Chapter 2 - Challenge in the Dungeon

Vincent drew himself up, feeling the power of his Uncle, his certainty, but unable to stop his analysis from exploring the last vestiges of ... what? Hope? For a relative? No... his own focus. To believe Benedict would mean to be distracted during what lay ahead of him. Yes, that was it.

"I... I doubt because there was at least one other creature loosed upon the kingdom months before Martin was apparently turned... I chased it, but only found a scrap of silk. Another scrap was found that day, clutched in a murdered woodsman's hand, and both scraps match the bit I found on Marcus. As does this," he held the square up. "I believe Martin was with his brother during the hunt, and therefore could not have been who I chased. To be honest, I think the one I chased may well have been Fiona herself."

"So I have heard." Benedict pauses. "If Fiona could be at both the palace and Arden at once, it be likely that Martin could also have done same. Or more likely, that there are more of Martin's kind about than we suspect. Or perhaps that the wearer of the silk is a victim, not an enemy, and we confuse the meaning of it's presence with that of the killer. No matter, this Martin is not trustworthy in his condition. I have made plaster molds of the marks at the window, and in the soil of the garden near your chamber, and of Martin's own hands and feet while he succumbed to unconsciousness during his capture - they are the same."

Nostrils flaring, Vincent concentrated on his breathing. He nodded sharply, tight-lipped. With a final, dark glance at the cell door, he withdrew to his own dark thoughts.

To the cell, Benedict directs his next words. "You will remain here until we can determine if you are, in fact, Martin, or if you are another of these distorted shadows that has plagued Amber. Either way, you shall keep a civil tongue - I will brook no dishonors from shadow or Prince."

"Or what, scarecrow?" Martin spits, "You'll torture me? There is nothing you can do that Fiona and her brother have not already done. Or will you attack a defenseless man? You'd like to see my blood spilt, I'm sure. Take your threats and leave, hollow man. They mean nothing to someone that is already dead."

Cat steps in close to the door, her own shadow blocking that of the light. "Martin," her voice cracks. "Under what circumstances did we first meet?"

Benedict looks to his guardsman. "You are hardly defenseless...and you are lying."

The guardsman fusses at his belt. The ring of iron on iron fills the corridor with bell-like clarity.

Benedict continues. "How, I am not sure, but there is something you are holding back."

The guard steps to the door, inserting a key in the lock.

Benedict's blade frees itself from its sheath in less than the blink of an eye, seeming to spring from his left hand.

"By the way, Martin. I am not in the mood for setting a precedent..."

The lock clicks as tumblers move.

The second guardsman places his blade on the ground in front of the door and backs off.

"...so either take up your blade..."

The door swings open, inward, to the dank cell Martin inhabits, chained to the wall.

"...or I will simply wound you in kind anyway to answer for your insult." Benedict taps his stump with his own blade, momentarily.

The door fully open, the guard tosses a single key to Martin, which falls to the wet straw at his feet, gleaming in the light. Both guards withdraw to the other end of the one-outlet corridor.

Benedict's voice is neutral, without malice or fear. "You have to the count of three."

Martin reaches down and picks up the key. While unlocking his chains, his lips curl into a peculiar grin. "Well, Benedict, if that is who you really are. I accept your challenge. However, the Code of La Destreza stipulates that as the challenged, I set the rules of this duel." The chains drop with a resounding clatter. The young Prince flexes his wrists and fingers, staring right at Benedict.

"Unless, of course, you wish to ignore the very rules of honor you taught me when I was a boy."

Benedict holds up his blade to his nose. "Of course not. The rest of the family may chose to ignore them, but I have not forgotten what I attempted to introduce. Very well, name the terms."

He steps forward, "I request two blades. This duel shall be decided through Due Spada. Also, unless you wish to fight a blind man, I will require my glasses. Or we could fight in the pitch dark if you so chose. Satisfaction shall be gained when one of us can no longer stand. First blood is always so. passe, and to the death. "Well, you'd lose the chance to get more information out of me now wouldn't you?"

He cocks his head, eyes flickering like the candles of a jack-o-lantern. "Are these rules acceptable to you, changeling?"

Martin waits for a response in the cell, not daring to step into the light.

Bendict remians silent, but his stump waves, summoning a guardsman, who lays another blade on the ground, along with Martin's silvered glasses. With the tip of his blade, the austere Prince indicates the blades.

"Take them up..."

He turns his head to Cat and Vicent. "I advise you stand back, or I cannot be held responsible for any ensuing distress."

Cat stands frozen to her spot, as if disbelief and the surrealism of the entire scene has glued her feet to the floor beneath them.The son of Eric stepped in front of Cat and Dyved. He barked over his shoulder, "Move back, give them room..." His face was hard, and he kept a dark gaze leveled at the pair of would-be duelists before him. Slowly, he reached for his blades, and drew them forth. The grey steel of the rapier Rashfelt and dagger Titus flashed dully in the flickering light of the corridor, as they danced before the prince, almost expectantly.

"No, Vincent, please, you cannot kill him," Cat says, her feet moving reluctantly, as if it were taking every force of will to move them at all. "This is all very wrong. If he were given the opportunity to answer the question I put to him, I could tell you in a heartbeat whether or not he is the genuine Martin."

Martin smirks softly, "Oh Cat. it was in your study. I saved you from your nanny. We went to have scones and tea with Dworkin after that. Remember that moment when this shapeshifter runs me through? I'd rather you remember me when I was still myself."

Feeling a lump beginning to form in her throat, Cat merely manages to nod. Continuing to press the others back, Vincent muttered, "Genuine or not... that is the creature that slaughtered Marcus..." A mélange of images spun through the prince's mind: ... the pool of blood... the frozen expression of horror... the brawl he and Marcus got into during one of their schooling sessions... the girl they both attempted to win--Calliope... the lady's shoes tossed carelessly to the floor of his bloody room... the hard stare of Martin's as he threatened his cousins in Foresthall... the crimson tears he had just seen Martin shed for his mother... all these and a thousand others crowded for attention in the space of seconds...

Martin regards Vincent for a moment, then sighs. "You know it wasn't me, Vincent. Somewhere deep down, you know it wasn't." His eyes drift to Benedict, then back, "Are you going to trust the word of an uncle you barely know, or a cousin that respects and trust you enough to want you as his King?"

His face grows empty, "In truth, I doubt you'd believe me anyway. I forgive your doubt. It is more than justified."

Cat placed a violently shaking hand on Vincent's shoulder, hoping it did not get her a blade in the gut for her efforts. "Please, Vincent. Do not do kill him in haste. If he is our true Martin, he needs help. Please..."

To this, Martin grows angered, "Enough, Cat. Both of you just step back and let this happen. When this creature kills me, I'll be free. While I'm alive, I remain a danger to the Darke. Why else would they have locked me up?"

The angry growl is enough to get Cat to move back, though not from fear of him.

He looks into Cat's eyes, a smiles tenderly, "Just remember me as I was. I'm sorry for all the pain I've brought you; especially for never telling you how I truly felt. And tell Desiree, I'm sorry I never got to thank her. Will you do that for me?"

"I will remember you as I always have. You were always my hero. Don't forget that," Cat says wiping away an involuntary tear. "I'll tell her."

Benedict remains holding his single sword, the blade now downturned and extended forward from his body as he assumes a fencing posture, leaving his stump held behind his back.With the weapons on the ground, and the glasses as well, Martin is fully able to avail himself of them once freed from the heavy chains.

Benedict taps the stone wall twice, the steel ringing off the damp rock in a sing-song manner.

Then he shuffles forward, one arm held behind him, the other weilding his sword in a loose-wristed manner.

Dyved has so far been silent in the presence of the Amberites, although his eyes have a strange irradiation, like the luminescence of black mother-of-pearl.

Suddenly he leans forward, speaks in a swift, low tone to Cat, "I can do nothing here. I am going to find Corwin. It is said he has a tenderness for our Queen and a kindness towards Rebmans who helped him in his hour of need. If anyone can prevent this madness, it will be the Prince, for I do not believe her will see Moire's grandson further injured." then turns abruptly and walks swiftly from the dungeon, his lightly clad Rebman feet moving with their usual slapping sound on the flags of the passage.

Martin nods politely and retrieves his glasses first. As soon as they rest over his eyes, a sigh a relief escapes him. It runs through his entire body as if he has experienced a rush of euphoria. "Much better. I thank you for your honor and kindness."

Benedict says nothing, merely watching Martin with discompassionate eyes.

The blades are picked up next. He tests the weight of each, then bends their length while examining their strength. A smile of approval crosses his face and pronounced canines flash. "If you're going to allow me to live, I'd ask that I not be maimed too badly? I'm certain you can puncture an organ with the proper finesse and leave me with a minimal scar."

Again, Benedict says nothing, which on it's own, is more disturbing than anything he might utter.

He crosses the blades together before him, then steps back into a defensive posture. He taps the hilt of his rapier with claw. A metallic ring sounds through the corridor. "En garde."

"En garde'" The words are barely out of Benedict's mouth, before his blade reaches out toward Martin's own.

Flashing his own swords, Martin intercepted the incoming blows with silver swipes that turned each aside, the sound of clashing steel resounding down the corridor.

Martin pressed forward, executing a riposte that send Benedict backward a step. His second blade beat forward, knocking the taller man's rapier aside, opening up his torso.

It was only with great effort that Benedict was able to bring his wrist around in a twist that caught the dual lunge of Martin's swords and in a spray of sparks turned them aside by mere inches from his ribs.

Despite the close confines and the lack of lateral movement, the pair dueled back and forth, with Martin's ferocious gaze and slavering mein highlighted in the orangey glow of the lanterns and torches.

With feral strength, he kept hammering his blades against Benedict's own, seeking to open him up to a skwering thrust or a viscious slash, but at the last moment, the older prince would turn or parry, retreat or duck.

Sweat began to prickle Benedict's shirt, and he had been forced back a good ten or twelve feet from his starting position, almost a third of the way down the corridor, and still Martin drove onward, his twin blades a wall of frenzied steel that threatened to occlude the defenses of Benedict's own single blade.

Vincent watched the pair with intensity, his eyes flicking from one to the other, considering their techniques. Frankly, he was surprised that it had gone this far, but Martin's ferocity was remarkable. Vincent's fingers danced up the handles of his own blades as he readjusted his grips with each thrust and parry, unconsciously moving back to keep a safe distance from the duel. He remained tense and focused, ready to block Martin's path should the creature somehow make it past his Uncle. How he would react after that was something that he was less sure about...

Martin's face was gnarled into a mask of concentration and hatred. It was as if the outside world had ceased to be, and everything came down to each thrust, parry, and counter. He gave no ground, forcing his uncle further down the corridor. Not a word escaped his lips. Why tarry for even a second to taunt or speak? Such distractions would only serve his opponent. He
simply threw all his energy into each blow, as if trying to shatter Benedict's blade. Beads of sweat sprinkled his knotted brow, and his lean arms strained with an inhuman strength. Any illusions about the young Prince's skills with a blade unravel with each fluid motion. His 'tainted' condition only lends him more resolve and vigor for this battle. Martin tried to bind Benedict's blade with the pair of his own, crossing them over the smooth steel of his opponent's blade, down near the crossguard.

It almost worked, but a slight overreaching on Martin's part to accomplish it, and a resulting misfooting allowed Benedict to work his blade free and jump back an instant before Martin's foot slammed down on the stone where Benedict's ankle would have been.

Back and forth the blades sparked, Martin hammering away, his face distorted by the tighening of his muscles, Benedict putting up a wall of parries and attempted (but failed) ripostes that belied the passive contenence he wore.

Back...further back, Martin pushed Benedict, halfway to the corridor door, then two thirds...steel sang against steel...then only three quarters from the door...

Cat and Vincent had backed up almost to the guards, in order to allow the pair room to fight, and the guardsmen looked anxious.

 

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