Chapter 35 A Duel of Honor
He is late.
Lord Hargreaves stood waiting beside Martin on the fringes of a flat meadow. The carriage was settled nearby, the horses’ wide nostrils venting puffs of steam into the crisp air. In the distance, he could hear the howling of wolves deep within the forest. It sounded much nearer today.
Hargreaves tried to shake away the feeling of disquiet he always experienced at the ever-present snarl of wolves, as if they sensed his thoughts and were ready to tear him limb from limb.
Even ten years ago, when he’d stood rooted to this very spot, he’d heard them, his heart pounding with urgency, as if they smelled the blood that marked his betrayal of one of their own.
He looked over at the Al-Sayer boy now to distract his thoughts. He stood with one foot tied to the single shriveled tree that broke the landscape. Dispassionately, Hargreaves noted the bloody marks and bruises the boy carried; it was clear Martin had beaten him ruthlessly.
The boy’s injuries did not stop him from pacing in an arc in agitation, as far as his rope allowed him, marking footprints in the frost-covered ground.
The land around them was a barren wasteland, just outside Weavingshaw’s boundaries, the soil too hard to grow anything other than weedy grass.
Hargreaves’s thoughts could not contain themselves this morning. It was as if the landscape had refused to change in the ten years since he had last been here, when he had met Percy for the last time, sword in hand.
He’d had to draw Percy out here, even with the dangers lurking near the edge of the forest, for he could not have touched him within Weavingshaw’s domain.
The irony was not lost on him. Hargreaves had chosen this very meadow once more to meet Percy’s son, as if the Saints wanted him to complete the cycle.
He would not admit even to himself that he was afraid that Weavingshaw would still do everything in its power to protect its young master, even if he had yet to swear fealty to its walls, for it still recognized Avon blood.
It was a few minutes past dawn when he heard the horse’s hooves pounding on the frost-hardened ground. At moments like these, Hargreaves could see nothing except the similarities between father and son.
The way they both rode a horse masterfully, the roll of their shoulders, their height, even the eyes—glacial, hateful, cannibal eyes, despite their difference in color. For an instant, Hargreaves was not sure if it was Percy who had, after all, been resurrected from his grave.
If not for the dark coloring, which Bramwell had inherited from his beautiful, doomed mother, then Hargreaves would have bent his knees and prayed to the Saints for bringing back the dead.
And yet such prayers would never be accepted.
He could never forget that it was he who had joined Percy when they took young Bramwell to the underworld on his twelfth birthday, one hand on each of his shoulders, steering him to sign his name on the contract.
The boy had been shaking so hard his signature came out scrawled and illegible, and he’d been forced to repeat it.
“For Weavingshaw,” Percy had told him.
“For Weavingshaw,” the boy repeated.
Hargreaves had knelt down to look Bram in the eyes. “We will come back for you. I promise.”
They hadn’t.
Over twelve years, the boy had grown into a man under the glare of demons. They had fed on him; that was clear. Hargreaves knew the look of someone who had been fed on often. That he had survived so long—under the merciless dominion of the Frays, no less—was unfathomable.
But in truth, it was fortunate that the boy had not died.
Since Percy’s death, Hargreaves had spent the last ten years searching in vain for the Limitless Vessel. Finding it would have at least given young Bramwell Avon’s sacrifice purpose.
He and his men had swept every inch of Weavingshaw, save the parts of the crypts that were barred to him, but the estate hid Percy’s secret.
Except for Mrs. Van, who had disappeared for years before re-emerging at the elbow of the Saint of Silence, Hargreaves had interviewed every servant who had worked at Weavingshaw within the last two decades.
All of them were worthless—except Avon’s old housekeeper, whose mind had been spoiled long before the Limitless Vessel was traded for Bram.
In desperation, Lord Hargreaves had had his men search the old housekeeper’s cottage a few months ago.
He’d found the timepiece there. Percy had always favored Mrs. Graham above all other servants.
Even when her mind became demented, he still had a fondness for her and ensured she was looked after until his death.
One half of the mystery was revealed to Hargreaves the day he gave the locket back to the old woman, knowing it would not be long before it was found again. His plan only grew from then.
Hargreaves was once more brought back to the present by St. Silas dismounting the horse, patting the animal’s muzzle with an absentminded hand. He didn’t seem surprised that Martin had chosen Hargreaves as his second.
A surgeon was deliberately not present this morning—though it was one of the criteria for all duels of honor. Hargreaves knew St. Silas had noted this obvious breach of the code, but said nothing. He did, however, observe Rami tied like an animal, and a cold anger darkened his face.
“Not entirely honorable, I see,” St. Silas drawled.
“Do not be concerned, Mr. St. Silas. This is only to ensure that all parties remain on the premises until the completion of the duel,” Hargreaves replied mildly.
Ignoring him, St. Silas walked toward Rami, his sword ready to cut the rope.
Hargreaves didn’t want this to be a massacre. A duel must take place. He needed St. Silas to be desperate, not dead.
Not yet.
“Unfortunately, you have not given me a choice, Mr. St. Silas. I will be pointing this pistol at Mr. Al-Sayer’s head throughout the duration of your duel.
” The click of Hargreaves’s gun put an effective stop to St. Silas’s determined actions.
“However, as long as the duel is kept clean, and you emerge the winner, both yourself and Mr. Al-Sayer will be free to leave without any further delay—as promised.”
St. Silas and Rami exchanged a hard look, but not a surprised one. Hargreaves would once have despised a man who did not respect the code of honor that would have ensured a fair duel, but he was now desperate and short on time.
Hargreaves had already warned Martin that he did not care about the ruined Tar. His sole focus was to retrieve the red diary and the secret it held, pertaining to the whereabouts of the Limitless Vessel. Hargreaves was never going to allow St. Silas or his wards to leave Weavingshaw.
St. Silas gave Martin a curt nod to commence.
“Your pistol,” Hargreaves commanded St. Silas. “Throw it here.”
His mouth hard, St. Silas pulled the revolver from his pocket and threw it toward Hargreaves’s shoes. Hargreaves bent to retrieve it, hiding it in his own coat.
The snow had begun to fall in earnest now, coating the lapels of St. Silas’s dark jacket.
Beside him, Martin stood at the ready, silently unsheathing his sword.
Martin was an expert swordsman, and he knew it. Wordlessly, he stood in position, the blade held aloft.
St. Silas, his expression as icy as the surrounding frost, mirrored Martin’s stance, his own sword held in a firm grasp.
“At your marks, gentlemen.” Hargreaves’s other hand reached for his sword hilt just as his fighting hand held firm to his pistol, still pointing at the Al-Sayer boy. “One, two, three…Start!”
The clash of steel resonated—so man-made, so misplaced in this barren land.
Both men were vicious, their thrusts slicing through the air, their boots struggling to gain purchase on the new snow. Hargreaves watched for a moment, wondering how long Martin could last.
Their breathing created white frost clouds in the air, and all around them was silent.
Even the wolves had ceased their howling, waiting for the victor to be declared.
Hargreaves was not a swordsman, but it was clear that St. Silas was winning.
Martin was an older man now. His footwork had slowed, his breath tearing out in gasps.
And although St. Silas’s attacks lacked the rhythm of a highly trained swordfighter, his energy was undiminishing, and his strength clear.
More than once, he forced Martin to reel backward under the power of his assault.
Hargreaves began to wonder if the rumors that swirled about the Saint of Silence’s lack of proficiency with a sword were deliberately untrue, likely put about by St. Silas himself to gain an advantage…
Percy’s linen shirt had been drenched in crimson. He’d looked down at it mutely, touched his abdomen, then looked back up at Hargreaves. His eyes were beseeching—
It was time.
Hargreaves deftly put away his pistol and switched his sword to his dominant hand, his boots crunching the frost as he walked to the two fighters.
St. Silas’s attention was focused on Martin’s strikes, leaving his back entirely exposed.
Hargreaves knew that the Al-Sayer boy was watching him, but it was too late now.
Hargreaves readied his sword, the murky sunlight glinting off the steel.
“St. Silas, your back!” Al-Sayer shouted.
St. Silas turned—too late. Hargreaves had already lurched forward, slicing a jagged tear along St. Silas’s left flank.
A grunt.
St. Silas’s weapon clattered to the ground as he clutched his side, pain twisting his face.
It was done.
Despite Hargreaves giving clear orders the previous evening for Martin to cease his attacks once Hargreaves struck, Martin still made a final charge toward St. Silas, lifting his sword with deadly intent.
Hargreaves should have predicted this. Martin was now enthralled by the idea of St. Silas’s death, burying all his secrets with him.
A gunshot sounded, shattering the air like glass.