For Lorika

The blow had knocked Roland clean back over the table, glasses crashing to the floor and shattering in a cascade of diamond-edged shards. Mal turned away, knuckles smarting, clenching and unclenching his fist inside the soft leather glove to ease the shock of impact. Shaking his wrist and smiling a wry grimace he faced Samantha, expecting a look of gratitude at the very least. Instead he was greeted with a visage of pure appalled shock. His smile faded, replaced with a look of disappointment. After what Roland had called her, a bit of thanks was the least he could hope for.

The hiss of steel being drawn behind him made Mal turn sharply to see Roland staggering to his feet, his sword already drawn and pointed threateningly at Mal’s face. Roland’s face was contorted in a sneer of contempt, the ugly red mark on his cheek from Mal’s fist already vivid.

“I didn’t think you’d be so upset… not over that little tramp anyways.” he snarled, jerking his head towards Samantha. Mal had frozen at the sight of bare steel but before Roland’s words had ceased to echo around the suddenly silent tavern his hand was already on the hilt of the sabre hanging from his hip. The crowd that had gathered around them during Roland’s speech now shrank back fearfully, a brawl was one thing, weapons drawn in anger was quite another.

“Roland…” Mal spoke in a low voice, but his words were clear in the still air and deathly hush but he was interrupted abruptly.

“Let’s see if you’re prepared to bleed for that bitch too.” Roland pushed aside the restraining hand of his comrade as Mal’s sabre scraped menacingly from it’s scabbard. Dust swirled in shafts of light from the dying sun arcing through the taverns windows as the two men faced each other, sizing each other up. Mal’s slender frame was hunched slightly, his body protected by his blade – a simple sabre, protection from the bandits that sometimes roamed the hills around the city but no match for the elegant rapier that shone in Roland’s hand. His shifted his feet uneasily, his soft riding boots ill-suited for the floorboards made sticky with spilled wine. Shit, he’d barely been in town five minutes and was tired and dusty from the ride. He’d known Roland was around and spoiling for a fight, he’d just hoped it wouldn’t be this soon. Samantha stood behind him. He’d not expected to see her so soon either. Or that he’d have reacted so badly to seeing them. He’d sworn to himself that he would hold his temper in check but seeing Roland parading Samantha round like a trophy had made the gorge rise in his gut. When his eyes had met Samantha’s Mal couldn’t hold her gaze, the memories were too painful. He’d thought that maybe he was over it but it all came rushing back. His face had tightened and that was all it took for Roland to start twisting the knife.

Ever since Samantha had been forced away from Mal into Roland’s arms by the constraints of society Roland had been itching to rub his face in it. Roland was a courtier, Mal was just a huntsman, nothing more. Samantha’s family could not allow her to sully herself with Mal’s kind. The sight of Roland parading Samantha round like a trophy had sickened Mal and he couldn’t bear to see Samantha’s down-turned gaze. There had almost been a fight then too, but Mal had been called off to accompany a visiting Baron from one of the colonies on a hunt. The time had given Mal chance to think, to reflect, to fight back his feelings and concentrate on the hunt. Now, on his return Roland had wasted no time in finding him to finish what he had started.

Mal edged backwards, seeking space and a chance to calm the situation, a fight with Roland would have seen him severely reprimanded by the huntmaster for brawling with a noble, now steel had been drawn things looked much worse. He knew Roland was an ass but he’d never thought he was this stupid. He shifted his grip on the worn handle of his weapon as Roland crouched. The look of indignant rage on his face told Mal this would end only one way. With bloodshed. If it was Rolands blood tomorrow would see Mal hanging from the gallows. But he’d be damned before Roland dirtied his pretty little blade with his blood.

For all his reputation as a swordsman, Roland was indifferently skilled with a blade. Most of his reputation had been garnered from winning tournament bouts against opponents specially selected for their lack of talent or training by Roland’s father the Duke. It hadn’t helped Roland’s propensity for strutting around looking smug much but it had kept the pretentious young noble quiet – a blessing in his father’s eyes but a pain in the ass for everyone else. His stance told Mal everything he needed to know to avoid the first wild lunge, aimed at skewering him by simply stepping aside and letting Roland overbalance himself. The young noble staggered forwards, his blade hitting nothing but thin air as Mal stepped adroitly aside, unable to resist a swat at the young nobles rotund backside. The flat of his blade slapped against the seat of Roland’s pants, angering him further. Mal knew he’d get in trouble for that if he somehow managed to get out of this with his life. But since the chances of that were slim there didn’t seem too much harm in embarrassing the furious Roland. Besides, the angrier he was the more likely he was to make a mistake and charge Mal. The rapier was next to useless in such a tight confined space, once past the lethal point Mal would be relatively safe, from Roland’s blade at least. Not from what would happen afterwards though. That would be the tricky part.

Roland spun, his face red from anger and humiliation. Mal had expected another wild lunge but instead found himself facing a crouching Roland, sword point dancing erratically in front of his face. Maybe the arrogant little rich kid wasn’t so stupid after all. Steel rang on steel as Mal parried a furious succession of blows. For all his ineptness, it couldn’t be said that Roland lacked speed at least. His attacks were predictable though and Mal easily deflected Roland’s blade before riposting, the point of his blade cutting through the expensive silk of Roland’s shirt, nicking his upper arm and drawing a thin line of scarlet..

“That was a warning. You’re out of your depth.” Mal growled. “Your fancy court tricks might look pretty but they’ll not help you here. Put it away before you get hurt and we’ll leave this here”.

His only reply was a vicious combination of attacks as Roland sought to gain some advantage. Mal cursed himself inwardly as stepped back out of reach of Roland’s dancing sword point. He should have known the conceited little shit wouldn’t have the sense to walk away. After all, he knew Mal couldn’t touch him without ending up on the end of a short rope awaiting a long drop.

Roland was already sweating furiously, his race red, the bruise from Mal’s blow turning angry on his cheek, the cut on his arm staining his shirt red with a thin trickle of blood. He’d have a nice little scar there when it healed, something to impress the ladies with no doubt. Sounds of shouting from outside told Mal one of Roland’s cronies had run of to fetch the city guard. This had to end fast.

He let his sword point lower slightly, knowingly offering Roland a target he knew would be irresistible to a noble accustomed to being allowed to win. The brief look of triumph on Roland’s face told Mal it had worked a fraction before Roland thrust confidently forwards, overlunging with the certainty of an idiot sure of an easy win. Mal’s sword hilt flashed up instantly and he felt Roland’s blade skitter along his, the point slicing harmlessly past his shoulder as he pushed the light blade aside, stepping in abruptly to drive the pommel of his sword into Roland’s jaw. He felt the sickening shock of steel cracking against bone as Roland’s jaw shattered, knocking him back full length on the floor of the tavern as the door burst open and guards rushed in. Mal had his sword point against Roland’s throat before any of the guards had surveyed the scene and they froze instantly. The young noble spat blood onto the floorboards garbling incomprehensibly for the guards to arrest Mal at once. The press of cold steel against his throat soon quietened him and he shrank back, gurgling blood. A dark wet stain spoiled the cloth of his trousers as panic overtook his bladder.

The feeling of a beaten opponent, especially one as hateful as Roland, pissing himself with fear before Mal made his blood sing in his ears. Battle lust was on him and he raged inwardly to thrust home his blade, to feel the oddly smooth motion of a sword through flesh. Through the red mist that threatened to overpower his reasoning he saw the face of Samantha, pale and frightened, shocked at the scene before her, her eyes full of tears and fright. The mist cleared, dissolved by her face as morning fog is cleared from the valleys by the suns rays. The beast had left him. He lowered his sword point and stood lifelessly, his stomach twisting into knots, bile rising into his throat at the sight of Roland, beaten and bloodied, crawl away, motioning for the guards to seize Mal.

His sword clattered to the floor and he spat, clearing the taste of hate from his mouth. He’d won, but he was still beaten. Two guards seized his arms roughly as a third drove a fist into his stomach but the blow seemed distant, dulled. His eyes were locked on Samantha’s as he doubled over, pleading with her to understand. He’d done it for her. It was stupid of him but he’d done it all for her. There was no way he could have won, not a chance in hell. Yet he’d still done it. All for her. Because he’d die for her rather than allow her grace to suffer the indignity of abuse. Blows rained upon him and he was forced to the floor semi conscious. Dazed, he murmured as he was dragged from the tavern “It was for you… all for you.”. He never caught her reply, whispered from the softest lips he’d ever kissed, soaked with the salt of tears.

“I know, you fool, you damned fool, I know”