Minutes dragged by, and for long periods the two opponents moved away from one another, circling and trying to catch their breath as they looked for an opening. Tal decided to take a risk before he was too tired to execute the difficult move.
He started a rather clumsy overhead blow, twisting his wrist so the blow came from over his own left shoulder in a downward arc aimed at Campaneal’s right shoulder. Then he slowly turned his wrist, as if attempting a cut beneath Campaneal’s elbow at the man’s briefly exposed ribs as he brought his own sword up to block the high attack.
Campaneal saw the opening, and instead of continuing to block high, he thrust his blade forward, attempting to take Tal in the right shoulder.
Tal let his momentum carry him forward, until he was bent over, legs spread wide, his body twisting to the left, the sword on the floor with the point facing his own right boot. Rather than pull back, he kept going until his right knee touched the floor as Campaneal’s sword point jabbed through empty air. As the startled Lieutenant realized he had missed his mark and started to pull back his blade, Tal twisted his wrist and stabbed upward with the point of his own blade, taking the Lieutenant in the groin.
Campaneal let out a grunt of pain and collapsed to the floor, clutching his groin, as blood seeped through his fingers. Tal stood up and stepped back, while the crowd sat in stunned silence.
It had been a foolish, dangerous move; but it had worked. The crowd exploded into applause and cheering as Tal moved back another step away from his opponent.
The senior master approached and put his hand on Tal’s shoulder, signifying that he had won. Tal made a display of crossing to stand over Campaneal and offering him a hand so that he could rise. The Lieutenant lay in agony, his face a contorted mask of pain, and Tal paused, then turned and said, “Someone should send for a healer. I fear the wound is deeper than I intended.”
Two soldiers in the garb of the Duchy of Olasko hurried to Campaneal’s side and attempted to render him aid. At last, the King’s healer appeared. He examined the wound quickly, then ordered the Lieutenant carried to a nearby room to be tended.
Servants hurried to clean up the blood on the floor, and within minutes everything in the chamber was restored to order.
Tal barely listened to the praise heaped upon him by the King and the Master of the Court. He nodded and smiled when appropriate and accepted their approbation. When the King finally handed him the golden sword, a small replica of the original prize presented to Count Versi Dango two hundred years previously, Tal bowed and spoke a few words of appreciation.
But the entire time he wondered how deep that cut had been.
Pasko escorted him back to the room he had used before. There he found a hot tub of water waiting, and he allowed himself the luxury of falling across the bed and letting Pasko pull his boots off.
“I almost lost,” Tal said.
“Yes,” Pasko replied, “but you didn’t. He was wearing you down; you’re a fit lad and a strong one, but he’s a seasoned soldier, and he’s had years of campaigns and real wars to toughen him, which you haven’t. That was his edge. Your edge was your willingness to risk everything on a foolish move. But it worked.’’
“Yes, it worked,” said Tal. “I almost lost because I kept trying to find a way to kill him, and almost too late I realized I had barely enough left to have a chance to win.’’
“Well, done is done.” Pasko put the boots down. “Now, get cleaned up, for there’s a gala already under way and you’re the guest of honor.’’
Tal got into the tub and felt the warmth seep into his muscles. “To think as a boy I thought the cold lake a treat,” he muttered.
There came a knock at the door. Pasko crossed the room to answer it. He spoke briefly and then opened the door wide. Half a dozen pages entered, carrying clothing fit for a king. The most senior page said, “His majesty sends you greetings, Squire, and wishes you to accept these garments as a humble token of his appreciation and delight at your victory. His majesty awaits your appearance in the main hall.’’
“Thank you,” said Tal, rising and taking a towel from Pasko. “Tell his majesty I am overwhelmed with gratitude, and I shall be along shortly.’’
The pages bowed and departed, and Pasko helped Tal to dress quickly. The clothing was of the finest weave and fit as if Tal’s measurements had been taken by a master tailor. “I wonder if there’s another suit somewhere cut to fit Campaneal,” Pasko mused.
“No doubt,” said Tal. “Are those pearls?’’