Sword of the Bright Lady by M.C. Planck Page B

Hobilar’s eyes. He held his katana in both hands, in high right guard, like a baseball bat of terrible glowing menace.
    Faren’s voice carried across the field. “In the shadow of the wrath of god, Ser, will you not yield?”
    Greed, stupidity, cruelty. Hobilar’s faults were many. Cowardice was not one of them. The cowards were culled out by the draft.
    Raging inarticulately at the unfairness of the world that had birthed him, the knight charged, lunged at Christopher, his head tucked under the broad steel shield, his longsword lashing out like a jackhammer.
    Christopher stepped back with his left foot, launching his own oblique strike. The longsword burst through his chain mail, sinking deep, but the katana was already in motion, and it did not deign to notice this interruption. It swept a glittering arc across and down, the tip of the arc intersecting Hobilar’s sword arm, just above the plated gauntlets, just below the steel cup that protected his elbow.
    Christopher struck, without anger, or fear, or guilt. His mind, given over wholly to the moment, could register only that it was a good strike.
    Like cutting a melon: first resilient opposition, then flesh like water. The blade passed through Hobilar’s arm, leather and cloth. Comically, the hand clung to the longsword as it fell, only releasing its death grip when it sank into the snow. From the meaty stump pumped gouts of bright-red blood onto the pure-white ground, like cherry topping on a snow cone. Hobilar sank to his knees, following his forearm down.
    Faren was already there, grabbing the stump in one hand and the remains of Hobilar’s arm in the other. Blood went everywhere, stark against the white robes. Christopher idly reflected that cardinals’ robes were supposed to be red. Faren sang out in Celestial, held flesh to flesh, and prayed.
    â€œCurse the Dark!” Faren raged. He stood up, letting the lifeless limb fall to the ground. But the blood had stopped, and perhaps the pain. Hobilar looked blankly at his ruined arm lying in the snow.
    â€œYou yield,” Faren said to the knight. It was not a question but a command.
    Faren turned to Christopher, glanced at his wound, dismissed it as unimportant. “Heal yourself,” he ordered. Tael had bound Christopher’s flesh in the wake of the sword, turning a killing blow only crippling. Christopher used the last of the spells in his head on himself, before his shock faded completely and left him to deal with the full brunt of the pain.
    Faren glared down at the knight. “Do you hold your ransom?” he demanded. His voice rang like an iron bell.
    Hobilar shook his head, tears running down his face.
    â€œYou have no ransom?” Faren roared, shaking with fury. His face turned red, or would have, if red still had any other meaning than that brilliant pigment spattered everywhere. “Your life is forfeit!” Faren bellowed. “Forfeit!” He turned to Christopher and asked through seething teeth, “Will you allow the Church to ransom this fool?”
    Christopher nodded. Faren, not waiting for his response, turned back to the knight.
    â€œThe Church now owns your life.” He pronounced it like a sentence of death. “Your arms are forfeit! Strip him!”
    Two of the church soldiers came forward and tore the armor off Hobilar with grim efficiency. This was one of the rules of the duel: you staked everything you brought into the ring with you. Christopher had not considered what that meant, until now.
    The knight offered no resistance, weeping openly. It was degrading, disgusting, but Christopher forced himself to watch. He had caused this. He could not shirk from its conclusion.
    The soldiers stripped Hobilar down to his undergarments, pulling his tunic and leathers off. They claimed his jewelry, pulling rings off the fingers of his left hand and yanking out an earring. For a moment Christopher was terrified they were going to open