Page 39 of Paladin's Faith

“Ossien.”

“Sylla.”

“Shane. Are you two duelists?”

“For our sins,” said Ossien. “From the Hundred Houses.”

Shane had a vague memory of the Hundred Houses, a series of tightly interlocked communities to the northwest of Archenhold. “Is there much call for duelists there?”

“Sometimes,” said Sylla. She rested one hand on her sword, which had a long, narrow blade. “Mostly old men deciding that their honor can only be satisfied with blood. So they hire us to spill it.”

Ossien grinned. “It’s how I can tell you’re not a duelist,” he said, jerking his chin at Shane’s demon-killing sword. “Try to fight to first blood with that thing, and you’re liable to take their head off. Then everyone gets grumpy.” He had a pair of short, wide blades on his hips, more like long knives than swords. Shane had seen fighters use blades like that, and suspected that Ossien was a good deal more nimble than he let on.

“No,” Shane admitted. “I’m here as a guard. If I have to draw my sword, things have already gone badly.”

“Heh.” Ossien nodded to him. “I hear that.” He stretched. “Care for an opponent? I warn you, I’m old and slow, so I’m probably not much of a challenge, but I always like to spar with someone new. I already know what mistakes to make against Sylla.” His companion rolled her eyes at this, but didn’t argue.

“Certainly,” said Shane. He wondered briefly if this was some kind of trap, but it seemed unlikely. If someone was trying to kill him, the training room would be a terrible place for it. There were at least a dozen other people here watching. I suppose that if they’ve been hired to take out Marguerite’s bodyguard, Ossien could bash me over the head and claim it was an accident. Of course, he’d have to hit me first.

Ossien dropped off his weapons next to Shane’s and returned with a pair of wooden blades with blunt edges. “Fair warning, they’re weighted,” he said, taking up a sideways stance facing Shane. “Can leave a bruise if I get a good hit in.”

Shane nodded. “Mine as well, I expect.” He saluted with the tip.

Within a few moves, he began to relax. Ossien was good, there was no question, and for all his claims of being old and slow, he moved fast, though he was slightly unbalanced on his left foot. Shane had strength and reach, though, and while he had to be quick and clever to keep Ossien at bay, it felt like a workout, not like a battle. The black tide muttered a little inside his head, but never tried to rise.

“Enough,” said Ossien finally, falling back. “Much more and my back will remind me that I’m not twenty-five anymore.” He grinned. “Thank you for the bout, son, even if you were just toying with me.”

“Never,” said Shane. “You got a few good hits in. If you had a blade, I’d be down a kidney.”

“And I’d be down both arms and my head,” said Ossien. He returned the weapons to the racks and sat down to change his boots. Shane noticed that one of his feet was made of wood, articulated with a metal swivel at the ankle. Ah. That explains the balance. Impressive piece of equipment. He doesn’t even have a limp.

Ossien followed his gaze and slapped his knee. “Got this in the Blue Marshes,” he said cheerfully. “Miserable place for a campaign. If there was a patch of solid ground big enough to get one foot on, the enemy was standing there and shooting at us.”

“You took an arrow?”

“Oh, I took three, but none of those signified. No, I lost my boot in the mud, banged up my foot, and the damn thing took an infection and had to come off.” He pulled his boot on over the prosthesis. “Got off lightly, frankly, but that was the end of my mercenary days.”

“Mud is the worst,” said Shane, with feeling. He still had grim memories of one battle where the Saint of Steel’s chosen had been called to clear bandits out of a village that was too deep in mud for horses to get through. They’d done it, but no one’s thigh muscles had worked right for a week afterward.

“One nice thing about being a duelist—not a lot of mud to deal with now.” Ossien cocked his head at Shane. “Now you…you’re a knight, aren’t you?”

Shane raised his eyebrows. Can everybody tell? Do I have a sign on my back? “Trained as one, although I don’t use the title. How did you know?”

Ossien shrugged. “Lotta little things. Your salute at the beginning was a little too crisp to be enlisted, unless I’d pissed you off somehow. And your accent’s from over by the Dowager’s city, but you don’t fight like her infantry. They drill tight together, always keep their elbows in close and they don’t make the big sweeps like you did.” He held up a hand. “It ain’t none of my business, you don’t have to tell me. I run my mouth sometimes and I know it.”

“It’s fine,” said Shane, bemused.

Sylla pursed her lips thoughtfully. “If you ever feel like drinking in company some time,” she said, “and you don’t mind Ossien running his mouth, the place on the other side of the old barracks is cheap and doesn’t water the ale too badly.” She nodded to him and went back to practice.

Ossien lingered a moment longer. “Most of us tame duelists drink there,” he added. “The chevaliers don’t bother us there.”

Shane paused in the middle of drying his hair. “Do they bother you elsewhere?”

The man hitched one shoulder up in a shrug. “They’ve got a lot of honor,” he said dryly, “and they always seem to think someone’s stepping on it.” He tapped a finger against his forehead in a small salute. “I’d watch where you step. You’re big enough to attract attention.”

“Thank you,” said Shane. “I appreciate the warning.” He watched Ossien stroll away and thought, Great. Just what I needed, another complication.

“Oof,” said Wren, shifting from foot to foot. “These shoes were not made for these floors.”

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