Kushiel's Avatar - Jacqueline Carey [41]
A great cheer arose from the gathered infantrymen, who hastily arrayed themselves in a vast semicircle, clearing space for the combatants. Someone's squire ran pelting off the field to alert the encampment, and one of the subcommanders pounded another on the shoulder with glee. Barquiel L'Envers' eyebrows disappeared beneath the edge of his helmet in patent disbelief. "You propose to fight me with your daggers?"
"Your grace wished to fight a Cassiline," Joscelin said. "The Cassiline?"
There was a pause, and then L'Envers laughed aloud, slapping a hand on his thigh. "So be it, then! Till first blood, or the other cries yield, whichever comes first. Anton, my shield!" He grinned, showing white teeth, and shook his head. "Naamah's tits, but you've got balls, Cassiline. I almost like you for it."
Joscelin smiled politely, crossed daggers at the ready.
It could have been worse, I will say that much. L'Envers wore a foot-soldier's training gear of cuirass, greaves and gauntlets, and not full armor. Still, the tall, kite-shaped shield into which he slid his left arm would afford a good measure of protection, and his longsword had three times the reach of Joscelin's daggers. Cold steel, these weapons were, and honed to a killing edge. I sat my mount in quiet fear, putting a serene face on it as the Duc L'Envers hoisted his shield, testing its weight, and made a few passes with his sword. All over Champs-de-Guerre, shouting echoed, and the sound of running feet and pounding hooves as the ranks of our audience swelled. An impromptu honor guard formed itself around me, soldiers jostling to fend off their comrades. L'Envers' squire adjusted the cheekplates on his lord's helmet, tightening the strap beneath his chin.
"Shall we begin?" Barquiel L'Envers inquired.
Joscelin merely bowed.
The fight began slowly, both combatants circling for advantage. For all his arrogance, Barquiel L'Envers was a veteran of countless battles, not to be goaded into rash action. He made a testing thrust with his sword, eyes narrowing as Joscelin deflected it easily, his steel-clad left forearm sending the blow wide as he stepped inward and turned, bringing the right-hand dagger up with deceptive speed. It glanced off L'Envers' shield, which he swung in to cover his exposed side. Joscelin shifted backward, weight on his rear leg as he brought his daggers back to their crossed defensive pose, turning to meet the next attack.
I knew by heart the steps he took, the graceful, flowing turns of the Cassiline forms, daggers weaving an intricate pattern of bright steel. I had seen him perform them a thousand times and more, alone in our garden. Barquiel L'Envers sidled warily around him, leading with hisshielded left side. Without warning, his sword-arm snaked forward in a low, lateral stroke aimed at Joscelin's midriff. I gasped out loud . . . but Joscelin was already moving, turning to his left, dagger sweeping down to intercept, catching the deadly edge between the curved quillon and the base of the blade, his right elbow rising as he turned to land a jabbing blow at L'Enver's throat.
Barquiel L'Envers coughed, eyes watering; I daresay the blow had bruised his larynx. "You wouldn't try that against a man wearing a gorget, Cassiline," he said in a strained tone.
"No, my lord." Joscelin smiled slightly. "I would not."
Catching his breath, L'Envers launched a flurry of an attack; short, quick blows that pressed Joscelin hard and left no opening for him to close. I watched it with my heart in my throat, for any number of them might have been deadly had they landed. To this day, I honestly do not know if the Duc could have pulled his stroke short if Joscelin's guard had faltered. Blessed Elua be thanked, it did not.
But if it became clear that Barquiel's sword could not penetrate the flashing circle of Joscelin's daggers and vambraces, it was