliburn, 8-6. Caliburn leads 2-0 in bouts, 16-11 in total points.”
The applause is loud once more, but more measured this time, almost cautious. I clap hard, genuinely impressed at Callahan—and Kai, too—but look to Morgan for guidance.
“They’re good, right? Two bouts to zero?”
She squints, wavers akinda sortahand in the air. “Yeah, but. Sainte-Odile could still pull it out if they dominate foil. If they come out, like…” She does the math quickly. “Eight points to two, they’d win by point total.”
I nod, processing. Realizing what that means.
We have to win the next one.
“And now, foil,” calls the official. “Swordsman, take your places.”
This, I know, is Kingston. The only one who hasn’t fought yet. A shiver runs down my spine, and my eyes flick to the VIP box, where Luther, to my surprise, isn’t hunched over with intense focus, or even clapping harder for his son. He’s frozen, unmoved. Simply ready, as if it’s a done deal, and he’s only waiting to see just how it will unfold.
“Swordsmen, take your places,” says the official. “En garde. Ready? Allez!”
It’s quick. Kingston advances decisively, lunges, but his opponent deflects. Both blades flash and bend in the clash.
Buzz. Two lights. A pause.
“Attack no, riposte yes. Touch left. Score 0-1.”
“What’s that mean?” I hiss urgently.
“Foil’s right-of-way scoring,” Morgan says. “Only one of them can score at a time, and apparently Kingston’s attack was no good. Just the riposte—the counterattack, basically.”
“Allez!”
They’re moving again—quick, intense, feet flying fast. My eyes dart from the clash on the strip to the score box lighting up, barely able to keep a bead on the action but still sensing a kind of sinking energy. Not quite panic, but close to.
“Touch right,” calls the official. “Score 2-4.”
“Oh,” Morgan murmurs. “Oh oh oh. I don’t like it.”
I glance at her. “What do you mean?”
“He’s in his head,” she says, eyes forward. “I can tell. He’s just a little too slow to move. He’s overthinking it.”
I look back at the piste. Nothing about this appears slow to me, unless you consider a lightning strike slow, but still, a point to Sainte-Odile. It’s the first time they’ve had the edge, I realize.
And I don’t like it.
“Swordsman, take your places,” says the official. “En garde. Ready? Allez.”
Kingston lunges this time, fast, forceful, like he’s making up for lost time.
