Fencing Academy Pt. 01

"Fuck your offer," said Lyza, without hesitation.

The servant looked uncomfortable as he turned toward Victoria. "I suppose that means 'no', my lady."

Victoria glared at Lyza hatefully, but Margaret kept her faint smile. She said, "Are you really going to lose your head over— what, two years of your life? Victoria Knightling is a generous employer, you know. And forgiving, as you've just witnessed."

Lyza spat on the ground and stamped on it. "That's what I think of you nobs."

Margaret shook her head and laughed darkly. "Let me put it this way," said Margaret, her eyes narrowing to slits as she stepped once more toward her, "In the past five years there have been three duels to the death between women. I fought in every one. You think I survived three fights for some fluke? You think you can beat those odds?"

"I don't think I can," said Lyza, doing her best to keep her voice calm and low, "I know I can. Like I know you're stallin' fer time, 'cause you're scared."

Margaret laughed, hoarse, mirthless and bitter. "Scared? Of course I am. I've been wondering all day how I can bring myself to kill you," Margaret leaned closer in, as if she wanted a look straight into her eyes. "The question is: are you really prepared to kill me? When the instant comes, can you cut me here?" she says, drawing a line across her jugular with a long fingernail. "It's easy to say you'll do it, that's why everyone says it. It is something else entirely to do it. You'll lose your innocence, you'll be changed forever. Can you accept that?"

That was why Lyza wanted to do it: she wanted to change, to harden her heart so she could commit the bloodshed she needed to. The world was a cruel and unyielding place, as she would need to be.

"Yeah," she said simply, "'tis a price worth paying."

"I was hoping the threat of a duel would scare you, Lyza Dunwall. I didn't think things would get this far. Someone get me some wine."

One of Victoria's servants came forward and poured some red wine into a clay goblet. Margaret swallowed it down greedily, she had to wipe her lips with her sleeve afterward.

Lyza went into a guard stance, her rapier still in front of her. "Is that a good idea? Drinkin' before a fight?"

Margaret threw the goblet over her shoulder. "I can't kill you sober," she answered, before drawing her parrying dagger and entering a ready stance. "Where's your main-gauche?"

Lyza cocked her head. "I got one, you just happen to be holdin' it right now."

Margaret snorted. "Funny."

They stood before each other, swords drawn and pointed at the other. The world suddenly became very still and very silent, and seconds passed slowly. Lyza tried to stay still too, but her heart was thumping like an ax on firewood. Her eyes kept bouncing from Margaret's toes to her blade, wondering which would move first.

It almost seemed to be between moments when Margaret lunged. Lyza's parry was desperate and slow, the point deflected inches away from her collarbone. A second thrust seemed to begin even before Lyza had raised her sword. That was even closer. Lyza retreated.

Shit, she's drivin' me to the slope! she realized.

Parry after desperate parry, Lyza was given no choice but to give ground. She was being driven so fast that she was practically walking backwards, with no time even look to see where she was going... a loose branch or small rock could be the end of her. Lyza's heart froze and despair gripped her... she suddenly realized what she had gotten herself into.

She's gonna win. I'm gonna die.

Lyza was trying to watch Margaret's blade, but Margaret had murderous brown eyes that stared unblinking into her. She knew Margaret was trying to unnerve her, and it was working. She'd been in fights before, but she now knew what being a professional meant. Margaret was a duelist, there was not a wasted movement, and her face was the picture of stony discipline.

Lyza stumbled.

She was trying to dodge an overhead hack, and next she knew she was on her back, her head rushing with blood, temples pounding. Margaret strode forward, the small, razor-sharp hirschfanger already drawn.

She saw her father again, but with a face half-remembered. He was holding a hirschfanger too, the knife loose in his hands. It looked as cruel as it was small, the edge had a deadly glint. "I hope you never have to use this one," he explained to her once, "This is not a weapon. It's a tool. See how sharp it is?"

He pricked her finger with it. She winced reflexively, but no pain came. She marveled at the pool of blood on her finger.

"The blade is so sharp that its cuts are painless. It is a tool of mercy. When you see a person who is dying and in pain, it is sometimes the only good thing to do to end it. Do you understand?"

She didn't understand then, but she understood now. Margaret thought this fight was over. She wanted to end her quickly and painlessly.

"I'm not a wounded animal!" Lyza said defiantly, and swung her blade at Margaret.

Margaret deflected the attack with the tiny blade. Lyza would have been stunned by that feat, but she was too busy getting back to her feet. In the brief pause, Margaret stonily slammed the hirschfanger back in its sheathe, and pulled out her parrying dagger, the main-gauche.

Margaret isn't taking me seriously, thought Lyza.

Margaret was giving Lyza a chance to attack, and so she took broad swings, and each one was caught by the broad hilt of the dagger. Margaret wasn't even sweating. Lyza desperately recalled one of her father's moves, and so she made a deep, clumsy feint over Margaret's head. She caught that blow too, exactly what she had wanted. Lyza pulled her fist back and almost managed to slam the hilt into Margaret's nose, but Margaret drew her head back just in time.

Lyza feel an ache in her shoulder. She looked down, and saw to her horror that blood soaked the silk of her left shoulder, almost black, a puncture ripping through the cloth. Lyza quickly backed away, nausea gripping her insides. When was I stabbed?

Margaret didn't pursue. "Who taught you that move?" she barked.

Lyza blew on the wound. Blood continued to seep. "My father."

Margaret crumpled her brow. "Where have I seen that move before?" Margaret shrugged, but as she did an expression flashed across her face as though a pain had moved through her body.

What's wrong with her? wondered Lyza. It was as though Margaret had just suffered a stomach cramp. Lyza cursed: she could have driven through Margaret while she was distracted, but she had forgotten what she was doing.

It was too late to act, Margaret drew her rapier again, and soon the dance began again. Lyza was slowed by her wound... but so was Margaret, her swings longer and heavier than before, her parries a fraction slower. She no longer seemed focused, but distracted. Her concern showed on her face.

Margaret grimaced again, her hand gripped her stomach. She backed off quickly. Now's my chance, thought Lyza, but she couldn't get her hand to push her blade.

"Do you want to stop the fight?" she found herself saying instead.

A bead of sweat trickled down Margaret's face. She wiped it with her forearm. "Why, are you reconsidering my lady's proposal?"

Lyza steeled herself. "No."

Margaret pulled herself upright. "Then we have nothing to discuss."

She launched an attack, but it was slower than before, and Lyza parried it easily. The crowd was sensing a shift in momentum... as was Margaret, whose face was slowly filling with doubt.

A feint had Margaret's dagger inches from Lyza's face, arm stretched out bare before her. She overcommited, realized Lyza. She struck Margaret's arm, the sword tip biting into flesh. Her hand jerked open, the dagger tumbling to grass. Lyza kept her eyes on Margaret as she stooped to pick it up.

"You know what you fight like?" said Margaret between heaving breaths, nursing her wound, "You fight like... you had been trained by a master, but then... then you were thrown on the streets and made to fend for yourself.... for years and years."

Lyza nodded. Her wound was still seeping, and she felt weak. "That's wot happened... you can tell just from how I fight?"

"Not just that," huffed Margaret. "I know who your father is. I didn't realize it at first, but he had a very distinctive technique... based on precise timings and feints. You've only got the basics down... everything else... it's like you've had to fill in the blanks."

Lyza was wordless. She just listened to her.

"I did more than cross swords with your father, Lyza," she grimaced, and hissed, "But I'm not ready to die, not even for you."

Margaret sprung at her. Lyza tried to parry, but the swordswoman's blade was no longer where she thought it was. Lyza saw the glint of steel screaming towards her, and only a lightning reflex made her jump back in time.

The opportunity came: Margaret left an opening, but Lyza just stared indecisively at it, her blade shivering in the sunlight. It was Margaret who collected herself first. With a surge of strength she sprang, an animal snarl escaping her lips. Lyza moved fast enough to avoid the blade, but Margaret's other hand grasped her hair. Lyza yelped in pain as her back was pulled into Margaret's chest.

Lyza was staring at Margaret razor edge, the only thing keeping it at bay was her own blade. She twisted and kicked and struggled to keep the sword from her face, but Margaret's other arm was tight around her neck. She could feel Margaret's hot, labored breath on the back of her ear. The sword pushed inexorably downward, finally biting into Lyza's flesh, across her nose, her cheek and her brow. Warm liquid seeped down Lyza's face. She cried out.

The pain gave Lyza strength she didn't know she had... with it she began to drive the blade back again, lifting it from the crevice of the wound, the swords scraping and shivering. It was far enough that Lyza could duck under it.

At least she thought. Lyza felt a sudden pull... Margaret had grasped her hair again, her sword lifted to bring down on her neck, her grimace full of fear and rage. Lyza acted fast, her sword going through her own hair like a razor. Margaret was left with a clump of it tight in her hands.

"No..." muttered Margaret.

Those were her last words. Margaret's blade was too far to block, so Lyza reflexively plunged the tip into her chest. It was odd. She felt the steel scrape against the ribs, to punch through into Margaret's heart. The sensation sent Lyza's innards squirming, her arm numb. The crowd gasped despairingly. Margaret choked on... something, coughing blood, her ragged breath unable to take in air.

Lyza was hugging Margaret, even as her hand was pushing on the hilt. Her arm was around the back of her neck, and when she looked down she saw crimson spreading on the other side. Lyza was leaking too... blood and tears, falling like beads to burst on the grass.

"MAGGIE!!!" Lyza heard, a distant, desperate yell as if someone was screaming it from the bottom of the oceans. The last of Margaret's strength left and she went limp, her weight bringing Lyza to her knees. Lyza couldn't lift her head for a long time, even as shadows grew around her.

Victoria was the first to join her, she shook Maggie's shoulders violently and desperately. Margaret's empty eyes rolled uselessly in their sockets. "Maggie! Maggie! Don't die Maggie! Save her doctor!"

The doctor knelt to feel Margaret Fey's pulse, his mustache twitching. When he rose, he said as matter-of-fact, "My job is done, I'm afraid. Priest's work from here on out."

"NOOOOO!!" wailed Victoria. She buried herself in Margaret's shirt. "NOOOO!!"

The old priest prodded Lyza on the shoulder. "Remove your sword, if you wouldn't mind."

It was like Lyza had been awoken from some slumber. "Oh... sure..." she said dumbly. The sword made a squishing, scraping sound as she removed it, she had to put her boot on Margaret's stomach for leverage. She backed off, letting the priest do his work. He waved the censer over the body and chanted.

"Oh Saints of Light, please guide this soul into heaven..."

Victoria twisted her head at Lyza, eyes reddened with hatred and tears. "IT WAS YOU! YOU CHEATED! I KNOW YOU DID! YOU CHEATED!"

"...judge her worthy, cleanse her soul of sin, give her the peace she desired in life..."

"YOU WOULD NEVER HAVE WON! YOU CHEATED! YOU CHEATED!"

"...Saint Agnes, shepherd of the souls of those who die in battle, keep her from the Dark..."

There was another tap on the shoulder. Lyza turned. It was the doctor, with his best sympathetic expression.

"If you see me later, I'll put some stitches on that wound of yours," he cleared his throat, and added more quietly, "I can recommend a good confessor, too."

He slipped he a card with an address scrawled on it. Lyza didn't bother telling him she couldn't read, but she muttered a "thanks," and slipped it into her pocket.

Lyza was at a loss for what to do, so she just left, slowly and uncomfortably, towards the city gates. The priest's chanting and Victoria's wails faded to distant murmurs. She had not even walked through the gate when a flash blinded her.

"Miss Dunwall, why did you kill Margaret Fey?" asked the reporter, scribbling something urgently.

"Miss Dunwall, what did you have against Victoria Knightling?" asked another.

"Miss Dunwall, what were Margaret Fey's last words?" asked yet another.

Lyza blinked at the throng of reporters and the blinding pop of flash lamps. "Uh, 'No'..."

She was quoting Fey, not refusing the question, but the response provoked a torrent. She could only make out urgent calls of "Miss Dunwall", "Miss Dunwall".

"Uh... I'm sorry, I gotta go..."

She forced aside the throng. When they followed her, questions and flashes shooting past, she descended into the alleyways and finally lost them.

"I've got to find Liam," she said to herself, navigating through Rotham's dark streets.

The blood began to drip from her chin to her shirt. She swore, looked to see if anyone was around, and ripped a strip of her shirt from the sleeve. The wound was in an awkward place, Running diagonally from her left eye to her right cheek. It took a lot of adjusting to make sure it was secure and not blinding her.

She had agreed to meet Liam by Oldtown Plaza after the fight. It was a scarcely traveled area, but safe. The buildings were medieval here, with crumbly cramped walls. It reminded her of Arbalea.

"Come on, Liam," whispered Lyza, "Don't leave me now..."

###

Night fell on Oldtown Plaza. Lyza had stopped bleeding finally, but she felt sick and weak. When temptation struck her, she touched the wound and was rewarded with pain. But the pain was tolerable. Waiting for Liam was the agony.

"I thought you had won that fight..." said a woman.

Lyza bolted upright to the first human voice she'd heard since she escaped the throng of reporters. She looked blearily at the dark figure. "Madam Picot..." she voiced.

Madam Picot approached her close enough to push Lyza's hair aside. Lyza had her back against a cobbled wall. When she tried to stand, her knees buckled.

"...but you look to be the living dead," finished Madam Picot.

"Where is Liam?" she whispered.

Madam Picot had a gentle, comforting smile as she traced the bloody mess with her finger. "The wound will not be life-threatening. It will look ugly, for a while, it will pus and swell. When it is over, the scar will be clean. Some will find it beautiful."

Lyza hissed, "I don't give a fat fuck about my scar! Where's Liam?"

Picot's face suddenly went pale. "I am afraid I have bad news for you."

Lyza's heart froze.

"Liam had acquired quite the winnings. Some say close to fifty pounds. It proved too great a temptation for the street ruffians. I'm sorry."

Lyza grimaced so hard she tore open some of her wound. Fresh, hot blood ran down her pink cheeks.

"WHAT? NO!" she cried out.

Madam Picot nodded sadly. "It is a shame. He was a good child. The Blackwater has him now."

Lyza threw her arms around Picot's shoulders, sobbing madly into her chest. Picot put her arm around the girl, stroking her ruined hair. "It is a sad thing, it is a sad thing..." the Madam said over and over.

She thought about Liam, how he'd come like a bolt of thunder from nowhere, giving her the first hope that she might have vengeance for her father. She remembered the kiss they shared, still burning on her lips, even though Liam's were now cold. She could still feel her sword plunging into Margaret, a heinous act, made meaningless.

Madam Picot lifted Lyza's chin. Picot's eyes were soft and shiny, her expression so calm and gentle, with hair blacker than night.

"But your efforts are not wasted," she said, as though reading Lyza's mind, "We have found each other."

Lyza wiped her face with her sleeve, a mixed of dried blood and salty tears staining her sleeve. "What do you mean?"

"That school, run by Sara Sunderland was it? I can pay for the tuition."

Lyza was bewildered. "You would do that?"

Madam Picot nodded. "Oh yes. But there will be a price. Oh yes."

Lyza braced herself. "What price?"

Madam Picot pulled Lyza to her chest and kissed her brow gently. "You must come work for me, child. Not as one of my girls, no, but as one of my killers."

###

Lyza's scar had healed up well, leaving a straight, bleached line across her ruddy, freckled face, from her brow, across her button nose, and down the other cheek. It suited her well, for without it, people would mistake her for a virgin maid. She was not that sort of innocent anymore.

She slipped on the black gloves Liam had given her. Goodbye, Liam, son of a famous sack merchant. She buckled on his sword, and Margaret Fey's parrying dagger and hirschfanger.

Goodbye, Maggie, I shall never forget our first time together.

With the help of the papers, Lyza had cut a large figure for herself, but she still felt dwarfed by the Sunderland school. The stone building loomed over her, the arches wide and open. Inside, students sparred in pairs in the vast training hall. Musketeers wearing the peacock of Rotham stood straight as nails outside the buildings.

One of them, a large, burly one, threw his hand out to stop Lyza.

"Sorry, students and faculty on the premises only, no visitors," he recited.

Lyza fumbled for her pouch. When she found it, she held it out. "I am a student. Here's me tuition."

The burly man leaned forward to poke his finger into the pouch. When he got an eyeful of what was inside, he snapped upward.

"My apologies, Miss. Welcome to the Sunderland Academy of Fencing."

Lyza's sauntered inside. It was like a ballroom, with hardwood floors polished like mirrors and large, light-filled windows. Echoing through the room was the soft clink of swords. The sound took her back to a lifetime nearly forgotten... Lyza felt she'd wandered into a long-lost home.

She looked about. There was a tall Solissian woman with large breasts and a dyed purple ponytail. She patrolled the class, watching their performance with a look of mild dissatisfaction. Their eyes met almost immediately, and the Solissian strode toward her.

"Sara Sunderland," said Lyza with awe.

"Lyza Dunwall," said Sara without a note of surprise, "I saw you in the papers. You've come just in time. Let's get you geared up."

Lyza held up the pouch. "Don't I need to give you tuition?"

Sara waved her hand dismissively. "Yes yes, after class. Just get in your gear."

Lyza was sent out back to get her padding on... thick, quilted armor, bleached bone white. She felt like a snowman, but the material was surprisingly light and breathable. She picked a blunted training sword from the rack. When she was done readying herself, she stepped out into the hall, and felt a knot in her stomach.