Mad Queen, page 31
Ironside’s hands clenched at his sides. “I was called to the Wastes and replicated. That proved my greatness. My legend.”
“But you did that before you died.” Thomas pressed. “If that proved your greatness, then why did you need to challenge Sir Culhwich? Why did you have to continue? You already had validation that you were one of the best.”
“Because that’s who I am,” Ironside answered, though Thomas could tell his conviction wasn’t as strong as it might have been before.
“That’s who you were,” Thomas countered. “I’m really not trying to get under your skin, but to be honest, it seems to me you wasted your life the first time, and you’re all set to waste it again. Only now, you’re going to take my good friend down with you. Haven’t you learned anything in all these years?”
Ironside didn’t look at him. Didn’t answer. They made the rest of the walk in silence, exiting the keep into the fading afternoon light. The courtyard's ancient stones were about to bear witness to another chapter in the Red Knight's bloody legend. Thomas' crew positioned themselves along the walls, providing clear space for combat while maintaining sight lines for intervention if the duel's terms were violated.
Thomas stepped away from Ironside and drew Cindlar's Blade, the drakhem sword singing as it cleared its scabbard. The ancient weapon was perfectly balanced in his grip, its surface showing the faint purplish glow that marked its unique enchantments. Across from him, Ironside hefted his fayrilite broadsword, testing its weight and balance with movements that spoke of his experience. His armor creaked and groaned with each motion, but it didn’t appear to be encumbering him in the slightest.
They faced each other in the center of the courtyard, two warriors separated by purpose but united in their dedication to the requirements of single combat. The Red Knight raised his blade in formal salute. Thomas returned the gesture with Cindlar's Blade, Arthur's essence flowing through him like molten gold.
The moment hung in the still air for a heartbeat that seemed to stretch into eternity. Around the walls, Thomas' crew watched in tense silence, bound by honor to witness but not interfere.
Only one warrior would walk away alive.
CHAPTER 36
Thomas settled into his fighting stance. Arthur's essence flowed through him like liquid fire, sharpening his senses until he could hear the whisper of wind through cracks in the ancient walls and smell the salt spray carried up from the harbor far below. Every muscle in his body coiled with readiness, every instinct screaming warnings about the opponent before him.
Despite his deteriorated armor, Ironside moved with experienced smoothness, his legendary skill evident in the expert way he held his broadsword. The weapon might have been too large in most hands, but Ironside wielded it as easily as Thomas might a dagger. Rust streaked the crimson plates of his ancient armor and the ill-fitting wolf-helm sat askew on Lancelot’s head, but none of that diminished the aura of deadly competence radiating from him like heat from a blazing forge.
They began to circle each other in the center of the courtyard, each warrior taking the measure of his opponent. Thomas studied Ironside's movement patterns, watching for the subtle shifts in weight that would telegraph the first attack. The Red Knight favored his left side slightly. Perhaps it was the memory of an old wound that didn’t heal quite right. Whatever it was, Thomas noted it as perhaps a weakness.
Arthur's essence pulsed within him, and suddenly Thomas could see the attack coming like a vision of the immediate future. Ironside would feint high, then sweep low, attempting to catch Thomas off-guard with a devastating horizontal slash aimed at his legs.
The vision became reality as Ironside exploded into motion.
Thomas was already moving as the feint began, Cindlar's Blade sweeping down to intercept the real attack. The weapons crashed together with a crack like thunder, the impact sending vibrations up both their sword arms. Thomas pivoted on his back foot, attempting to turn the Red Knight's momentum against him, but Ironside was too experienced to be caught by such a basic technique. He flowed with the deflection, spinning into a reverse strike. Instead of taking Thomas's head off his shoulders, Ironside’s broadsword whistled harmlessly over his head as he dropped into a crouch. Thomas swept Cindlar's blade across the Red Knight’s calf, the drakhem blade slicing cleanly through the oxidized metal and across his flesh.
Blood welled through the gash, bright red against the rusty plate, yet Ironside barely seemed to notice. He whirled with supernatural speed, his broadsword inscribing a perfect arc through the air, his intention to bisect Thomas at his abdominals. He threw himself backward. Even so, the blade caught his breastplate, scoring a line through the dragon emblem on his chest.
The familiar joy of combat sang through Lancelot’s veins as Ironside pressed his advantage. Sir Dragon was quick, he had to admit that. The way he'd seen through the feint and countered spoke of excellent training and natural instinct, but there was something missing, some quality that separated competent warriors from legends. Despite fighting with precision and determination, he lacked the killing instinct that had made Ironside famous across the galaxy.
He launched himself forward in a berserker's charge, the broadsword weaving patterns of death through the air. Sir Dragon met the assault with desperate skill. His blade danced to intercept each strike, but the sheer ferocity of the attack forced him steadily backward toward the courtyard's back wall.
Ironside felt the rhythm of combat flowing through him like music, each clash of steel adding another note to a symphony of violence he'd been composing for centuries. This was what he was meant for—not contemplation or philosophy, but the pure expression of martial perfection. Here, in the space between heartbeats where life and death hung in the balance, he found the closest thing to peace his soul had ever known.
The broadsword slammed into Sir Dragon’s guard. The desperate block forced the younger man to one knee. Ironside raised his weapon for the finishing blow, already savoring the moment when Lancelot's form would be permanently his.
But Sir Dragon wasn't finished. As the broadsword descended, he threw himself sideways, his blade lashing out as he rolled, the horizontal slash catching Ironside across the back of his thigh. The drakhem stone parted rusted armor like parchment, again drawing blood.
The Red Knight stumbled, his leg nearly buckling as a line of fire shot through Lancelot's nervous system. For a moment, Ironside’s rhythm faltered, allowing Sir Dragon to press his momentary advantage with a series of precise strikes aimed at the gaps in his deteriorated armor.
Clever boy, Ironside thought, admiration mixing with fury as he parried desperately. You're learning.
Thomas felt the shift in momentum—the way the air in the courtyard seemed to lighten—as Ironside's dominance wavered. The Red Knight was injured now, favoring his wounded leg, the same one he’d earlier exhibited weakness, and for the first time since the duel began, Thomas allowed himself a moment of hope.
Arthur's essence burned brighter within him, feeding off the possibility of victory. He could see the patterns now, the way Ironside compensated for his injury, the slight hesitation in his footwork that created openings. Thomas pressed forward, Cindlar's Blade seeking those gaps with surgical precision.
When Ironside raised his guard to protect his wounded leg, Thomas adjusted his angle to exploit the opening beneath his arm. When the Red Knight shifted weight to his good leg, Thomas was there to punish the imbalance.
But even wounded, Ironside remained incredibly dangerous. His broadsword still commanded respect, each swing carrying enough force to slice him in half. And though slowly, Lancelot’s nanites healed Ironside’s acquired body. Thomas had to remain focused. He couldn't allow himself overconfidence just because he'd twice drawn blood.
The Red Knight proved that point by suddenly abandoning all pretense of defense, throwing himself into a wild assault that traded protection for raw aggression. His broadsword became a whirlwind of steel, each strike delivered with bone-crushing force.
Cindlar's Blade rang like a bell as it intercepted blow after blow, the enchantments in the blade absorbing the bulk of the punishment. Even so, Thomas could feel his strength beginning to flag, the constant defensive actions sapping his energy while Ironside seemed to draw power from his own recklessness.
A horizontal slash once more nearly took Thomas' head off. He ducked as the broadsword passed in such close proximity he could feel the wind it created. Ironside followed with a devastating downward chop, forcing Thomas to stumble backward, the Red Knight’s blade cracking the stone where he had been standing.
Catching Ironside at the end of his thrust, Thomas stepped inside the broadsword's reach to drive Cindlar's Blade into Ironside's exposed flank. The drakhem bit deep, drawing a grunt of pain from the Red Knight as blood began to flow freely from the third wound Thomas had given him. The first had already healed, the second was well on its way there.
Ironside's counterattack, an armored elbow slamming into the side of Thomas's helmet, was immediate and devastating. Before he could recover from the stars exploding across his vision, the Red Knight drove his sword into Thomas’ shoulder joint. Crying out, he stumbled backward, his entire left arm now numb and useless. Ironside rushed forward, driving his knee into Thomas’ solar plexus. He doubled over as the air rushed from his lungs.
The pommel of the broadsword caught Thomas once, twice across the back of his helmet, sending him sprawling face down on the ancient stones. Thomas launched himself into a desperate roll, barely evading the edge of Ironside's blade as it crashed down no more than a hand’s width behind his head, chipping more stone fragments from the courtyard's bailey.
Thomas came up gasping for breath. Blood ran profusely down his dangling arm, and his chest felt like someone had used him for hammer practice. He shook his head, trying to clear his still spotty vision as his blade wove defensive patterns.
Thomas was hurt but alive, and Ironside was still bleeding profusely from the last wound he’d delivered, the old knight’s nanites slow now to heal him.
The duel was still far from over.
The burn of his last injury added its voice to the symphony of violence surrounding Ironside. It was nothing. Pain was an old companion, as familiar to him as the weight of a sword in his hand. It reminded him that he was alive, that his stolen flesh was responding to his will rather than its original owner's.
Sir Dragon's helmet showed a significant dent where Ironside’s pommel strike had connected. He concentrated on it until the metal split and blood began flowing from beneath the jagged edge. Still, Drake’s stance remained strong, his grip on the drakhem sword steady despite the considerable pain he had to be experiencing.
Drake was resilient, Ironside admitted to himself. More resilient than most. He shifted tactics, abandoning the wild swings for precise, economical strikes aimed at specific targets. Sir Dragon’s shoulder and head wounds were focal points, each attack designed to aggravate the injuries and limit his mobility. He began shaking his head and blinking as if his vision or perhaps his thought process was affected. His footwork began to show strain, his slower movements becoming sluggish, his reflexes more predictable now as pain influenced his choices.
There, Ironside thought as he saw an opening developing. Just a little more pressure...
He feinted toward Thomas's injured shoulder, then reversed direction with liquid grace, the broadsword sweeping toward the younger man's unprotected flank. It should have been a finishing blow, the kind of strike that ended duels decisively. Instead, somehow, Sir Dragon’s blade was suddenly there, in the way, the drakhem absorbing the impact, its enchantments flaring purple as they activated. Momentum from the impact sent Drake staggering sideways, his balance compromised as he fought to stay on his feet.
Ironside ruthlessly pressed his advantage, the broadsword weaving patterns of death as he drove Sir Dragon steadily backward toward the courtyard's wall. Each strike came closer to its target, each parry arriving a fraction of a second later than it should have.
Excalibur’s crew was forced to separate and make room, clearing a path for the combatants just before their leader’s back hit the ancient stones with an audible impact. His opponent trapped against the wall, Ironside closed in for the kill. His broadsword rose high overhead, poised to split the younger man from crown to sternum in a single devastating blow.
But Sir Dragon wasn't finished.
As Ironside’s broadsword began its descent, he threw himself forward in a desperate gambit, his blade leading the charge in a thrust aimed directly at Ironside's heart. The Red Knight twisted aside at the last possible moment, the drakhem sword passing through empty air where his chest had been. The movement threw off his own attack, his broadsword clanging harmlessly against stone as Thomas launched himself into a right shoulder roll, taking him farther away from the wall.
They separated, both breathing heavily now, both showing the cumulative effects of their wounds and prolonged exertion. Ironside's armor bore multiple bloody gouges where Drake’s sword had found its mark, while Sir Dragon, though winded and slowed to a stagger at times, continued a series of thrusts, parries and feints to avoid Ironside’s strikes.
This was the most exhilarating duel Ironside had ever participated in. It was also the most painful, and not just physically. Even as he and Sir Dragon circled, once more measuring one another, memories flooded his mind, blurring the distinction between past and present. Sir Dragon became the White Knight, and on his left flank stood Lirael, her eyes burning with horrified rage at the man who had disturbed their peace.
Lirael, the beautiful woman who attracted him and might have one day become his betrothed. Who might have filled his days with love and tenderness, instead of violence and war.
Who might have saved his life that long ago day, if only he had let her.
CHAPTER 37
Every muscle in Thomas' body protested as he raised Cindlar's blade, the drakhem sword's weight seeming to increase with each thrust or parry. Blood loss was taking its toll, and his shoulder felt like molten metal had been poured into the joint. Below it, he couldn’t feel his arm. Trapped somewhere inside his own body, Lancelot was counting on him, and that knowledge gave him strength beyond what his battered body should have possessed.
Arthur's essence pulsed within him, not with the blazing intensity it had shown at the battle's beginning—but with something steadier—the quiet determination that had allowed the legendary king to unite a galaxy. Thomas drew on that strength, letting it flow through his limbs and sharpen his focus despite the pain.
Ironside was hurt, too. Thomas could see that clearly. The Red Knight's movements had lost some of their fluidity, becoming more mechanical as fatigue and injury took their toll beyond what Lancelot’s nanites appeared to be able to quickly heal.
One mistake, Thomas thought. That's all it will take to end this either way.
Thomas stepped forward, Cindlar's Blade moving in a series of probing attacks designed to test Ironside's defenses anew. The Red Knight parried expertly, but Thomas could see the strain in his movements, the way each deflection lagged, only keeping up because of Thomas’ own fatigue.
The observation gave him hope, but also urgency. If Ironside decided that he was losing the battle of attrition, he might abandon all caution for one final, desperate assault.
His broadsword came up in a formal salute, a gesture that seemed odd given the circumstances. Thomas returned the salute automatically, but something about Ironside's demeanor sent warning bells through his consciousness. The Red Knight's breathing had changed, becoming deeper, more controlled. Thomas didn’t trust him at all. He had a feeling that whatever tactic he had planned next was going to come out of left field.
Ironside began to circle him, the broadsword held in a deceptively casual guard, a picture of coiled tension. The way his weight shifted subtly forward onto the balls of his feet…this wasn't retreat or hesitation; it was the calm before the storm.
Without warning, Ironside reversed direction mid-step, his blade sweeping in a horizontal arc aimed at Thomas's head. Thomas anticipated the move, throwing himself backward to avoid it. The Red Knight flowed with the momentum, spinning into a devastating backhand that forced Thomas to duck at the last moment as steel whistled overhead.
Thomas tried to counter-attack, but Ironside was already moving again, his broadsword exhibiting complex patterns that came from every direction at once. High, low, thrust, slash, each strike blended seamlessly into the next as the Red Knight unleashed a masterwork of swordplay that belonged in the halls of legend.
Frantically working Cindlar's Blade to intercept attacks that came faster than he thought possible, Thomas was forced to steadily give ground. His drakhem blade echoed with each impact, its enchantments the only thing preventing both blade and wielder from breaking under the relentless assault.
A feint toward his wounded shoulder drew Thomas' guard high, leaving him open for the genuine deadly attack—a rising cut catching him across the ribs, parting his armor like cloth. Thomas gasped, stumbling sideways as steel bit into flesh. Blood welled, flowing freely from the pernicious wound.
Ironside pressed his advantage without mercy, driving Thomas back until the backs of his thighs hit the side of the well in the center of the courtyard. Trapped, with nowhere left to retreat, Thomas raised Cindlar's Blade to desperately guard against the Red Knight’s onslaught as he closed in for the kill.
Ironside raised the broadsword high. Thomas had only one chance to avoid the lethal blow. As it descended, Thomas threw himself forward in a last ditch gambit. He knew Ironside would land a blow across his back, but as luck would have it, it was nothing more than a glancing blow sliding off his armor. He also benefited by positioning himself inside Ironside's reach.
