A Kingdom Besieged by Raymond E. Feist Page A

than an inch above his belt, but still it was a clean strike. Even before the Master could announce it, Henry shouted, ‘Touché!’
    Both combatants stood at attention for a moment, saluted one another, then turned to their respective ends of the floor. Henry came over to where his trainer, Swordmaster Phillip, waited. ‘He saw that one coming,’ said the old warrior.
    Henry nodded and removed the basket helmet worn during these combats. Slightly out of breath, he said, ‘I was foolish to try the same move twice. He cozened me into trying that with his high lunge. Made me think he was desperate.’ He took the offered towel and wiped his face. ‘So now we come down to one touch for the championship.’
    ‘Too bad your father isn’t here. Win or lose this last touch, you’ve done your family proud, Hal.’
    Henry nodded. ‘Better than I expected, really.’
    ‘Your many-greats-uncle Arutha was reputed to be a wicked swordsman. Seems you’ve inherited that skill.’
    With a tired grin, Henry said, ‘Good thing, ’cause I’m nothing like the bowman my great-great-grandfather Martin was.’
    ‘Or your grandfather, or your father,’ said the Swordmaster dryly.
    Realizing the rare compliments were over, Henry returned his mask and said, ‘Or my little brother.’
    ‘Or that lad who works at the blacksmith’s.’
    ‘So, what you’re saying is, I should win this.’
    ‘That’s the general idea.’
    The two combatants returned to the fencing floor and the waiting Master of the Court. He held out his hand and the two young men raised their swords. He gripped the two padded points then removed his hand suddenly, shouting, ‘Fence!’
    Back and forth fought the two young swordsmen, equal in gifts and guile. They measured, attacked, regrouped and defended in an instant. The life of a match such as this was measured in seconds, yet everyone in the audience was not anxious for it to conclude. And they were not to be disappointed.
    Across the floor, advance and retreat, to and fro, the two young swordsmen battled. Experienced warriors like Tal Hawkins and Swordmaster Phillip recognized that the two duellists were evenly matched: Ty possessed slightly better technique, but Henry was just a touch quicker. The winner would be decided by whoever made the first mistake, either in concentration, mistiming, or succumbing to fatigue.
    With a rhythm of its own, the contest moved in a furious staccato, punctuated by brief pauses as the two combatants took a moment to assess one another.
    Then Ty launched a furious high-line attack, driving Henry back towards his own end of the floor. If he could be forced to step across his own end line, he would lose on a fault.
    ‘Oh . . .’ said Swordmaster Phillip as his finest student retreated in a way that looked as if he was losing control. But before he could accept that his pupil was about to be defeated by a clever attack, a remarkable thing happened.
    Ty thrust at the highest point a legal touch was permitted – the tunic just below the face-guard – a move which should have caused Henry to move either to his right or his left, as he had no room behind him. Either step would have taken him off line and out of the prescribed area, causing him to forfeit the match, or to lose his balance.
    But Henry simply kept his left foot firmly planted a scant fraction of an inch before the end line, twisted his body and slid his right leg forward, allowing the tip of Ty’s foil to cut through the air just above his canvas tunic. As he slid forward, Henry extended his arm and found Ty running right up against his foil tip.
    The crowd gasped as the two combatants froze in tableau. For the briefest second there was no sound in the room, then the Master of Ceremonies shouted, ‘Judges?’
    Four judges, one at each corner of the combat area, were required to signal a valid touch. The two closest to Henry’s end of the floor looked at one another, each unsure of what he had just seen. Henry now