Page 90 of The Black Table
Except it’s too much. Because when Sainte-Odile counters, Kingston’s overextended. Unbalanced.
I don’t know what I take in first, the sight of him hitting the ground or the hard thud of his fall. But my reaction is the same: a chill, painfully swift, rushing at once down my spine and up my neck.
The crowd gasps.
“Kingston!” someone yells.
“Time,” calls an official, their voice sharp but impassive.
Immediately, Lanz and Callahan, followed by Kai, leap off the bench and rush to Kingston’s side on the piste. He comes upright,but wrenches off his mask, his face contorted in pain that even he can’t manage to hide.
I look at Morgan. “Is he going to be okay?” I whisper, “What happens now?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “We’ll see, but if he’s too badly hurt…” Her eyes dart to her stepfather, and mine follow suit.
If anything about Luther Pendragon’s attitude has changed, it doesn’t show physically. Andthatis even more chilling than watching Kingston fall. His son just took a hard blow, wrenched his arm, from what it looks like, could be injured badly enough to take him out of the match, never mind doing anything else, and he’s sitting as placidly as if he’s watching the grass grow at a golf course.
I look back to the strip. Kingston’s gotten back to his feet, and Lanz leans in. He gives his head a little shake, but Kingston seems to be insisting, nodding. The official takes two brisk steps to both of them, listens, nods. He returns to his microphone.
“Pendragon out, substitute Dell’Acqua.”
A gasp, louder this time, reverberates through the field house. The Sainte-Odile fencers look at each other in disbelief. Even one of the scorekeepers lifts his eyebrows.
“What does this mean?” I say to Morgan.
“They’re putting in their alternate,” she says, “just like it sounds. Lanz is taking over. I think he’s the one they have doing all three weapons, just in case something like this happens.”
Kingston’s face is somber, but he forces a smile as he nods to the crowd, gives a short, stiff bow, wincing again as he does from the pain in his arm. He turns to Lanz, his left arm at the small of his back, and Lanz does the same. They each raise their blades in a salute, Kingston with some difficulty. Lanz slips on his mask while Kingston returns to the bench. He sits on the edge next to Kai, who looks at him with an expression I can’t quite read. Angry, disappointed, smug? Maybe all three.
“Why wouldn’t he…go get medical attention, or something?” I say to Morgan.
“Because he’s an idiot,” she says, rolling her eyes. “And because there’s this whole tradition. You don’t leave the salle until the match is done, no matter what. Literally even if you’re dead—they just leave your body there and carry on.”
Jesus. “That’s grim.”
“Swordsman, take your places,” the official says. “En garde. Ready?” He pauses a second longer, waiting for Lanz’s nod. “Allez!”
I am absolutely captivated.
I can’t help it.
Lanz and Kingston might be the two most physically similar of the team, but their styles are entirely different. Lanz’s whole posture is tense, and he explodes forward into two lunges. A quick two touches. It’s like his opponent is confused, needing to adapt, but it doesn’t take him long. He pushes forward, gets Lanz towards the back of the piste. And even though I can’t see his face with the mask, it almost seems like Lanz is flustered. Touch. Touch. Sainte-Odile has the advantage again, but barely. Lanz walks in a slight circle, shaking his limbs out.
Come on,I think.Come on, you can do it.I’m surprised at how much I care, how much I’m invested. But this close, with Kingston hurt, we can’t lose.
“We can’t. I know we can’t,” Morgan says.
I blink.Did I say that out loud?No, I’m certain I didn’t.
But either way…
“Allez!”
This time Lanz’s rhythm is different. He’s faster. Quick flashes of blade, a tight feint. Direct thrust.
Zzzzt.
“Touch,” calls the official. “Bout to Caliburn, 8-7. Final match score: Caliburn wins 3-0 in bouts, 24-18 in total points.”
