At His Majesty's Pleasure Ch. 13

"Oho!" declared Boris. "Protecting from a rear attack! Of course!"

It made sense. The risk for a single combatant against many was always to be surrounded and outflanked, and he drastically increased his chances for survival if he was able to make use of a natural barrier.

The first two combatants to reach the champion were dispatched with startling ease. Septimus's sword danced and feinted, taking a vicious slice of a man's stomach in the process; nimbly, he weaved out of the reach of another attacking, ducking under the swing to hammer his shield into his opponent's knee. Both toppled within moments of each other, and Septimus was already on the move, sword up in time to meet the next onslaught.

Applause rang from the seated nobles, and more than a few were now on their feet.

"Incredible!" boomed Boris. It must have been, for his goblet, for once, remained on the table as he stared at the sight of Septimus doing battle with three more gladiators. "I've never seen such dexterity. He moves as if water!"

Indeed, Septimus's instincts appeared to be almost unnatural. He was constantly countering every attack, forever dodging at just the right moment. In fighting three opponents, he used the space and their numbers to his advantage - he was continually moving along the wall, forcing them to make obstacles of each other as they attempted to keep pace.

By this time, he had withdrawn far enough to stake out a corner, thus further limiting the ability of his opponents to attack on different sides. A few contenders were kept at bay, unable to attack with others blocking their vantage. As it turned out, some were more impatient than others.

A sickening cry rang out from the improvised arena as the mighty Titus rid himself of one obstacle - with the efficacy of a hammer, his sword cut clean through another gladiator's forearm. The wounded man attempted to flee, blood streaming gloriously from his stump, and slipped on the puddle of his own making.

And oh. Oh, that was a lot of blood.

Alais looked away from the (literally) disarmed man, unsure if she could stomach the sight of more. But what she managed to avoid witnessing with her eyes, she could hear: the sickening sounds of flesh being cleaved from flesh. Bones breaking. Smashing. Below the table, her legs were on the brink of squirming underneath the mass of her wedding skirts.

It seemed to go on forever, and still, no one else at the royal table appeared remotely bothered. The King's detached interest was no surprise, but it felt eerie to see his manner echoed. Duke Randall had leaned in toward the Princess, and seemed to be noting to her points of interest in the battle. ("Can you believe it - he may actually win!" she heard). At least the children had been taken away. Lucille was muttering unimpressed commentary to her son. In the distance, she could see Bartholomew sporting a grin from ear to ear.

"This must all be very...much for you," Duke Boris said to her, consolingly - the effect only slightly lost by the slightly loud quality of his (probably intoxicated) voice. "And for...hrm." His eyes wandered, none too subtly, to the Pearl of Toussaint. "It is unfortunate that - the Duchess' husband is not, ah, here to console her?" Circumspection was evidently not his forte.

"The Duchess is..." Alais glanced at the Duke critically, for a heartbeat, her brows knitting together in response to his oh so subtle cues, but the brunt of her attention seemed ostensibly vested in the fine craftsmanship of her chalice. "... A widow. Spring fever, I think it was."

"Tragic," muttered Boris, not convincingly at all. "Very tragic." He coughed. "You must not think me -" His voice broke off, distracted by the view before him. "Ah! To use his own hand?!"

Unable to help herself, Alais looked up.

A grotesque vision swam before her: heaps of fallen men were now clustered here and there upon the ground, some moaning and others utterly still. A few, ghastly enough, were missing entire appendages altogether, including a crippled Tellus not far from their table.

Only two remained: Titus and Septimus. She saw what Boris was speaking of - Titus had grasped Septimus's blade with his bare hand. Blood flowed steadily from the wound, but Titus seemed indifferent to it. As she watched, he tightened his fist and used it to pull Septimus toward him, hefting forward his own weapon to strike.

But rather than attempt to wrestle for the sword, Septimus simply released his grip. Grunting, Titus stumbled back, two blades in hand.

"Is he not done for now?" Lucille looked faintly irritated, as if the champion's survival so far was somehow a personal affront to her. "He is disarmed."

"Have a little faith, Mother," said Gavin, more gamely.

Septimus backpedaled, far out of the reach of Titus's weapons. The giant man clambered after him, swinging the dual blades wildly - but he was heavier and slower, and his target too quick on his feet. Septimus circled him deftly; whenever Titus seem to find a rhythm, he would unexpectedly reverse direction and leave him frustrated. He was tiring him out.

After a few rounds of this, it was clear even to Alais's unpracticed eye that Titus was getting sloppy - whether from fatigue or impatience. He was making wider swipes, leaving more of himself unprotected.

Then, as Titus jabbed his sword forward, Septimus suddenly dropped and swept his foot in an arc, taking advantage of the giant's forward momentum to trip him. Even as the larger man fell, he grabbed hold of his wrist, twisting so that pain forced the grip to loosen. By the time Titus recovered, a blade was pointed at his throat.

Titus panted for breath, staring up at the sword and its wielder. Both eyed each other for several long seconds. Finally, Titus grunted, "Yield."

At once, Septimus's features relaxed into a friendly grin. He shifted the sword away, offering a hand to the other man - which went ignored, for Titus pulled himself up with a resentful look in his eye. This did not, however, dampen the victor's spirits at all, and he turned and bowed with exaggerated deepness toward the royal table.

A hushed silence fell over the crowd.

Then applause thundered out, so loudly that Alais felt the tremors of it in the very table.

Belatedly, she began clapping as well. She felt like she was catching her breath herself, even though she hadn't remotely participated in the fight. Violence aside, it had been so...so close. She had not been certain until the last moment that her champion would survive, and that he had ultimately prevailed was a terrible relief. She was already responsible for enough unnecessary deaths, wasn't she? (She hoped the knights of Toussaint would halt their rescuing efforts now that their Duchess had actually participated in the wedding.)

"Incredible," Gavin was saying. He clapped heartily, shaking his head. "A champion victorious. When was the last time that happened? More than a century ago, I wager?"

"An inspiring display!" agreed Randall. He looked to the King. "The Gods must have truly blessed your marriage, to make it so."

"Yes, a fine choice of champion it was," said the King. He applauded lightly, appearing well-entertained by the battle. His gaze drifted to her, however. "I did not know my Queen had an eye for such things."

"I don't," answered Alais automatically. She did not know anything about gladiators or swordplay at all. She knew people though, and it was a little gratifying to see that she had not misread Septimus - that she had been proven correct, despite Bartholomew's misgivings. Perhaps fate had grand plans for her after all.

Even she had not anticipated the degree of his skill, though. He must have had some Gods-given talent, this Septimus - she did not need the excited chatter of the nobles or the commentary of her royal family to know this. She had seen it with her own eyes.

She turned back to the King, all sweet humility as she continued, "It was luck."

The King smiled. "Oh, I doubt it."

"Truly, I have seen nothing like it before," uttered Boris. He chortled, glancing at his nephew. "Well, except the King's own performance at that Midsummer Tourney. But perhaps he's even as good as you, eh?"

"The man is naturally gifted," the King allowed. A smirk crossed his lips. "But not that gifted."

The applause was finally dying down, fading to smatters here and there. Bartholomew retook the stage, all his worries turned to glee. "The Gods have spoken!"

Septimus was bloodied and exhausted, but it was clear he enjoyed the attention all the same. His grin was irrepressible, and when he looked to her direction, it was with an expression of gratefulness.

Bartholomew took hold of Septimus's arm, raising it high above. "The Queen's champion has triumphed!"

*****

Authors: Next time (read this is a trailer voice) - a surprise guest at the wedding! Jealousy from more than one corner! And something that teases out Alexander's cruel side!? Don't miss it!