Session 6

As the horses crested the ridge, the tired riders gazed down at the town of Tannen. It had grown in the years since the graduates had left Klippe, sprouting a tastelessly gilded inn and a fair scattering of houses and shops, but nothing would eclipse the graveyard. As the central burial ground for Eisen’s dead, it stood brooding in the morning light; and Euan looked down at it with a frown. “We have time to look through it before we go on?” The others agreed, and Ariadne’s fingers twitched as she focussed on the invisible. “There’s two lines here; one from you, that way – ” she gestured towards what the alumni recognised as the corner of the field where foreign warriors lay, “and one there, from – Lena?” The Eisen shrugged a shoulder and nodded onward. “To my grave. It’s not important; we’ll go to the foreign field.”

They walked slowly past the few visitors and quiet students. A crooked vase had Sebastien nudging it straight on one side, and later Lena plucked out a few wilted blooms; the easy, automatic movements of people who’d done this, here, for years.

Euan’s strand led to a quiet tomb among the Avalonians who’d died for Eisen; the name listed the Knight who’d borne the freezing sword that Euan now carried. The ghost in the Schwarzwald had accepted his duty, and this should have been the place where he was laid to rest. Instead, the stone on top of the grave showed signs of being recently broken and neatly repaired. Rafael’s archaeological expertise had him frowning as he ran a hand over the cracks. “This looks like it was shattered from the inside.” Lena pulled a small pot of something greyish-green and unpleasant out of a pocket, and scrubbed at her eyes. Squinting around thoughtfully, she shook her head. “There’s… no ghosts. At all. This doesn’t look right…”

Alexander, waiting stoically, waved a hand at Klippe. “My brother still lives, the lady says. Shall we go?”

They remounted and headed on up to the Academy, Sebastien taking the lead. The guards at the gate welcomed him and his colleagues in, sending them to a guest suite. A message was sent to the lecturer on the history of warfare – the name Lena had been given by the Kreuzritter – and the group found their way to where they needed to wait. Alexander’s calm was cracking; he looked almost pleading as Ariadne’s veiled face turned east and down. “The thread runs in that direction.” Sebastien and Lena glanced at one another, then nodded. “The cells,” the Castillian said. “There’s nothing else that way apart from stores.”

He led them on through the stone walled corridors – the martially minded of the visitors couldn’t help but see the strengths of the Academy as a fort, with a deep well, a surprisingly large amount of stores for the thirty or so students and fewer than fifty lecturers and staff, and thick, protected walls; while Sebastien kept a weather eye out for the secret nooks that students were occasionally sent to in order to keep watch over any unusual visitors.

In the basement, there were some cells; and in one of those cells, a(nother) giant Ussuran. Ginnie sadly doesn’t know what happened in that conversation, because she was in another one at the time; but I am pretty sure that Alexander had a deep and meaningful with his brother, and hauled some plot out. 

Since the Ussurans were talking safely, some of the others stepped back to the entrance to the cells; and there found the scar-faced Montaigne, leaning in a doorway and watching the main courtyard. His scowl at the sight of the Castillian brought the spark of joy that always prefaced a fight into Sebastien’s eyes, and the goading started. It took a drawled call from his master for the Montaigne to back away; and even then, in his master’s quarters, he stood by the window and stared down at the courtyard – where Sebastien brought his stolen white horse out to practice.

Some things are too insulting for even a peace-bound servant on a mission to protect his master. The time and place for the duel – here and now; and the outcome – to the death; was set, and Sebastien’s step was a little lighter as he prepared.

Word of the duel brought the staff and students out; and it wasn’t long before bets started crossing the floor. The Montaigne claiming to be a scion of L’Empereur, in spite of his not wanting his preferred minion to be fighting at all, was unable to resist the pride in his nation as Rafael raised the stakes. Then Sebastien’s old tutor smiled a little smile, and made the same bet again, nodding at the duellist with quiet pride. Sebastien tilted his hat, his fingers still tapping quietly to a beat only he could hear.

Ariadne, looking over at the scarred man, drifted towards Sebastien and tapped two tiny fingers on his sleeve. He followed her around the corner, and she tiptoed up and brushed a kiss on his cheek. “The fates will smile on you. Because I say so.” Sebastien touched his cheek, then bowed to her with a crooked smile as she faded into the shadows. In spite of her blessing, he watched his opponent closely, judging the man’s footwork and reach. The fire of anticipation flared as he saw the man’s prowess; there’s no reward without risk. The closest he came to admitting the danger was when he strolled over to Rafael. “If this goes wrong, look after her.” Rafael looked at him in disbelief. “It’ll be more likely she’ll look after me.” “Not without a reason…” He shrugged, his preparations made, and headed out into the courtyard.

Everyone flocked around the informal arena, and the master of the sword at Klippe was set in judgement over the bout. Euan presented Sebastien to the assembled – and the distraction allowed Alexander to move his brother out of sight. The Vodacce had a clear view of the Montaigne ‘prince’ across the cleared area, and Lena propped up a wall, face blank and arms folded.

The duel was dazzlingly fast; a master of the Valroux school taking on a journeyman of Aldana should be nothing else. The first pass ended with both men bleeding – but Sebastien’s wounds seemed to be hampering him a little more than his opponent. The second, a flurry and clash of rapiers, scored a deep hit on the Castillian’s arm, with some messy scratches to the Montaigne. Sebastien rolled his wounded shoulder carefully, and the crowd watched in silence. In spite of the freaks of fate that had favoured him, he was close to outmatched. Ariadne squeezed her hands into fists and stared at him, eyes sharp through her veil, then nodded once. Lena stepped a half pace forward without noticing, the slight movement rippling the crowd. Euan’s hand dropped to his sword, ready to avenge; and Rafael’s pistol was ready.

Sebastien laughed as he lunged; giving everything he had for the final thrust. The Montaigne shifted to parry, but not enough, not quite enough – and as the Aldana moved past, whipping the yard of steel out of his opponent’s chest, he tried to turn and follow. Instead, he coughed, a few quiet drops of blood spilling from his lips, and crumpled in a heap.

Standing upright by main willpower and the rush of being alive, Sebastien turned to the master of the Academy and smiled with all the confidence of a hidalgo. Lena, in the silence, shouted a warning – and the assembled audience promptly rained down steel and lead on the newly-rising corpse of the Montaigne.

There wasn’t much left of the scarred man after that; and the group reassembled in the chamber they’d been given for use. It wasn’t till everyone else was out of sight that the Castillian started shaking, Lena dressing his cuts with fierce care. The knock at the door was the Montaigne surgeon, sent by his master and as promptly sent off again by Rafael’s sharp scowl.

In the brief pause, they started to plan again…