The King's Traitor (Kingfountain #3)(41)
The knight suddenly lunged with the spear, trying to catch Owen off guard. Dipping the sword, Owen deflected the charge effortlessly, spun around, and sliced the warhorse’s flanks as it rushed past him. The animal screamed in pain.
The black-garbed knight reined in hard and then flung himself off the horse, landing well but with an obvious favoring of his left leg. Owen had not dealt the horse a killing wound, and the animal stamped and seethed, thrashing its mane wildly. The knight stood solidly. He’d exchanged the spear for a sword. Owen could only see the man’s eyes through the visor, but his own face was revealed to his opponent. At least the helmet would limit the knight’s ability to see.
The two began squaring off, circling each other warily, swords at the ready. Owen’s senses felt sharp and alert. The magic of the Fountain pulsed inside of him. Strangely, he did not sense it coming from his opponent.
Then the black knight came at Owen with a whirlwind of blows, his dark sword coming at his head and then his chest. This was not the training yard of Owen’s youth. Even with the weak leg, the knight was formidable and very experienced, and Owen was forced to retreat and defend himself. A sting cut against his arm, shearing through the hauberk links. Then his thigh. The pain shot through him, but his heart was beating too wildly for him to feel it. He sensed blood, torn skin. And then he felt something peculiar. The scabbard at his side began to glow, the raven sigil igniting once more with magic. The wounds in his arm and thigh were soothed.
Owen deflected another thrust at his throat and then kicked the knight in his weakened leg to break off the attack. The man grunted with pain and limped slightly, but he shook off the discomfort and came at Owen again, hobbling just a little. Their boots crushed through the twigs and shards of leaves, threatened by the unstable footing and broken stones. The black knight butted his shoulder into Owen’s chest, his superior weight nearly sending Owen onto his back, but the young duke caught his footing and swung his sword down against the other man’s breastplate, sending up a shower of sparks.
The men began circling each other again, panting heavily. Owen went on the attack next, driving fast and hard, hammering away on the knight’s left side, forcing him to defend, to use his legs to move and react. Owen kept at it, drawing around him in a narrower circle, thrusting and blocking, looking for vulnerable spots where he could nick his opponent. The man was wearing gauntlets, so he wasn’t likely to drop his blade. The young duke forced him to spin around in circles, hoping the extra movement and the weight of his armor would dizzy him.
It seemed to be working. The labored breathing of the black knight was growing more pronounced. Most battles rarely lasted this long. Owen was younger, had more stamina, and was driven by the need to survive.
“Yield,” Owen said, bashing away a feeble attempt at a strike. The man was starting to wobble.
“No,” answered a gruff voice, echoing strangely in the helm.
With that, the black knight charged him, swinging high and then low. Owen did not catch the feint in time to avoid a shallow cut, but the hauberk absorbed the blow. Then the knight’s elbow struck Owen’s jaw, spinning him back and making his eyes dance with pricks of light. Owen went down hard, unable to see, so he cleared the way with his sword, swinging it indiscriminately like a scythe.
He felt a shadow loom over him, saw the tip of the knight’s blade rushing down toward his nose. Owen twisted his shoulders and heaved himself to one side, thrusting his blade out. The knight collapsed on top of him, and Owen felt his blade shearing through metal and then skin as the black knight impaled himself in his fall. The weight of the knight came down on Owen like anvils, knocking him flat onto his back. He squirmed and wriggled to get free and saw with horror the tip of his blade appearing from his enemy’s back.
It was a death wound. His magic revealed the truth instantly as blood began to well through the slit in the man’s breastplate. Shoving the gasping knight onto his side, Owen saw the man’s legs twitch with spasms. His life was fading quickly, his heart as wild as a bird’s. Owen scrambled backward in shock, weaponless. The black knight’s sword was on the ground next to him.
Owen hadn’t intended to kill him. He had defended himself as best he could, and his wounds still hurt, although the pain was lessening by the moment. The knight groaned in agony and began tugging off his helmet as if he couldn’t breathe.
Owen knelt by his side, dismally aware of the pool of blood leaching into the ground. His heart was struck with remorse. Then the helmet came free, and Owen found himself staring at the face of Brendon Roux, the lord marshal of Brythonica. Blood dribbled from his nose and lips.
“My lord!” Owen gasped in sudden despair. “Why did you attack me? I didn’t mean for this to happen!”
The marshal gritted his teeth, in obvious and excruciating pain. He looked at Owen not with accusation but with mercy. “My turn . . . is done,” he gasped, his lips in a rictus. He panted, trying to speak again. Owen knelt closer, his heart ripping in pain. “Your turn now,” he groaned. “You must protect her . . . now . . . the duchess . . . you are her . . . protector.”
Owen felt as if he’d been struck. The duchess? She would hate him for killing Marshal Roux. But the man’s words implied this terrible combat had been inevitable. That he had known all along he would die. It felt as if they were part of a giant Wizr set—two pieces had clashed, and Owen emerged as the victor.