Death's Finger
The marquis smiled wide enough to bare his teeth. Then, without the slightest warning, he swung.
Chris yelped and threw himself into a roll.
Shwik.
Mana stretched long from the marquis's blade and ripped a furrow through the ground. Only after the ambush did the man bother to speak.
"A test will tell us soon enough. Mindful of the gap between us, I won't use aura."
Damn it.
Chris rolled once more, sprang up, and drew. He brought the sword down at the marquis's shoulder.
The marquis lifted his own blade and caught the falling edge.
Clang.
A murmur of admiration followed the crash.
"Oh-ho. Fine strength. Your power is certainly better than Betrand's. Your swordsmanship, though, is lacking."
The marquis's sword swept low, hunting the armpit Chris had left wide open. Chris leaned back—and simply dropped flat. He tumbled sideways to open the distance, then came up on his feet.
The marquis did not chase him in. He gave his opponent time to gather himself.
"Clumsy footwork, too. And yet you're fast. Curious."
Count Vernon Trent spoke.
"He never received proper instruction from a real master. I taught him a little on the way here, but he is still quite raw."
"Aha. I thought I caught a trace of Tiger's Breath on Timothy's blade."
Chris had stolen Tiger's Breath at Calmer Manor, and for that very reason he had not dared use it—until he began hiding behind the count's lessons. These days he used it freely. Strictly speaking, he had not learned it from the count at all, but from Jerry. He saw no reason to correct the record.
"Have you caught your breath?"
At the marquis's question, Chris nodded.
"Now you come in."
Chris closed the distance with Swallow's Dance and drove a straight thrust at the marquis's solar plexus. The motion was simple, but the speed gave it real force.
Not enough to rattle the marquis. He brushed the blade aside with ease, then pulled with attraction and shoved with repulsion.
For an instant the sword tried to leap from Chris's hand. He clamped down and yanked it back—and in that same moment, as if it had been waiting, the repulsive force slammed into him and stole his balance. A savage edge of energy dropped toward his stumbling instep. He snatched his foot in and retreated.
Once again the marquis did not follow. He crooked a finger.
"Come again."
Chris had meant to look suitably beaten the moment an opening was pressed. Instead the man kept refusing to land the last blow, and kept letting him off.
Annoyed, Chris bit the inside of his cheek.
Even losing on purpose is hard work.
He charged again. This time he left Swallow's Dance alone and simply bullied forward, crude and direct. A headlong rush like that hit harder than footwork that had never reached a higher stage—because he was fast.
"Even if it feels awkward, you must use your footwork often if the skill is to grow."
The marquis offered the lesson as he knocked Chris's sword away. The blade tore from his grip and buried itself in the tent's ceiling.
Chris bowed his head.
"I lose."
The embedded sword dropped and clattered across the floor. The marquis kicked it up and sent it back to him.
"Once more!"
One bout with Betrand, and he won't stop demanding them from me!
Chris swallowed the protest along with his spit.
"Hyah!"
He shouted for no good reason and charged. This time they traded about five blows before he lost the sword again and fell back.
"Again!"
The marquis kept forcing the spar. He thought the boy showed promise, and the instruction was offered in good faith. For the one being dragged through it, the taste was death.
He's really getting on my nerves.
Clash after clash confirmed what Chris already knew: he stood a cut above a master. Which made this spar meaningless. Then again, his judgment might be wrong. The marquis had not used any high art that deserved to be called a finishing move. By that standard, though, Chris had not used magic either.
He charged again, and lost again.
"Again."
Fight the same opponent enough times and you grow used to him. The marquis had taken the measure of Chris's strength and speed, and was answering them in kind. What he had adapted to, though, was the output Chris had calculated and chosen to show. Chris could draw far more than that whenever he pleased.
Irritation pushed him past the line he had drawn. For an instant his speed jumped, and the marquis could not answer in time. The movement had slipped outside the range of his calculations.
"Hup—!"
Feeling his guard broken, the marquis reached for a hidden card. Wind-attribute mana burst from his finger at a terrifying speed.
Shweeeek.
When the wind mana stabbed in like an arrow, Chris's heart lurched. It looked as if the man had loosed a wind arrow with magic.
What the hell is this!
Surprise aside, his mind was already turning fast, and his body was already answering. In that same instant, though, he realized the response would put him past a master's level. Chris abandoned the thought of gathering mana to shield the point of impact. He let his panic show, raw and unhidden, and flailed.
The wind mana struck him in the chest.
Thud.
"Agh!"
Chris screamed and went flying.
The marquis felt a stab of regret. His guard had been broken, and he had overcommitted. The moment he realized it, he did not drive the wind mana home as a piercing arrow. He spread it wide and smashed it down like a hammer.
Thanks to Iron Body, Chris was as hard as steel. Even so, the marquis was a formidable knight, high even among masters. Taking a master's finishing technique with his bare body and walking away unmarked was impossible. A bone cracked.
Chris lay on the ground and groaned as if the bone had snapped clean through. Whispers rose around him.
"That's Death's Finger."
"What's that?"
"His Lordship's finishing move."
The marquis scratched his temple.
"Dear me. My apologies. I lost my composure and used a killing art."
He caught Chris by the arm and hauled him up.
"That last charge was impressive."
"Yes. Thank you."
"You truly are built solid. Another knight would have burst not only bone, but organs as well."
Inside, Chris flared.
And you use a technique that dangerous on me?!
On the outside, he smiled.
"I thought I was dead."
The marquis snapped his fingers.
"Cyril."
A mage with a gloomy look, standing in the corner, stepped forward.
"A mage dispatched by the royal court. Quite skilled."
Cyril came to Chris's side. Chris raised a defensive palm and backed away.
"You don't need to use healing magic. I'm not that badly hurt."
The marquis laughed.
"Then my skill must have fallen short."
Awkward, Chris laughed along.
"I'd rather heal by natural recovery."
He gathered the armor lying on the floor.
"I'm exhausted. I'd like to rest. May I withdraw?"
"Do so."
Once permission was given, Chris retreated backward. He left the tent and walked slowly to the encampment assigned to the count. Soldiers were busy pitching tents.
Chris slipped between them. As time passed, his presence grew faint. He was bending light with mana. Before long, he could not be seen at all.
He did not stop there. He seized the wind around him and kept sound and scent from spreading. Slowly, he drew away from the camp.
The spar with the marquis had made one thing clear: stay any longer, and he would keep colliding with nuisances. Even if it meant grinding his bones down again and enduring the inconvenience of being wanted, pulling himself out was the better choice.
No point getting tangled in someone else's war just to kill people.
When things turn troublesome, running is the best move.
Once he was far enough away, he set down the armor he had been carrying and used mana to knit the cracked bone. Then he put the armor on. Wearing it was easier than hauling it.
A mage had improved it, so unlike old armor, he could put it on easily without a squire's help.
Well. A suit of armor, at least.
Leaving the horse behind was a shame.
Where to now?
Chris looked around, then set his course southwest.
First thing is to get clear of the battlefield.
He had been walking fast for about three hours when a chill prickled his spine and he turned. The mage Cyril was looking at him.
The mage who ought to have been in the supreme commander's tent of the Albar Kingdom army was standing behind him—and had his staff leveled besides. He had not followed with good intentions.
Chris frowned.
"You followed me?"
"I did."
"How? I erased every trace."
A sneer touched Cyril's mouth. Chris's mood soured.
"Why are you smiling?"
"I was just thinking a greenhorn can't help himself."
"A greenhorn?"
"Did you imagine that stopping the wind would be enough to erase you?"
"Yeah."
"A fool, then."
"Why am I a fool?"
"Sharpen your five senses."
Chris focused on a body that had reached the grandmaster realm. Sight grew sharp, sound grew loud, scent grew fierce, and touch grew thick. Even taste sharpened, until he could taste the wind.
"I did. There's nothing special."
"Nothing?"
"No matter how good my senses get, if the wind doesn't carry scent and sound, I can't feel them."
"That's the problem."
"What problem?"
"Do you know how many sounds nature holds?"
"Well. I've never thought about it."
Cyril put a hand to his ear.
"Listen. Can you hear the wingbeats of that bird flying over there?"
"I can."
"The wind shaking the grass?"
"I can."
"An insect on the grass, rubbing its wings?"
"I can."
"That bug clinging to the tree trunk, rubbing its front legs?"
"I can."
"The mole digging under the ground?"
"I can."
"The worm moving through the damp soil?"
"You told me to sharpen my senses. Of course I can."
"And yet around you alone, there is no sound."
"Ah!"
"Yes. That's it. Nature is a tangle of every kind of sound. Where people gather, it's louder still—laughing, talking, yawning, belching, farting. Heavy bodies make heavy footsteps. Mix in the noise of every tool: carriages running, handcarts rolling, horseshoes, and so on. But around you, nothing can be heard. A pocket of silence is floating along. A void just the right size for one man to step into."
"I killed the sound so I could slip away in secret, and the absence of sound is what gave me away. Unbelievable."
"There's vibration, too."
"Vibration?"
"You only blocked the air above the ground. You didn't stop the vibration in the soil."
"Hm."
Chris resolved that the next time he had to flee in secret, he would draw on earth mana and cut off the ground's vibration as well. If he didn't care for that, he could lift his body and not touch the earth at all. He didn't know flight magic, but raising himself into the air by controlling wind mana was well within his reach.
Cyril asked, "How did you block the wind?"
"Well. How did I?"
"They say even a knight, once he reaches the master realm, affects his surroundings. Is it that?"
Chris shrugged and rapped his armor.
Cyril nodded as if he understood.
"A function of the armor."
"I see how you tracked me. Why did you follow?"
"That grotesque story of yours."
Chris's expression turned strange.
He followed me because of my lie?
He couldn't cry. He couldn't laugh.