The duke sprang back, eyes narrowing, sword and dagger up to guard, lips pressed against the pain in his left hand. Then his rapier began to whirl in a mad figure eight, and he sprang in.
Dirk gave way, and gave and gave, parrying madly as the duke’s blade sprang out of its whirl to slash at him, then sprang back into its spin. Again and again he struck, slamming through Dirk’s defense to score the shorter man on cheek, hip, ear—none more than a scratch, but enough to leave his opponent bleeding. Once Dirk didn’t leap back quite far enough, and the duke’s point ripped his doublet. Redness welled through the cut, and Magda screamed, but Dirk fought madly on, crying, “Only a scratch, Lord Duke! Can’t your long arms strike farther than that?”
The duke reddened and threw himself into a lunge. Dirk hopped nimbly to the left, pressed the duke’s sword down with his own, and stabbed his dagger into the duke’s shoulder. The duke cried out and went pale with the pain, nearly dropping his blade, and Dirk leaped back, sword and dagger up to guard, then quickly leaping in with a double thrust.
But the duke sprang back and managed to hold his sword securely enough to parry Dirk’s dagger while he caught the rapier on his own poniard. Dirk leaped back good and far, and the duke took advantage of the pause to switch blades, his dagger now in the weakened right hand, his rapier in the left. Then he came after Dirk, blood in his eye, sword whirling just as deftly in the left hand as it had in the right, and the crowd murmured in awe; true switch-swordsmen were very rare.
Dirk gave ground, wary of the ambidexter, unused to the sword coming at him from his right. He parried it well enough, though, and caught the duke’s dagger-stabs on his own shorter blade. The duke was clumsy enough to give him several openings; but Dirk couldn’t take advantage of them, because the sword was on the wrong side. Seeing his discomfiture, the duke grinned and thrust straight for his belly. Dirk leaped aside, but the left-handed blade sagged and sliced across his thigh. Dirk’s leg folded.
The duke cried out with triumph and leaped in, blade darting downward. But Dirk parried with his own sword, forcing himself to his feet—and the duke pivoted in, dagger plunging straight toward Dirk’s eye.
Swordsman the duke may have been, but not a black belt. Dirk ducked under the dagger and thrust his own upward. He was inside the duke’s guard, and his blade jabbed deep into the duke’s triceps. His Grace howled with anger and pain, leaping away, and his dagger dropped from nerveless fingers.
The crowd roared.
Dirk followed up the advantage, limping after the duke, but the taller man held him off lefthanded, rapier weaving an incredible pattern as it beat off first sword, then dagger, then sword again. Apparently thwarted, Dirk gave ground again, but the duke followed him closely, thrust—and Dirk’s blade spun in a tight circle, then away, and the duke’s sword went spinning through the air.
Then Dirk ducked and swung back in, once more inside the duke’s guard, sword edge swinging up to press against the duke’s throat, dagger poised before his eyes. The duke froze.
Dirk waited while the crowd went wild.
The duke’s glare was pure venom, but finally he moved stiff lips enough to say, “I yield me.”
Dirk leaped back, lowering his blades. The duke’s dagger arm twitched with the urge to run him through, but honor won out; he reversed his weapon, and held it out hilt first to Dirk.
Dirk took it and bowed. Then his right leg crumpled under him again. The duke tensed, ready to spring, but he had yielded already. Besides, Dirk held both daggers and his own sword, still up to guard, his glare still alert. Muscle by muscle, the duke relaxed.
Cort stepped forward, offering his arm, and Dirk took it, pulling himself up, as Gar stepped between the two combatants. He bowed and asked, “My lord duke, is honor satisfied?”
“It is,” the duke said, though each word cost him dear.
The Fair Folk erupted into shocked and furious denunciations. The duke held up a hand to stop them. “It was fairly fought, and fairly won!”
Dirk stopped and turned back. “Thank you, Your Grace, but I had an advantage—I was shorter.”
In spite of himself, a thin smile tugged at the corners of the duke’s mouth. The Fair Folk fell silent, staring in amazement.
“You were a worthy opponent,” the duke replied, calling out so that everyone could hear him. “Never have I seen a Milesian who fights like one of the Fair Folk.”
Dirk only bowed in mute acknowledgement of the compliment—and nearly fell. Cort hauled up on the shoulder and snapped, “Inside the gates and lying down! Now!”
“Go, worthy adversary,” the duke said, managing to regain both his poise and his air of authority.
Dirk bowed again, but not so deeply, then turned to limp with Cort toward the gate. A dozen men of the Blue Company came running out to meet him, scooping him up, hoisting him to their shoulders, and carrying him through the gateway in triumph—where they instantly lowered him, and Magda ran to him with a cry of anguish, then tore his hose off, crying, “Hot water! Soap! Bandages!”
“Brandy,” Dirk croaked. Magda glared at him, and he explained, “For the wound. You’re the only intoxication I need.”
She melted, her eyes misted over, and she caught him up in her arms for a kiss that lasted until the bandages came.
On the battlefield, Gar said, “A word in private, if I may, lord duke?”
“Only if you can explain how a Milesian bested a duke of the Fair Folk,” the duke snapped.
Gar smiled and stepped close, speaking softly. “Easily done, Your Grace. To you and your people, fighting is only a game, a matter of skill in competition, but these whom you call Milesians are bred to war; to them, it’s a way of life.”
The duke’s face darkened with anger, and he started to speak.
“More politely put,” Gar said quickly, “the Fair Folk have only trained themselves for individual combat of a sporting kind, but the Milesians are trained to fight as armies, and to them, it’s anything but a sport. They will do whatever they must, in order to win.”
The duke knit his brows in thought.
“Can you imagine,” Gar asked, “what a troop of professional mercenaries could do against a troop of Fair Folk, if superstitious fear didn’t stop them? And I assure you, they would lose their awe of your lasers very quickly.”
The duke stared, horrified at the image Gar’s words conjured up. Shaken, he protested, “Enemies could never break into the Hollow Hills!”
“True,” Gar agreed, “but the Fair Folk would thereby be imprisoned in their domes, never to ride in procession again, nor to visit one another’s hills. Moreover, if the Milesians lay siege to you, and you dare open your portal for any reason whatsoever, they’ll find a way to jam it before you can close it.”
“We shall burn them by the hundred with our lasers!”
“And a thousand more will come streaming in, when your power supplies are spent. They have what you have not, lord duke: numbers.”
The duke stared off into space, his attention on the inner picture, shaken to his core. Then he frowned, turning to Gar again. “You do not tell me this out of concern for my welfare. Why do you strive so to convince me? What do you want me to do?”
“The only thing you can, to assure the safety of your people,” Gar said, “for your only true defense is to come out of your hills and go among the Milesians, taking your rightful places as wise people and councillors, teaching them the ways of peace—while your people can still intimidate them with the force of legend.”
The duke glowered, but turned to look out over the field, then gave a reluctant nod. “You have chosen the right time and place to speak of this, for we have cowed these armies, and if ever this process of our leading is to begin, it must be now. I shall call a council of the dukes who have brought their people here. What measures do you suggest I take with these recalcitrant warriors for the moment?”