A World Without Heroes
Page 96
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“We have our witnesses,” Conrad said. In response to a gesture Dershan and Tark took their places against a far wall. “You are more familiar with this form of combat than I am. How do we begin?”
Jason flexed his fingers. He had been thinking about the reality that he might die. Conrad was an athletic man. Luck would play a large role in this showdown. Jason tried to remind himself that he could throw fastballs at over eighty miles per hour. Without training, nobody could throw that fast. This was not a hopeless contest like fencing. Despite the danger, he had a real chance of winning. “We stand at opposite ends of the table, no balls in our hands, and your man drops a handkerchief. When the handkerchief lands, we take up balls and throw them at will.”
Conrad nodded as if this met his expectations. “Shall we, then?” he asked, as if they were about to begin a game of checkers.
One thing Jason had to give Duke Conrad—he showed absolutely no fear. His nonchalance was unnerving.
Conrad and Jason took their places. Conrad stared coldly. Jason knew Conrad would kill him given the chance. But Jason hoped to end the contest without anybody dying. If he could hurt Conrad enough to get the upper hand, hopefully the duke would yield.
Jason felt sweaty. He rubbed his palms against his trousers. This was a different kind of nervous anticipation than he had ever experienced. No points would be tallied today. If he threw well he would live. If not, he would die. A strange tension hummed in his mind and body. His senses were in overdrive. The uneasiness he had sometimes felt before a ball game seemed ridiculous by contrast.
Dershan held a handkerchief aloft and let it fall. Jason hastily grabbed a ball in each hand. As a pitcher he had hit a batter once or twice, but now he would be trying to inflict serious injuries. Plus the batter would be throwing back.
As Jason released his first ball, Conrad’s first ball breezed past his ear. Conrad twisted in an attempt to avoid Jason’s first throw, but the ball struck him solidly, high in the back. Jason shifted the second ball to his right hand. It missed Conrad when he ducked. Jason lunged sideways in an attempt to dodge Conrad’s next throw, which glanced off his side, stinging but not stunning him. Jason hurriedly grasped for more balls.
In order to hamper Conrad’s ability to throw, Jason had hoped to bombard his arms, but in the heat of the moment it was difficult to aim with any precision. In unison they threw their next balls. Conrad’s went wild, missing by a few feet. Jason’s tagged the duke squarely on the collarbone. Jason threw another and barely missed the duke’s elbow. Conrad’s next throw was made awkward by his injury, but the ball hit Jason on the forearm, hurting plenty.
Jason snatched two more balls. Conrad fumbled as he reached for more. Jason remembered a trick he had used during water balloon fights. With his left hand he lobbed a yellow ball underhand fairly hard. It glanced off the high ceiling on its way toward Conrad, whose eyes followed it while he grasped for balls. Before the first ball fell, Jason whipped the second ball sidearm as hard as he could. It caromed off Conrad’s head, and the duke flopped to the floor.
Jason gasped. He had been aiming for the duke’s throwing arm, but Conrad had ducked right into the path of the throw. The ball had connected with so much force that Jason paused for a moment, grimacing in empathy. Tark noisily cleared his throat, and Jason hastily grabbed two more balls, holding them ready.
Except for his chest rising and falling, Conrad lay motionless.
Breathing hard, his arm and side stinging, Jason remained poised to throw. The duke stayed on the floor. Was he really unconscious? Could the duel be over?
Jason glanced at Dershan. “Is that good enough?”
Count Dershan looked pale. “Duke Conrad asked for no quarter. It is your right to ensure his demise.”
Jason wondered if Count Dershan coveted Conrad’s job. “I think I’ll take my chances. I was forced into this duel. I don’t want to kill Duke Conrad. What happens to him now is no longer any of my business.”
“As you wish,” Dershan acquiesced.
“Let’s get out of here,” Jason said shakily, sickened by the brutality but relieved to be standing and relatively uninjured.
“Right,” Tark grunted. “I’ve had my fill of Harthenham.”
“Farewell,” Dershan said. “I’ll have the drawbridge opened. You comprehend that your asylum ends once you pass without the castle walls.”
“It doesn’t surprise me,” Jason said.
He and Tark exited the billiard room. The crowd stared silently. Someone coughed.
“Any who want to join us are welcome,” Jason said. “You may not get another chance like this. Fair warning: Once outside the castle walls, we will probably be attacked.”
Everyone in the crowd found something to look at besides Jason. Except for a tall, heavyset man, his reddish-brown hair thinning on top. A longsword was strapped over his shoulder. “I’ll come.” Considering his size, his voice was pitched higher than Jason would have expected.
Jason had never particularly noticed the man. “We leave immediately.”
The big man hoisted a pack. “I am Tristan, son of Jarom. Once I held a noble title, though I forfeited it long ago.”
“Lord Jason of Caberton,” Jason said. “And Tark.”
“Of the Giddy Nine,” Tark explained.
Jason nodded. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 22
ESCAPE
Jason, Tark, and Tristan hurried to the front door, trailed by the crowd of bystanders. A pair of male servants flanked the door, standing at attention. The servants made no move to impede their departure. Once outside, Tristan drew his sword, and Tark produced his heavy knife. Jason unintentionally still clutched a billiard ball.
“Hold,” called a voice behind them. They turned. Drake came striding down the hall, wearing a long, plain coat and tall boots. His hair was tied up in a ponytail, and a sword was fastened around his waist. “I need to come with you.”
Jason smiled. “Please, join us.” His eyes swept the onlookers. “Anyone else? Last call.” A short, slim man with a narrow face met his gaze. Frowning slightly, he shook his head. Nobody else would look him in the eyes.
The four men trotted out under the portico, across the courtyard, and through the front gate over the lowered drawbridge. They abandoned the lane leading away from the castle and struck off at a loping pace across a field of alfalfa. The morning was cool. Low clouds hung in the sky. Dew from the alfalfa stalks dampened their trousers.
Jason flexed his fingers. He had been thinking about the reality that he might die. Conrad was an athletic man. Luck would play a large role in this showdown. Jason tried to remind himself that he could throw fastballs at over eighty miles per hour. Without training, nobody could throw that fast. This was not a hopeless contest like fencing. Despite the danger, he had a real chance of winning. “We stand at opposite ends of the table, no balls in our hands, and your man drops a handkerchief. When the handkerchief lands, we take up balls and throw them at will.”
Conrad nodded as if this met his expectations. “Shall we, then?” he asked, as if they were about to begin a game of checkers.
One thing Jason had to give Duke Conrad—he showed absolutely no fear. His nonchalance was unnerving.
Conrad and Jason took their places. Conrad stared coldly. Jason knew Conrad would kill him given the chance. But Jason hoped to end the contest without anybody dying. If he could hurt Conrad enough to get the upper hand, hopefully the duke would yield.
Jason felt sweaty. He rubbed his palms against his trousers. This was a different kind of nervous anticipation than he had ever experienced. No points would be tallied today. If he threw well he would live. If not, he would die. A strange tension hummed in his mind and body. His senses were in overdrive. The uneasiness he had sometimes felt before a ball game seemed ridiculous by contrast.
Dershan held a handkerchief aloft and let it fall. Jason hastily grabbed a ball in each hand. As a pitcher he had hit a batter once or twice, but now he would be trying to inflict serious injuries. Plus the batter would be throwing back.
As Jason released his first ball, Conrad’s first ball breezed past his ear. Conrad twisted in an attempt to avoid Jason’s first throw, but the ball struck him solidly, high in the back. Jason shifted the second ball to his right hand. It missed Conrad when he ducked. Jason lunged sideways in an attempt to dodge Conrad’s next throw, which glanced off his side, stinging but not stunning him. Jason hurriedly grasped for more balls.
In order to hamper Conrad’s ability to throw, Jason had hoped to bombard his arms, but in the heat of the moment it was difficult to aim with any precision. In unison they threw their next balls. Conrad’s went wild, missing by a few feet. Jason’s tagged the duke squarely on the collarbone. Jason threw another and barely missed the duke’s elbow. Conrad’s next throw was made awkward by his injury, but the ball hit Jason on the forearm, hurting plenty.
Jason snatched two more balls. Conrad fumbled as he reached for more. Jason remembered a trick he had used during water balloon fights. With his left hand he lobbed a yellow ball underhand fairly hard. It glanced off the high ceiling on its way toward Conrad, whose eyes followed it while he grasped for balls. Before the first ball fell, Jason whipped the second ball sidearm as hard as he could. It caromed off Conrad’s head, and the duke flopped to the floor.
Jason gasped. He had been aiming for the duke’s throwing arm, but Conrad had ducked right into the path of the throw. The ball had connected with so much force that Jason paused for a moment, grimacing in empathy. Tark noisily cleared his throat, and Jason hastily grabbed two more balls, holding them ready.
Except for his chest rising and falling, Conrad lay motionless.
Breathing hard, his arm and side stinging, Jason remained poised to throw. The duke stayed on the floor. Was he really unconscious? Could the duel be over?
Jason glanced at Dershan. “Is that good enough?”
Count Dershan looked pale. “Duke Conrad asked for no quarter. It is your right to ensure his demise.”
Jason wondered if Count Dershan coveted Conrad’s job. “I think I’ll take my chances. I was forced into this duel. I don’t want to kill Duke Conrad. What happens to him now is no longer any of my business.”
“As you wish,” Dershan acquiesced.
“Let’s get out of here,” Jason said shakily, sickened by the brutality but relieved to be standing and relatively uninjured.
“Right,” Tark grunted. “I’ve had my fill of Harthenham.”
“Farewell,” Dershan said. “I’ll have the drawbridge opened. You comprehend that your asylum ends once you pass without the castle walls.”
“It doesn’t surprise me,” Jason said.
He and Tark exited the billiard room. The crowd stared silently. Someone coughed.
“Any who want to join us are welcome,” Jason said. “You may not get another chance like this. Fair warning: Once outside the castle walls, we will probably be attacked.”
Everyone in the crowd found something to look at besides Jason. Except for a tall, heavyset man, his reddish-brown hair thinning on top. A longsword was strapped over his shoulder. “I’ll come.” Considering his size, his voice was pitched higher than Jason would have expected.
Jason had never particularly noticed the man. “We leave immediately.”
The big man hoisted a pack. “I am Tristan, son of Jarom. Once I held a noble title, though I forfeited it long ago.”
“Lord Jason of Caberton,” Jason said. “And Tark.”
“Of the Giddy Nine,” Tark explained.
Jason nodded. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 22
ESCAPE
Jason, Tark, and Tristan hurried to the front door, trailed by the crowd of bystanders. A pair of male servants flanked the door, standing at attention. The servants made no move to impede their departure. Once outside, Tristan drew his sword, and Tark produced his heavy knife. Jason unintentionally still clutched a billiard ball.
“Hold,” called a voice behind them. They turned. Drake came striding down the hall, wearing a long, plain coat and tall boots. His hair was tied up in a ponytail, and a sword was fastened around his waist. “I need to come with you.”
Jason smiled. “Please, join us.” His eyes swept the onlookers. “Anyone else? Last call.” A short, slim man with a narrow face met his gaze. Frowning slightly, he shook his head. Nobody else would look him in the eyes.
The four men trotted out under the portico, across the courtyard, and through the front gate over the lowered drawbridge. They abandoned the lane leading away from the castle and struck off at a loping pace across a field of alfalfa. The morning was cool. Low clouds hung in the sky. Dew from the alfalfa stalks dampened their trousers.
