Chapter 22 #2
“En garde—allez!” Slash, slash, clang, buzz, a point.
It’s 2-0 Kai, then Sainte-Odile comes in with a skimming touch and the score tightens.
2-1. 3-1. 3-2. 3-3. I can almost sense the frustration coming from Kai, the need to be quicker, more decisive about it.
At one point. his opponent signals, needing a breather, some water.
Kai is offered the same, but he waves it off, simply paces a circle like a caged tiger, rippling with energy .
“5-3, Caliburn,” restates the official. “Swordsmen, take your places. En garde. Ready? Allez.”
This time, it’s fast and brutal. Kai springs forward and whips a head cut home—hard.
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.
But Kai 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 lunges easily, 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 so different from 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!”
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 a kinda sorta hand 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.
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.