Dragon's Trail Page 2

  Crius knew the type.

  He liked this type.

  The other man was much larger, much stronger, red-cheeked and thick-bearded in a ruddy shirt and a black jacket. He whipped the jacket off and tossed it to one of his cronies.

  Remorseless jaw. Fierce eyes. A warrior to be reckoned with.

  But it was the young swordsman whose grin, brilliant as the moon, had snared Crius’s eye.

  Here, Crius thought, was a hero: this young rake flipping his rapier from one hand to the other, tossing it behind his back and over his head with a juggler’s ease, all the while bowing smugly.

  The grin faded, however, as his opponent was handed a much heavier sword than his own and began limbering up.

  Within a moment, both struck an en garde, and so began the challenges.

  This was a grudge match. Unofficial, unsponsored, prohibited by a myriad of local statutes, and held well away from the main bustle.

  The younger man spoke first. “I, Jarrod Torrealday of Knightsbridge, do accuse you, Harold Reynolds of Torrington, of the crime of rape. The victim, Lady Siriana, is present to substantiate the charges.” With his weapon he offered her a salute that snapped through the air, and returned his attention to his opponent. Jarrod’s voice became rocky and dropped an octave, and his happy-go-lucky countenance melted into an unforgiving glare. “How will you plead?”

  The tip of his rapier was as steady as a star.

  Crius was impressed by his professionalism. This was a champion’s champion. This was the man he wanted. And left-handed, he noted. Rare, indeed.

  “I protest my innocence,” Harold replied tiredly, and spat on the ground toward Jarrod in punctuation. “And that, on you. I’ll leave you with a story to tell.”

  “Well, then,” Jarrod answered, “May God guide the true blade, sir. To the first blood?” Out went the right hand for balance, the right leg a bit behind, weight shifting to and fro.

  Harold nodded, his mouth a tight line behind the beard. “So be it. First blood.”

  “Get him, Jarrod!” yelled one man from the sidelines.

  “Kick his ass, Jarrod!” added another.

  They crossed blades. Neither moved for the longest moment.

  Harold lunged.

  Jarrod exploded forward in a whirl of flashing steel, and Harold crumpled and spilled into a knee-deep puddle, pleading his surrender as Jarrod stomped and beat him.

  The blood-thirstier onlookers were disappointed. Though Harold’s nose was smashed, his eye swollen and his beard dripping blood, the duel had lasted only seconds.

  Jarrod disarmed him with a kick, his face quivering in fury.

  Harold sloshed to his knees to find Jarrod’s rapier pricking him not-so-lightly in the eyebrow.

  “Give me your hand,” said Jarrod.

  “My h—”

  “Your hand!” he screamed, his face reddening.

  “Careful, Jarrod!” someone shouted.

  Jarrod tossed his rapier well aside, took Harold’s hand in both his, and twisted it. He pried Harold’s ring finger back until it nearly disjointed.

  “Tell me to stop,” Jarrod growled. He bent it back further, and Harold yelped again. “Tell me to stop!”

  “Ah, st—! Hey!”

  “What?”

  “Stop!”

  Jarrod’s lip curled over his teeth. “Beg me to stop.”

  Harold was breathing in panicked gasps, “Stop!”

  He snapped the finger back. Harold shrieked. Stomachs wrenched. The Lady Siriana, whom Jarrod had been championing, covered her ears and spun away.

  “Now, the next time someone tells you to stop,” Jarrod snarled, “you just remember how that felt, you bastard. And you,” he panted, “Will. Stop!” and he broke another one.

  He shoved Harold back into the water with a foot on his chest and waded ashore.

  He toe-flipped his rapier up into his hand, snatched his shirt from an onlooker, and left at a trot that in five steps turned into a sprint.

  Siriana attempted to run after him, but one of Jarrod’s supporters took her arm and held her back.

  “Don’t,” was all he said.

  “No, I gotta—” she attempted to push past him, but to no avail. “Lemme go!”

  He put his hand on her shoulder. “Please, don’t,” he emphasized. “He doesn’t want to see anybody right now.”

  Late into the night, Jarrod Torrealday lay awake in bed, unjumbling his thoughts.

  Cars slashed by, the headlights making nightmares of the room’s shadows. He turned on his side and listened to his pulse like so many marching feet.

  His rapier hung from the doorknob. Headlights roamed over it again and again.

  He wished he smoked.

  The lights brought flashes: Harold’s acceptance of the duel, Siri begging Jarrod not to hurt him, the conflict and the hatred in her face. The absurdity of crossing swords for a woman he’d met exactly once. Watching Harold warming up, the sloppy footwork and heavy lunges, the beer bottle he’d cast aside. The relief and the frustration of knowing deep inside there was no true danger. Sizing Harold up as drunk, and fat, and clumsy.

  And being right.

  He’d taken Harold apart in five seconds.

  Harold and that ridiculous mammoth blade. Way too much sword for you. Compensating for a deficiency in your . . . character?

  Touching blades; thoughts of Harold, and others, of Siri drunk and held down on a feasting table like part of the goddamn buffet.

  And you still can’t do anything right.

  He picked up his phone, but his hand trembled too hard to read it, much less use it.

  The morning’s breath in his throat, dry and ugly; a grip in his gut as a solid year of hell—still so fresh he could smell it if he lay still long enough—stampeded across the darkness. A delusional ex-champion with a rapier. Endless months of crying coaches and shouting lawyers. A kaleidoscope of TV cameras and microphones, a magnificent life vanished like sand through his fingers, and a girl, achingly beautiful, who might as well be a ghost now. All of it an utter screw-up.

  And now this.

  Crawling out, one Harold at a time.

  He took a pull from the bottle of Lagavulin beside the clock, acidic and hot.

  His own voice startled him. “What were you gonna do?” he asked the shadows. “Kill him, too?”

  He flipped through pictures, finding a block-script quote by Rostand in Cyrano de Bergerac: “I feel too strong to war with mere mortals—bring me giants!”

  He took another drink, longer.

  It was time to move on.

  Carter Sorenson traveled Renaissance festivals giving demonstrations on the history and tactics of the greatsword.

  Nearly seven feet tall and so immensely muscled as to appear capable of pulling locomotives with his teeth, his head and goatee were shorn equally close and flecked with gray. He had played three years as a defensive end for the Patriots, and later had done quite well on the professional mixed martial arts circuit—facts that were well known throughout the Faire.

  He regularly drew quite a crowd.

  Carter was looking for Jarrod in the post-fair gala. Sunday mornings provided the last chance for browsing the artisans’ tents. By noon the majority would be packing up in preparation for a return to whatever, in their lives, passed for normalcy.

  While he didn’t spy Jarrod, he did see Renaldo Salazar, one of Harold’s cronies. Carter had heard that Jarrod and Harold had had a—what did they call it?—a trial the day before, which had ended with Harold in the hospital.

  Renaldo wasn't a serious Renaissance enthusiast, but a fringie who liked to flaunt his physique in fur loincloths and matching boots. He was, however, exceptional with a longsword, and had given Carter a run for his money at several historic European martial arts tournaments.

  Worse, though; after Jarrod became famous for killing a guy in a swordfight in Paris a couple of years ago, hordes o
f macho half-wits and dilettante sword geeks had formed illegal underground dueling clubs around the world. In these circles, Renaldo had made a name for himself. And it was no secret that he wanted a piece of Jarrod.

  This, Carter thought, could be an interesting day.

  Renaldo was pushing at a small young woman with olive skin and dark hair.

  “Siri.” He looked hung-over, or possibly still drunk. “I need to talk to you.”

  Carter started easing his way through the crowd, quietly, hands on shoulders.

  Renaldo reached out to touch the small woman. She shrugged away from him. “Huh?” he persisted. “Look, let’s talk about this.”

  Carter recognized her, now: the one all the fuss had been about. Word had it that Harold and his buddies had raped her at a feast a few months ago in Manchester, which, he figured, was why Jarrod had kicked Harold’s ass. And good on him.

  “I’ll kill you.” She shoved him in return. “I mean it.”

  Carter moved faster. “Lemme through. Move.”

  “You?” Renaldo countered. “You mean Jarrod. You bring him to me.”

  Her eyes were savage. “I will. I hope he cuts your eyes out. Get away from me.”

  “You tell him I said to find me. Anytime. You got that? I’m not Harold. I’ll be ready.”

  She looked him up and down, pausing for a moment on his loincloth before shaking her head. “Where do you keep your wallet?”

  “Bitch!” he shouted as she walked away.

  Carter finished pushing his way through the crowd to Renaldo, and stood before him, eclipsing the sun.

  Renaldo Salazar was big. Striking, chiseled, corded with muscle.

  Carter was leviathan. Tanned biceps the size of footballs shoved at the rolled-up sleeves of his T-shirt, a vast expanse of black across which faux bloodstains marred the stencil GET UP.

  A broad voice, freakish in its depth, sprang up through Carter’s throat. “Is there a problem, here?”

  Renaldo stepped back as Carter stepped forward. “My problem is not with you.”

  Carter grinned the merry grin of a Norseman cutting tulips with his favorite axe on a spring afternoon. “It is now.”

  The smile widened, its menace amplified by a gold canine tooth, its predecessor rumored to still be embedded in the skull of an actual ninja.

  Renaldo’s voice rattled from the hollows of his soul. “Find Jarrod. Tell him to come find me. And bring his blade,” he swallowed the last part of the sentence, and repeated it for good measure.

  Carter cleared his throat. “Get out of here before I make what happens next look like an accident.”

  Renaldo obliged and, in a moment, had vanished into the crowd.

  Jarrod shoved his way through to Carter a moment later. “Did I hear my name taken in vain?” He was dressed in a leather jerkin and tights, the gleaming swept hilt of a heavy rapier adorning his side.

  “Hullo, friend,” Carter said to Jarrod with a slight bow. “Renaldo Salazar was just looking for you.”

  “I wonder whatever for? A pleasant day to you, my lord,” Jarrod returned. “A thousand thanks.”

  Carter waved it off with a wide smile. “I enjoyed that so immensely, I should be thanking you.”

  “Carter Sorenson,” said Jarrod, “may I introduce—”

  “Siriana.” Carter kissed her hand, bowing quite far to do so. “We’ve met.”

  “I thank you, as well, sire,” she curtsied.

  Carter dropped out of medieval vernacular as the crowd dissipated. “The fringies are out in force.”

  Jarrod shrugged. “Inviting the whole town doesn’t help.” Behind him, the Tin Man of Oz pedaled past on a unicycle. “I could do with less of this.”

  “It’s going to be a long summer,” Carter agreed. “You two headin’ back today?”

  Jarrod looked at Siri, whose nod told him it was about time to get going. “Yeah, I think so, in a bit. Why do you ask?”

  “I’d maybe like to meet you for lunch,” the giant offered. “We haven’t talked in ages. You’re still the fight coordinator over at North Coast, right? The Vikings-and-Indians thing?”

  “That’s on hold until next season.” Jarrod’s tone was dejected. “They haven’t picked up my option yet.”

  “So what are you doing these days?”

  “Jumped out of a building for FOX a couple of times.”

  “Jumped?” asked Carter. “Geez, I’d figure they’d just throw you.”

  “Funny guy,” said Jarrod. “I did just finish a month of private lessons for Isabella Barnes.”

  “Isa . . . bella . . . Barnes?” Carter stammered. “Isabella freakin’ Barnes. ‘Disney’s Izzy?’ Playboy? Her?”

  “Paramount is planning a Zorro spinoff. She’d be playing his daughter, the heir to Zorro’s . . . whatever. Swordsman—uh—ism. Hero-ship.”

  Carter wiped his forehead. “Christ. I hate you so much right now.”

  “I only saw the initial concept,” Jarrod assured him. “It may not go through.”

  Carter’s tone was incredulous. “Can she fence?”

  “She can, now. She has great wrists.”

  Siri rolled her eyes.

  “I gotta say, sometimes I feel guilty getting paid,” Jarrod admitted. “How’s your gym?”

  “Just sold it.”

  “Hey, I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not.”

  “What are you doing now?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” said Carter. “Taking the summer off. I was hoping to talk to you about the Viking thing, frankly.”

  “Interesting you should ask. I’ve got a slot for an assistant coming up this fall—assuming they pick me up.”

  “I’m looking for work,” Carter admitted.

  “How’s the knee?”

  “It’s good.”

  “You’re going to get knocked around a bit,” Jarrod warned. “It’s cold, muddy, long days, lots of bruises. But the money’s good. They’re shooting in Iceland in September. You’d love it. Ever have Brennivin?”

  Carter grinned. “A course of antibiotics cleared it right up.”

  “So you’re good to travel. Fantastic. You know Pete’s Chowder House?”

  “Down at the harbor, right?”

  “Yeah. Meet you there, say, one o’clock?”

  “‘Twill be done, my lord.” Carter bowed again, back in character despite his modern garb. “And my lady.”

  Jarrod’s bow was much more composed: haughty, sharp, and arrogant, as was the medieval persona he chose to portray at these sorts of things.

  “Indeed,” he said, “I look forward to it. My lady?” he extended his arm, and the two of them vanished into the milling crowd.

  In his motel room on the edge of town, Jarrod changed out of his medieval getup.

  He picked up his new rapier. It needed to be swung. Thrusted with. Parried. Shoved into a hanging side of beef. Or Renaldo, whichever was more convenient.

  This was a custom job, to his own specifications. Heavier than most rapiers, nearly a medieval knight’s sword with a cage for counterbalance, the blade afforded more powerful attacks and better control in prise de fer, plus the ability to chop bone, always a bonus.

  He swung it around the room, slashed the air.

  Amazing weapon. Kinetically majestic, with the gleaming branches and rings above the handle. A strong swordsman’s fencing blade. Not an Olympic blade.

  He stood before the mirror in his boxers, struck an en garde, and flexed.

  Fuckin’ Olympics.

  More shadowy figures yelled at him in his head.

  How close were you? Five matches away? Three?

  Lookin’ good, though. Gettin’ it back.

  He unflexed at a knock on the door.

  Jarrod stood before the door and paused. The knock returned. With the rapier behind his back, he unlatched, braced, and then carefully opened the door.

  Jarrod recognized Criu
s from earlier, but it took him a moment. It nagged at him that he’d been tailed.

  “Excuse me, sire.” Crius coughed into a handkerchief. “I must have a word with you.”

  “If this is about the fight, I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  “Understandable,” the man admitted, “but I need a champion, and quickly.”

  Invisible fanfares rang over Jarrod’s shoulder. “A champion, huh?”

  “Yes.” He tucked his handkerchief away. “The compensation would be, at the least—”

  The horns fizzled, and Jarrod bit his tongue and shook his head. “Uh-uh. Forget it, pal. ‘The art of fencing is not a harlot to suffer itself to be sold.’ I teach for money. I don’t fight for money.” And with a grimace, he started to close the door. “Ah—goodbye?” was his way of warning Crius to get his foot out of the door, or he stood to lose the better part of it. “Nice boots.”

  “Thank you. Please, may I speak with you?”

  “You are speaking with me.” Jarrod’s fingers drummed on the rapier’s grip as he earmarked a troubling list of attributes: the shaky hands and foreign mannerisms, the intricate design of his staff or for that matter of his boots (and who logs that many miles in period boots, he had to wonder), the odd cut of his doublet, and the ornate necklaces in plain view. This guy carried the authenticity kick way too far, and Jarrod took him for one of the fringe elements who lived in their garb.

  “I’d like to come in,” Crius said.

  “Maybe, in a moment,” Jarrod promised.

  “Please, sir. We need a champion.”

  “We?” We stuck in Jarrod’s head. “You were ‘I’ just a moment ago. Or is that a royal ‘we?’”

  “Well, in a way, I suppose,” Crius admitted, stroking his goatee and looking away in thought.

  “Yeah? We’re done, here.” And at that, Jarrod closed the door and threw the bolt.

  He donned black drawstring hemp trousers, and was lacing up his hiking boots when the knock at the door returned, much louder this time.

  Sighing, he snapped the door open. “Look, friend—”

  Pain burst through the left half of Jarrod’s head and the world dissolved in neon tangles.

  Renaldo Salazar stepped into the room, and drove an elbow into Jarrod’s throat, following it with what should have been a world-ending kick in the nuts that Jarrod sidestepped out of muscle memory.