‘My pleasure,’ Zacharias Forsyth shouted. ‘And I believe that the Favershams are also eager to help. Inquisitor Rook, would you join us?’
Fletcher blanched as the Favershams and Zacharias walked down to the edge of the arena. The couple did not bother hiding the hatred in their eyes. Was Scipio really going to allow them to be responsible for his life?
Scipio harrumphed and looked at them suspiciously.
‘While I do respect your willingness to overlook the . . . complexities you have with Fletcher, Lord and Lady Faversham, I must insist that Rook remain focused on judging the tournament. No, I shall take that responsibility.’
‘But my lord,’ Zacharias stuttered. ‘You are . . . retired, are you not?’
‘The King was kind enough to send me a summoning scroll last night.’ Scipio flared a wyrdlight into existence before snuffing it out with his fist. ‘He feels that I will be needed on the orc front soon, and that I have been grieving for far too long. I am inclined to agree with him. I must put the death of my first demon, so many years ago now, behind me and move on. My new Felid kit is still growing, but I am sure with a powerful summoner such as yourself, we will do just fine. Now, pay us no mind, Fletcher. You will feel a slight tingling on your skin, but that is all. We shall take care of everything else.’
The four battlemages joined hands and Scipio began to sketch a complex glyph in the air.
‘Go on, Fletcher,’ Scipio said. ‘Malik is waiting.’
51
The khopesh was slippery in Fletcher’s palm. He tried not to think of what might happen if Zacharias or the Favershams decided to cut the mana off at the wrong moment. A tragic accident – that is what they would claim.
‘Come on, Fletcher, we haven’t got all day,’ Rook sneered, walking into the centre of the arena. ‘There are three more battles to get through this round.’
Fletcher ignored him and instructed Ignatius to go and sit on the steps, away from the battle. If the demon interfered, they would be disqualified.
‘Begin!’ Rook uttered, giving the contestants an exaggerated bow.
Fletcher took a few steps forward, trying to acclimatise to the new landscape. Whereas before they had trained on flat sand, now the place was strewn with jagged rocks and debris from the first round.
As Fletcher circled, Malik stood like a statue, watching him. The young noble had chosen his place well, an area surrounded by loose rocks where an attacker might lose his footing. Fletcher decided he would not allow him to choose their combat ground.
Instead, he looked to the tower, with its spiral pathway to the top. He remembered what Othello had said, about how the dwarves built their stairs in an anticlockwise spiral, so that the attacker’s sword arm would be encumbered by the pillar when fighting downwards. By that same logic, an attacker would be equally encumbered in a clockwise pathway on their way up!
Fletcher darted to the pillar and clambered up on to the pathway. Keeping an eye on Malik, he manoeuvred himself around until he stood just below the broken stump that he had blasted a few minutes before.
‘Come at me, if you dare!’ Fletcher shouted, for the benefit of the spectators.
‘I will not fight you on the pillar, Fletcher,’ Malik’s voice was calm and considered. ‘Why not come down and meet me in the middle, on neutral ground?’
If impatience was supposed to be Fletcher’s weakness, he would wait Malik out. He did not give a damn what the generals or nobles thought of him. But Malik did. If they were to stand at this impasse for too long, it would ruin both their reputations in the eyes of their audience. And if it was reputation that Malik cared about, Fletcher would use it to his advantage.
‘So, the son of the great Baybars refuses to fight! Perhaps the apple falls far from the tree in the Saladin family.’
Malik bristled at Fletcher’s words, taking an angry step forward.
‘A Saladin will fight anytime, anywhere. We have fought from the desert to the trenches, into the deepest jungles of orcdom itself. I doubt you could say the same of your family.’
‘So prove it! Come show me what a Saladin can do,’ Fletcher goaded, twirling his khopesh in mock confidence.
Malik needed no more provocation. He raised his curved scimitar high and mounted the pathway, taking long, measured strides. Even in his anger, the boy was a natural swordsman. Fletcher hoped that the pillar would give him enough of an advantage.
The first blow came whistling around the corner, chopping at his legs. Fletcher caught it in the curve of his khopesh and turned it aside, before cutting at Malik’s head. The noble ducked, leaving the blow to crunch into the pillar.