The week of her stay in Kavarren lay on her face in black, funereal shadows. The student’s bundle dragged on her arm as she plodded out to the carriage waiting by the entrance; her eyes, extinguished, ringed with dark shadows, watched the ground as she walked, which is why she did not immediately recognize the man who courteously lowered the running board of the coach.
Someone’s hand helped her cast the bundle onto the seat. Mechanically offering thanks, Toria raised her eyes and came face-to-face with Egert Soll.
Egert had been watching over the fiancée of the student he killed, though he himself did not know why. It is possible that he wanted to apologize and to express his sympathy, but it is more likely that he entertained certain vague hopes in regards to Toria. As a worshipper of risk and danger, he was accustomed to taking a relaxed approach to death, his own and others’. Should not the victor have a right to count on an allotment of the relinquished inheritance of his vanquished foe? What could be more natural?
Then Toria met Egert’s gaze.
He was prepared for a display of wrath, despair, or hatred, and he had fortified himself with words appropriate to the situation. He even intended to accept a slap in the face from her hand, but what he saw in Toria’s splendid yet heartbroken eyes repelled him backwards like a blow from a steel-clad fist.
The girl looked at Egert with bleak disgust completely lacking in malice, as one might look at vermin. There was no hatred in her, but it seemed as though she might vomit at any moment.
Egert did not remember the route he took as he walked—or did he run?—away, his eyes downcast so that he might never again see or meet or remember such a gaze.
* * *
The next day, he was sitting in the Faithful Shield, gloomy, despondent, and full of malice. Karver was hovering next to him, happily chatting away about boars and women: the seasonal boar fights were not far off. Would his father enter Handsome, Butcher, or the young Battle? Incidentally, the lovely Dilia, wife of the captain, had asked about Egert, and it would be quite dangerous to neglect her; she would get her revenge. And why on earth should Egert, who was the center of attention in the city this week, spoil the bright days of such a remarkable life with despondency?
Egert instinctively noticed a certain pleasant agitation in the voice of his friend. It seemed that in the depths of his soul, Karver rejoiced in the knowledge that, although he was victorious in the field of battle, Egert had come in second in the field of love and was therefore equal to other mortals. It is possible that, in judging him this way, Egert wrongly accused Karver in his mind, but that was neither here nor there: the chatter of his friend wearied Egert. With the nail of his index finger, he carved out a furrow in the blackened tabletop. Yes, he agreed with everything Karver had to say, but for Heaven’s sake, let him shut up for a minute and give his lieutenant the opportunity to finish his mug in peace!
Just then the door opened, thrusting a waft of cool air and a ray of light into the stuffy tavern. The newcomer stood on the threshold and, after looking around to be sure he had the right place, he entered.
Egert recognized him. He was that strange gray-haired man who had been staying at the Noble Sword for the last ten days. Walking past the guards, he pulled out the chair at a vacant table nearby and heavily lowered himself into the seat.
Not knowing exactly why, Egert watched him out of the corner of his eye in the feeble light of the crowded tavern. It was the first time he managed to get a close look at the stranger’s face.
The age of the grizzled boarder was impossible to determine: he could have been anywhere from forty to ninety years old. Two deep, vertical lines intersected his cheeks and lost themselves in the corners of his chapped lips. His long, thin, yellow nose flared continually, as if it were about to fly away. His eyes, clear and set far apart, seemed completely unconcerned with the world around him. Examining him, Egert saw his large, leathery eyelids, devoid of eyelashes, twitch slightly.
The innkeeper brought the stranger a mug of wine and was about to move off when the stranger unexpectedly stopped him.
“Just a minute, dearest. Don’t you see, I’ve no one to drink with. I understand that you are busy, but all I require is a little company. I want to drink to the glorious guards, the destroyers of the defenseless.”
The innkeeper flinched: he understood quite well to whom this toast was directed. Muttering apologies under his breath, the kindly soul scuttled off, and just in time, for Egert too had heard the words that were meant for him.
Unhurriedly placing his mug back on the table, he looked the stranger right in the eyes. As before, they were calm, even indifferent, as though someone else entirely had spoken that disastrous toast.
“And just whom are you drinking to, my dear sir? Whom do you name so?”
“You,” the stranger said, undaunted. “I name you, Egert Soll. You are right to go pale.”
“Pale?” Egert stood up. He was in his cups, but far from drunk. “What the—” The words strained through his teeth. “I am afraid that someone may come tomorrow wishing to call me the destroyer of feeble old men.”
The stranger’s face changed oddly. Egert suddenly understood that he was smiling.
“A man chooses who he will be, what his reputation will be. Why don’t you slaughter, let’s say, women with that sword of yours? Or ten-year-old children? It’s possible they might have more success against you than your last victim did.”
Egert was rendered speechless; at a loss, he turned toward Karver. But Karver, who was usually so sharp of tongue, was now, for some reason, wrapped in silence. The customers of the tavern, the innkeeper, who had retreated to the kitchen doorway, and a small, snot-nosed scullion were all keeping their heads down as if they sensed that something extraordinary was about to happen.
“What do you want from me?” Egert forced out, looking into those large, limpid eyes with hatred. “Why are you trying to provoke me into drawing my sword?”
As before, the stranger stretched his long, dry mouth into a smile. His eyes remained cold. “I also have a sword. But I thought you preferred those who don’t carry weapons, eh, Soll?”
With great difficulty, Egert forced himself to unclench his fingers, which were fastened to the hilt of his sword.
“Do you like easy victims?” The stranger asked soulfully. “Victims who exude terror? That sweet feeling of power, eh, Soll?”
“He’s a madman,” Karver said quietly, as if confused. “Egert, let’s go, yeah?”
Egert drew a deep breath. The stranger’s words affected him deeply, painfully, and far more strongly than he liked. “It is your good fortune,” he uttered with difficulty, “that you could be my grandfather. And I don’t fight with old men, is that clear?”
“It’s clear.” The stranger again raised his mug, and turning to Egert, to Karver, and to all those who were listening to their conversation with bated breath, he declared, “I drink to Lieutenant Soll, the embodiment of cowardice, hiding behind a mask of valor.”
However, he did not manage to drink his toast, because Egert’s sword, flying out of its scabbard, knocked the mug out of his hand. The silver cup bounced along the stone floor and then stopped in a dark red pool of spilled wine.
“Splendid.” The stranger contentedly wiped his wet fingers on his napkin, and his enormous nostrils swelled. “Do you have enough courage to take the next step?”
Egert lowered his sword; its tip rasped along the stones, drawing a curvy line at the feet of the stranger.
“Good.” The grizzled boarder of the Noble Sword was satisfied, although his gaze, as before, remained entirely indifferent. “Only, I will not fight in a tavern. Name the place and time.”
“By the bridge beyond the city gates,” Egert forced himself to squeeze the words out. “Tomorrow at dawn.”
The stranger took out his purse, extracted a coin from it, and laid it on the table next to the wine-stained napkin. He nodded to the innkeeper and started for the door; Egert just had time to throw words at his back, “Who will be your seconds?”
The boarder of the Noble Sword stopped in the doorway. Over his shoulder he said, “I have no need of seconds. Bring someone for yourself.”
Lowering his head under the lintel, the stranger left. The heavy door swung shut.
* * *
A good half of all the duels in Kavarren took place by the bridge beyond the city gates. The choice warranted itself: walking only a few steps from the road, duelists found themselves in an unpopulated place, concealed from the road by a wall of old spruces; furthermore, in the early morning dueling hour, the road and bridge were still so deserted that they seemed long since abandoned.
The combatants got to the bridge at almost the same time. Egert arrived a bit in advance of the grizzled stranger, and he stared into the dark water while he waited.
The cloudy spring river carried swollen shards of wood, clumps of river grass, and lifeless shreds of last fall’s leaves in its current. Here and there small whirlpools eddied around stones, and Egert liked to peer into the very depths of their black funnels: they reminded him of the intoxicating sensation of danger. The railing of the bridge was completely rotten, but Egert leaned against it with his entire body as if tempting fate.
His adversary finally mounted the bridge, and it seemed to Egert that he was quite out of breath. At this moment, the stranger appeared truly old, much older than Egert’s father, and Egert was stunned: Would there really be a duel? But meeting those eyes, cold and clear as ice, he immediately forgot that thought.
“Where is your friend?” asked the stranger.
Egert had been beyond stern when he forbade Karver to accompany him. If his opponent chose to defy the rules and forgo a second, why on earth should he, Egert, behave any differently?
“And if I should suddenly attack you with a dishonorable maneuver?” asked the grizzled man, not taking his eyes off Egert.
Egert sneered. He could have said that he had little fear of pushy old men and their dishonorable ways, that he had little use for empty chatter, and that he had conquered numerous opponents in his short life, but he saved his breath, contenting himself with this eloquent sneer.
Without uttering another word, the duelists left the road. Egert walked in front, carelessly exposing his back to his opponent, by which action he meant to shame the stranger, to demonstrate his complete dismissal of any villainy. They passed by the spruce grove and came out into a clearing, circular like an arena and tramped down by the boots of countless generations of Kavarren’s duelists.
It was damp there from the river. Removing his uniform jacket with its firmly sewn epaulets, Egert regretfully thought that the spring this year had been extremely cold and long, and that the outing he had planned for the day after tomorrow would have to be deferred until the days became warmer. The dew weighed the grass down to the ground and rolled down the tree trunks in large drops. It seemed as though the trees were weeping for someone. Egert’s well-made boots were also covered in drops of dew.
The adversaries stood opposite each other. Egert realized with amazement that for the first time in his entire dueling experience he was contending with a rival about whom, all else being even, nothing was known. However, this did not bother Egert at all: he was about to learn everything he needed to know.
They both drew their swords: Egert indolently, his opponent calmly and indifferently, like everything else he did. The stranger did not hurry to attack; he simply stood and looked Egert in the eyes. The tip of his sword also looked Egert in the eyes, intently, seriously, and just by the way the stranger stood in his pose, Egert understood that this time he would have need of all seventeen of his defenses.
Wishing to test his opponent, he embarked upon a trial attack, which was repelled leisurely. Egert tried another, and in similar fashion the stranger deliberately repulsed the rather cunning strike that consummated Egert’s short, newly minted combination.
“Congratulations,” muttered Egert, “you’re not bad for your age.” His next combination was artfully composed and brilliantly executed, but the grizzled stranger just as dispassionately fended off the entire series.
Not without pleasure, Egert realized that his opponent was worthy of his attention and that his victory would not be easy, but that would make it all the more honorable. In the depths of his soul he bitterly repented that there were no spectators around who could appreciate his brilliant improvisations, but at that very moment the stranger attacked.
Egert was barely able to turn the attack aside; all seventeen of his defenses were wiped out as he impotently switched from one to the next. Blows fell upon him one after the other, unexpected, insidious, unrelentingly intense, and as he furiously defended against them, Egert saw steel very close to his face more than once.
Then, just as suddenly, the attack stopped. The stranger retreated a step as if he wished to better examine Egert from head to toe.
Egert was breathing heavily, his wet hair was sticking to his temples, trickles of sweat were pouring down his back, and his sword arm was ringing like a copper bell.
“Not bad,” he gasped, looking into those clear eyes. “Well, you never said you were—what are you, a fencing master gone into retirement?”
With these words he sprang forward and, had there been any witnesses to this battle, they would have confirmed without reservation that the swordsman Egert had never before produced anything like these magnificent combinations.
He hopped like a grasshopper, simultaneously attacking from the right and left, from above and below, planning out his moves twenty steps in advance; he was fast and technically flawless; he was at the peak of his form—and yet, he did not achieve a single success, however small.
It was as if all his blows came up against a stone wall. A bull calf might feel something similar the first time he contended with an oak tree. Not a single combination unwound to its finish; his opponent, as if he knew Egert’s thoughts in advance, turned all his plans inside out, passing into counterattack, and Egert felt the stranger’s blade touch his chest, his stomach, his face. Egert recognized, finally, the game of cat and mouse that he himself had played with the student; it was crystal clear that Egert could have been killed a good ten times, but for some reason he remained among the living.