The Duel

 Meanwhile, the situation on deck was quickly moving from serious to perilous. The sorcerer's patience had been exhausted and he raised his hands as he called forth his power, ready to gain by force what words had failed to win him. Out of options and out of time, Tex scrambled up the mast, hoping he wouldn't be noticed.

With a gesture Amel plucked Neteth and Asphodel from the deck. They struggled futilely to break the grip of the invisible hand that held them. Closer they drifted and a mad gleam in the sorcerer's eyes spoke to the treatment the rest of those on board could expect once he had his objective. The air quivered with the energy of some spell about to be unleashed. And while this drama played out over the crew, who looked on with faces contorted by worry or settled into a grim, angry resolve, Tex hastened to undo the knot securing one of the many ropes to the yard.

“Now,” Amel declared, “you will see what it means to trifle with a man of power.”

Tex jumped. The rope spooled out, went taut, and he swung from its end, legs tucked against his chest. The sorcerer turned, eyes wide with surprise and fear as Tex let go of the rope. They collided, then fell together, and at the last moment Amel regained enough composure to try to lift himself up once more so that when they both hit the planks it bruised but did not injure. The two he'd tried to carry off also fell, a bit more gracefully but no less surprised. But the black-robed man adapted quickly and sprang to his feet, hatred engraved on his gaunt face.

“You've sealed your fate, interloper.”

Tex replied with a right hook. The sorcerer was faster on his feet than he anticipated, stepping back and throwing out a hand to divert the blow. His own riposte, a jab at Tex's ribs, was swift and forced his opponent a step back. This separation created an opening for the crew, who loosed arrows that fizzled and sparked uselessly against Amel's wards. The speed with which he'd regained control of his spells marked him as someone who had seen serious fighting before. A harsh white light burst from his right hand, sinuous and harsh, and in an instant he held a blade like a frozen lightning bolt. It glowed and shimmered as if reflecting the light of another world.

Their swords met, steel against enchanted fire, and the air rang with blows. Despite the lean build buried under layers of black linen Amel struck with a ferocity that forced Tex back again and again. He would thrust wildly, seemingly carelessly, and slink easily out of reach of the riposte, sword held at low guard, ready to punish any overreach. He fought from behind the safety of his wards, which wrapped about him like a pavise. Only from the front, where he had to open his defenses to attack, was he vulnerable.

The two watched each other as they fought, testing, evaluating. Each tried to catch the other unprepared, feinting, changing the strength and direction of their attacks, and to those watching it almost seemed they intentionally drew out the fight. Certainly the smile on Amel's face did nothing to dispel this impression. In the chime of two blades meeting mid-swing, the glissade of a well-timed deflection, the movement over the planks as the two circled and darted toward one another, there was a form of beauty and vivacity not to be found in lashing helpless victims with sorcery from on high.

Amel drove him back to the edge, one blow following another without pause so that the air seemed to roil and seethe before him. Tex yielded the ground and, seeing ahead of time what was supposed to be the fatal strike, leaped above the deadly sweep of the flamberge, landing upon the railing. In the elusive instant when Amel was off-balance, his arms at their fullest extension, Tex kicked him swiftly in the face. The sorcerer reeled back, waving his weapon before him in a defensive pattern. Mastery of magic demanded a certain presence of mind that prohibited panic, even in such a desperate moment, one of many qualities instilled by his training. He slashed at the deck as he retreated and it burst into flames at the mere touch of his sword.

Tex followed in pursuit and again they fought for advantage while the crew rushed to contain and extinguish the fire. These other men kept back from the fight, even those who were armed. This was a threat far outside their normal experience. Most only knew of magic secondhand, from legend and rumor and stories told by those among them who were older and had traveled more broadly, stories that often as not were dismissed as tall tales. Now the stories had come to them in flesh and bone and wielding the power of the gods as a scourge. All the efforts and valor of man vanished like smoke on the wind before that might, or such had been the sorcerer's observation in many a similar encounter previously. He risked a glance at Asphodel and in that scant fragment of a second, scarcely long enough to blink, Amel saw something cold and inquiring. He was being judged, not at all what he had expected from the wayward witch, and tried to puzzle out the meaning of this. Then he banished such distractions from his mind. There would be time enough to learn the truth once he had taken her and the prince to the others who even then were speeding toward the Wild Fox on wings of wind.

Swordplay was an affectation of Amel's, but he had never seen a sword such as his opponent wielded and found it infuriatingly difficult to avoid that formidable guard. This, too, he would take with him, to hang next to the shamshirs and spathas and jians of those he had bested. It would be a prize piece of his collection.

This confidence was tempered only by the uncomfortable realization of how hard pressed he was. He was now amidships and backed away slowly, circling the mast, waiting for the ideal opening. A part of him longed to take to the air and simply burn the ship to cinders, a part that gained in strength the longer the fight wore on. He poured more strength into his attacks and once more forced Tex onto the back foot. His sword radiated power and he felt victory approaching with every swing, every thrust and riposte. He only needed the boldness to see this through.

A rope slipped into the upper edge of his vision and for a small, decisive moment he thought it must be the one Tex had loosed earlier. Then it looped about him and he was pulled back violently, fighting just to stay on his feet. Amel jerked against the restraint, saw the prince holding one end of the rope in each hand and pulling with all his might, and wheeled on the boy. He swung wildly, the tip of his sword gliding over the prince's chest and easily opening the armor. Neteth fell. As the rope went slack Amel whirled back to face Tex, sword rising into a guard position. The barbaric-looking broadsword skimmed over the top of his blade and in the excitement of the moment every detail was revealed to him, every spark bounding from the point of contact like a burning meteor, and he saw nothing to stop it. The blow shook him. It would have killed him instantly had he not reached out with a spell to slow it. But his physical strength was spent and only one recourse remained.

Amel ascended in a boiling haze of magical potency as if the close embrace of his wrath had been made manifest. His sword vanished, no longer needed, and he lifted both hands in an appeal to his patrons. He demanded power to smite his enemies, to carry off his quarry and preserve the life spilling from his frail mortal shell. All these things would have their price, but a price easily paid by one so dedicated to his ways. It was the privilege of a sorcery, and a terror to his enemies, that he could snuff out others as trivially as a candle flame between spit-dampened thumb and forefinger. He could see in his mind's eye his magic blotting them out. There was a roar of thunder.

And then he fell stricken to the deck. Smoke poured from his robes, acrid and thick. Asphodel walked to him slowly and turned over the corpse with the end of her staff, the same end from which she had cast the killing bolt. Whatever satisfaction she might have found in this victory was stolen by the knowledge that there would, sooner than she wanted, be questions that she'd have great difficulty answering.