Chapter 3 - The End of the Duel

Dyved pauses briefly at the entrance to the Great Hall, his dark eyes sweeping it swiftly. He sees the dark figure by the fireplace and strides forward.

"My Lord!" His voice is urgent, and there is little trace of the polite and urbane Ambassador now.

Corwin turns around partly, his form backlit by the orange flames of the great fireplace before him.

"Your brother Bendict has challenged Prince Martin to a duel in the dungeons. You must come ... and prevent what will be little short of a murder."

Corwin stood, his cloak gathering about him like shadows dragged from the darkness around him. "Benedict? Gods, there shall be little to do if he cannot be reasoned with."

Corwin shuffles out some trumps from his pouch, searching...

"Is there a reason for this?"

"Of course," says Dyved. "Martin abused him ... one might almost say provoked him.

Corwin settled on a singular trump, which he held up. "Then I shall add Martin has earned his punishment, Lord Dyved."

"But the Prince is diseased, crazed. I know not your ways in Amber, my Lord, but in Rebma we tend our sick with kindness - we do not challenge them, or kill them."

The older man's teeth bit his lip. "Please don't go on with the argument of Rebma's benovelence and Amber's callusness. Had I borne Moire an harsh word when I arrived with Random and Dierdre at Rebma during Eric's regency I would likely have been fishfood."

"Instead you found help and comfort," says Dyved quietly. "And hope, it is said."

Corwin held up a finger, and a dark cloud brooded on his brow. "Only because I was civil."

Dyved's eyes are earnest on Corwin's.

"Forgive me, Lord, but I fear to tell my Queen of the death of her dead daughter's only son."

"Now you are making more sense, Lord Dyved," Corwin assented. "We must be undivided in our efforts - I shall do what I may, but please advise Martin's grandmother that Martin has brought much on himself. Benedict is a man who takes poorly to such things as you have described."

Corwin's forehead creases then frowns. "He is not answering..."

"Where did you say they were? We shall have no choice but to visit again these tragic scene."

"The dungeons - the corridor outside where Martin was being kept," says Dyved unhesitatingly. "Lady Cat will trump us back - she knows of my mission to you."

"Very well...good man, Dworkin, to leave these new trumps." Corwin shuffles out Catriola's, and focuses on it.

___________


It was at that moment that Catriola received the niggling at the back of her mind that told her, from lecture, if not practical experience, that someone was attempting to contact her by trump.

The intrusion on her mind was just enough to get Cat to break concentration of watching in horror as nephew and uncle went back and forth in an obscene display of dueling for 'honor'.

"Yes?" she asked. "Who is it?"

"Corwin...and Dyved" a voice in her mind spoke, and in the mind's eye she saw a vision of the pair by a large fireplace, which cast lurking shadows...

"Bring us through, will you...merely extend a hand toward the image you see of us..." Cat followed the directions and extended a hand toward that of her uncle and Lord Dyved, so as to bring them through to witness the seemingly endless fight. The dark-haired man steps forward, into the gloomy hallway, followed quikly by Lord Dyved of Rebma, the rainbow hue of their arrival briefly lighting up the corridor.

But if either of the two combatants clashing nearby notice, they give no sign.

Corwin's brow furrows, and he raised his voice slightly to be heard over the ruckus between Martin and Benedict.

"It seems to me that Martin is in little danger at the present...."

"If such is indeed the case," says Dyved politely, "we will take as read your gratitude to me for my alerting you as to your brother's danger."

He watches the combatants with narrowed eyes.

"... aside from the fact that he's engaged in a completely pointless dual over honor seeing as if we can't stop the damn quibbling amongst each other, we'll all be stinking dead anyway..." Cat mumbles.

Dyved smiles suddenly at Cat, before glancing back to the fight again.

"My Lady, you most assuredly should marry a Rebman," he says in a quiet undertone. "Your concilatory spirit will be held in high esteem there."

"I call them as I see them, Dyved." Cat replies, pressing herself back to the wall so as to be able to slide over toward the staircase. "All I wish to do is get some information that might slow the progression of this 'infection' before it claims others."

Corwin gathered his cloak about him, it's inky color little different
from the shadows that cavorted around the four observers.

"Don't be foolish - Benedict doesn't fight when it is unnecessary - he has a purpose young Catriola. But as to Lord Dyved's procurement of fact, I whole-heartedly agree - the more we know, the better we can defend against further such taint."

The only time the young Prince reveals even the slightest hint of displeasure is when Benedict narrowly avoid having his ankle snapped into two. A faint growl escapes Martin's throat, but is quickly absorbed by the deafening sound of steel on steel. His face remains stoic; his eyeless stare concentrating on the man before him.

Martin pays little heed to the recent arrivals, focused entirely upon the task of ending this duel once and for all. He changes his tactics in only one regard, no longer wasting time with tricks or
feints. Benedict has avoided far too many attempts to cripple him. The young Prince presses his attack, continuing to batter away at Benedict's sword as if it were the locus of all his malice.

With each blow, every parry, the pair inch closer and closer to the stairwell. The corridor becomes much smaller now with the assembling crowd, and Martin seems to know it.

Corwin fell silent as he watched the scene with tight disapproval, but at what could only be conjectured.

Martin made vicious blows that hewed the air, his eyes glowing a feral red color that rivaled the rictus of hatred etched into the lines of his face.

In a move that had guaranteed success numerous times in the past few minutes, attempting to either drive Benedict back or disarm him, Martin brought both blades forward as he lunged deeply into an italianate stance suited to the light blades.

But whereas before, Benedict had been forced to retreat (and there was precious little room to do so now) in order to avoid the brunt of such an attack, now he turned his wrist in a curious fashion...

...the screaming blades skidded off one side of his own blade, unable to find purchase for a bind as another twist of his blade and a downward sweeping motion direted them toward the ground.

Already overbalanced from the lunge, Martin scrambled to withdraw...

...but exposed, Benedict whipped out the stump of his forearm and drove it into the side of Martin's head, bludgeoning his temple with wiry force that made a 'thump' sound.

Martin lurched backwards, his left eye pounding, his blades borne up before him...

...Benedict waded in, his sword blurring with the motion of its passing, so that no more than a dim humming was heard as it tested the wall of steel Martin had thrown up in front of himself.

With the manner of a teacher to a student, Benedict spoke. "Notice how the wrist is turned so, do you not see?"

CLANG! Steel on steel...

"Brute force is deterred," Benedict continued, "and skill wins out. Parry in quarte, eh? I expect a riposte -"

The elder man nimbly, casually avoided Martin's counterattack...

"You are too obvious. I stated that long ago, my lad, your face betrays you."

In a flash, a blade flies from Martin's hand to be whisked into the air and fall with a clatter to the stones behind Martin, near the cell... "And loosen your grip - it makes it harder for an opponent to do what I just did," Benedict said dryly.

Martin's blinks the pain away, stepping back this time as his advantage disappears like woodsmoke on the wind. "Thank the Unicorn," he says, "I was beginning to wonder if that was really you, uncle." His manner changes as quickly as his fighting style. "You had me scared." He
actually laughs when the blade goes flying out of his hand. He uses his unnatural speed and leaping to spring back and out of reach; hopefully without gaining a wound for his efforts.

"Of course it's me," Benedict remarks benignly, his blade intercepting Martin's own before it is barely in the young man's grasp, disarming him again, before causing Martin to stumble backward to avoid being skewered by Benedict's own. Martin spends the brief seconds it will take for Benedict to reach him to clear the stars from his eyes. With his foot, he kicks his blade into the air and snatches it with his free hand. His other blade snaps out and sends one of the lanterns spinning towards his opponent. It is doubtful that he intends for it to hit... but rather to darken the corridor.

"If he and Martin do not attempt to kill one another, perhaps I may yet ask Martin the questions I came with," Catriola replies. "Otherwise, I may have little hope of finding anything more than
the most simple remedies for this 'malady'. Uncle Corwin, it is my suspicion that Lady Dara has fallen to the same taint as Martin."

Corwin watched the duel before him, and then glanced at Catriola. "Then we shall attend to the Lady Dara as soon as this business is concluded...and you may share your thoughts as well."

Vincent felt an odd relief wash over him as well, as Benedict pressed the creature back. He heard the newly arrived Corwin and Dyved speaking behind him, but kept his focus on the duel, his blades still held before him. As it wore on, he felt his hotly flashed anger beginning to subside, and he considered Catriola's words from minutes ago. A calm came upon the prince, and it was with measured breathing and a neutral expression that he continued his observation.

Martin rapidly had to retreat under Benedict's perfect onslaught, though once he caused the older man to parry once or twice through spirited slashes.

As they approached the cell door, there was another clash of steel and Martin was disarmed again, leaving him weaponless, the point of Benedict's steel at his throat, unwavering...

Dyved's dark eyes were on the duellists, but as Benedict drove Martin closer and closer to the cell door, they lifted to Corwin's intent face. For a second they lingered there ... then his attention was caught by a clatter of steel, and looked back in time to see the second blade dancing across the stone floor, far from Martin's hand.

He tensed ...

For someone just defeated in combat, Martin certainly isn't showing much disappointment. He flexes his fingers, barely looking down at the blade hovering near his throat. "Touché, uncle. I guess you win this round," he says loud enough for everyone to hear. His hand drop to his sides, palms outward in supplication.

Benedict says nothing, allowing his one foot to kick aside Martin's lost blade, as the guards from the rear of the corridor collect the fallen torch and replace it in an iron bracket.

He cocks his head slightly, careful not to cut his own throat on the blade. Then, in a low voice, he says, "This reminds me of an adage I learned on Scylla. 'He who is willing to sacrifice the most will always win the battle.'" In a blink, he shifts to the side by three inches, then drives himself onto Benedict's weapon. The foil is sheathed in flesh and muscle just above the prince's collarbone, erupting out of his body over the shoulder blade. With his opponent's weapon trapped and the distance now shortened significantly, Martin drives his razor-sharp claws into Benedict, trying to gut him from groin to sternum. "Checkmate," he growls in hate and agony.

Martin feels something like burning ice pierce his throat, fire racing along his nerves, blood welling up in the back of his throat.

He gasps for air, coughing a spray of crimson fluid, as his limbs spasm, the stone flooring striking his knees.

Martin's silverd eyes trace the length of torch-illuminated steel buried someplace beneath his chin...

Benedict stares down at him as he slips further downward. "Never advertise your intensions...or consider an adage to be the final truth. You were outmatched, Martin. You are good, but hardly the equal of Eric, much less myself."

While sheathing his blades, Vincent paused slightly to consider Benedict's words. With pursed lips, he slammed them home, before standing to watch with arms crossed.

Pain welled redness into Martin's gaze, his fingers stretched forward, longing to gut the man before him, but they only managed to feebly clutch air...a moment later, the cool stone, moist and hard, met his cheeks as he fell forward.

For those watching not far off, Benedict withdrew with ease the bloody steel from Martin's neck as he dropped, leaving just a neat wound about an inch across, that quickly began to seep slow jets of blood, which pooled on the floor.

In this moment, Cat stops breathing. Her eyes hold back tears as she steps toward her friend.

Benedict cocked his head halfway to this onlookers. "My test is confirmed. It's the true Martin - none can duplicate exactly a man's fighting style - and with Martin I am well versed. I am sad to see he has been reduced to this miserable - and suidical state."

Stepping away, his blade point bearing upon the fallen Martin, he continues. "If you wish to save him for some ghastly reason, I'd be about it soon enough - he hasn't long."

Meanwhile, in Martin's ears, a roaring sound consumes the last of Benedict's words as he blacks out, his last thoughts of the hungry void which awaits him...

Dyved moves foward, his eyes narrowed.

"Then, my Lord, with all due respect, I suggest that your best people attend him. For by Triton, if he dies, his will be the last Rebman blood shed on Amber's soil."

He looks from Benedict to Corwin.

"Do you believe, my Lords, that my Queen will send Rebmans to die for the cause of those who let her grandson perish? That the troops marching from Rebma will merely pause respectfully at the hearse of their Prince travelling in the opposite direction?

"Help him live now, lest he accomplish the work of the Darke by letting us perish, divided."

Benedict, standing with one shoulder against the stone wall, eyed Dyved as one would a small child who speaks brashly.

"Do not consider too highly the place of the bastard son of Random and an embarrassing suicide, much less one who has given himself over willingly to the enemy..."

Benedict rubs the stump of his wrist with the left hand. "And do stop with the paltry threats, Lord Dyved - Moire knows that if Rebma stands not with Amber, she signs her own death certificate. For if Amber falls to the Darke enemy, so too will Rebma. Or did you think your watery habitat will keep you safe?"

Vincent stood silently, staring at the growing pool of blood. He couldn't help but compare it to another he had studied just days before... The Rebman's whining was getting on his nerves, but he held his tongue, only glancing at him with disgust. Snarling at the man would only strain relations, and that was too precious right now. Normally, he would have moved to aid Martin, but now he could not. No, not now. He had decided that Martin was a pawn, a tool... it was clear to all that he had been deep changed-- more than physically-- and so Vincent couldn't hold him fully responsible as Marcus' killer. Not really. But he'd be damned if he'd help to save him. And anyway, It looked to be a minor wound, once the bleeding had been stopped.

Cat kneels beside Martin, inspecting the wound, using her own hands to attempt to stop the bleeding which will certainly kill him.

Her own world has ceased to exist around her as she tries desperately to save his life, employing all methods of medical assistance she has at her disposal.

"I'm here, Martin," she whispers to him. "I'm not leaving you."

Martin just lies there on the ground, a crimson halo forming around his head. Thanks to Benedict's superior skill with a blade, the prince's vein is cut rather than the artery. Death's arrival is minutes rather than seconds away.

Now up close, Cat can see something decidedly peculiar. Though his life ebbs away with ever-slowing jets of blood, his lips are curled into a grin.

With each gentle, urgent movement of the princess' hands, Vincent's face softened. She clearly cared deeply for Martin... or at least the man he used to be. He turned away. Dyved turns and kneels beside Cat.

"Take this," he says, pulling out the large handkerchief, impregnated with Rebman herbs that he has used to ward off the evil smells of the dungeon. "It is not much ... but it is a start."

Using the herbs that Dyved has handed over, Cat thanks him without actually looking up.

Even as she takes it, he strips off his jacket and begins to rip out the lining in long strips. As he does so, he glances up at the others.

"My Lords, I would request the honour of an audience at your earliest convenience."

Benedict, who is wiping off blood on some dry stray, remains nonplussed. "I do not require formal audiences - and my earliest convenience is now."

Cat mutters, "Their pettiness will kill us all one by one, my Lord. Let us try to save Rebma's Prince. Her majesty should not lose her grandson as she her daughter."

Those nearby can audibly hear Corwin whistle air between his teeth. "It won't be pettiness that kills us, Catriola, but sentimentalilty."

"It is obvious Benedict allowed Martin to engage him to test his identity, not to grieviously injure him - Martin brought that upon himself in his suicidal attempt to imitate a boar's rush."

"You're welcome to your opinion, Uncle. However that is not my concern just now. Saving his life is," Cat answers, very softly, not bothering to look up from her task at hand. "I would do the same for anyone."

As the guards come to assist in removing Martin from the dungeons, he lets his hand fall to the fallen form, with its cruel claws and feral, half-slit eyes. "This is not the Martin you knew - it is a reminder that we are being attacked by a foe we barely comprehend - who knows if Martin is victim or willing thrall? Either way, however, you must beware being lulled into weakness by manipulation."

"If caring about the man that had more influence over my life than my own father is weak, then damn it all, I choose to be weak!" Cat says. "I know who Martin was, and who, when wiped away from this infection, will be again."

She wipes her brow with the back of her hand, smearing a bit of blood across her face and takes a strip of cloth that Dyved has removed from his jacket.

Some strange thoughts crossed her mind, and she hoped she didn't have to resort to tearing away her underskirts in front of all these men.

"C'mon, Martin, don't die now."

Corwin waves at the guards. "Come...bring the man to Foresthall..."

His eyes fell to Dyved. "Queen Moire and I have corresponded...she is willing to assume responsibility for her grandson ... we both agree he will be more secure in Rebma."

Cat thinks, 'Yeah, because we've done a real bang up job of keeping him safe here, haven't we?'

She proceedes to lift him under her own power, rather than accept assistance from the castle's guard.

Corwin laid a hand on Vincent's shoulder. "Come, nephew...Lord Dyved, Lady Catriola - let us bring Martin upward..."

"No, I will do it myself," Cat whispers. "I will take him to Foresthall. I've lifted heavier."

Corwin nods to the guards. "Fine..." he agreed.

She remembers to place Martin's sunglasses over his eyes before lifting him to carry him to Foresthall. He was heavy but she'd be damned if she was going to let anyone else touch him. Her thoughts remained dark and hateful.

Corwin blocked her path, his broad shoulders filling the hallway. His fingers reached to Cat's chin, gently. "You are bitter - you have lost a friend, as much to the Darke as to anything else. I
won't gainsay you, Catriola, for your devotion to Martin. May it keep him strong and see him through to a healing from out of this dark influence. I trust you will be wise not only for him, but for Amber, and yes, even your father, though you and he are often estranged, and he has but recently escaped captivity."

Catriola looks up to her Uncle, her face much softer and not hiding her current distress. "I may be young, trusting, and over emotional, but I'm not stupid, Uncle. I know what is to be believed and what is not. I shall be wise enough... and strong enough for the lot of us. I do not blame my father for being estranged from me. I know what I'm like and I'll take what I can get from him."

The dark-maned prince paused momentarily in consideration, then stepped back...

"Very well..."

She waits until Corwin has finished and stepped to one side to allow her to pass before making her way up the stairs to the light halls of the castle, carrying her dearest friend near the hearth where he could be kept warm. It is obvious that leaving his side is not in her plans.

 

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