Death After Death-Chapter 373 - Put Through His Paces

For four more days, Simon was treated to some version of these events. He was healed and bled, he was fed and drugged, but always, he was questioned and spied on. The focus of the questions changed each time, but they were always waiting for him whenever he woke up. He told them as little as possible when his head was clouded. He eventually admitted that his name was Enis and that he wanted to be a warrior to help people, but he kept the details to a minimum, and at least until his fever broke, no one pushed too far on that front.

That made Simon grateful for the wretched shape he was in, but his body bounced back rapidly now that he was no longer sleeping in a field each night. Finally, on the fifth day, he woke to find a face he couldn’t put a name to, but he was sure he’d seen in a previous life. The squire who’d been feigning injury in the next bed, and the nurse who had been tending to him, were both gone, leaving him alone with the newcomer, though Simon only noted that after a few seconds.

The man was older, with gray hair, and he mostly seemed to look through Simon. “I… Hello?” Simon asked, acting unnerved. “Who are you?”

“I’m the one who wants to see why one of our brothers took an interest in you,” the man said after a long delay. “You’ve got a strange aura about you, and—”

“You aren't the first one to mention that,” Simon started, relieved at how much easier it was to think and speak now that he wasn’t drinking tainted potions. “I—”

“That’s something for someone else to sort out,” he snapped, cutting off Simon’s explanation before he could finish. “I’m just here to see if you can fight. You did the Uns… You did us a great service bringing back our brother’s corpse, but still, we have no place in our ranks for a man who can’t fight, and before discussions about your fate go any further, we… I need to see what we’re working with.”

“My fate?” Simon asked, but the man ignored him. He was already on his feet and walking toward the door.

When Simon was intentionally slow to rise, he said, “Well, are you coming?”

That forced Simon to move faster to catch up. Despite feeling worlds better, he was unsteady on his feet, though that was as much from spending nearly a week lying around as from any lingering sickness, and the worst of his wounds ached only a little as he moved.

If I were my doctor, I’d rule out fighting for at least another week, he told himself as he followed the man out into the yard, but he didn’t complain. This was some other kind of stress test. He just hadn’t figured it out yet.

Out in the yard, he was struck by a wave of nostalgia. Though he’d only rarely visited the infirmary, he’d walked through this place for years, and even though those days wouldn’t be for about a decade if his math was right, it was little changed. There in the distance was the blacksmith, and beyond him were the two chimneys that led to the hidden foundries in the basement. Over to his right was the stables with a few men lazing around chatting, and so far to the right that it was practically behind him was the small convent where the Silent Sisters dwelled.

Looking around wildly wouldn’t have been at all out of place for the act he was trying to put on, but even so, it was his natural instinct, and he had trouble mastering it by the time they reached the small practice yard near the blacksmith. No one offered Simon his own armor or weapon. Instead, he picked up an arming jacket and some leathers that were only a little big for him and started getting dressed.

When he was done with that, he picked up a wooden sword that was about right and a round shield only a little smaller than the one he was used to, but the man who had brought him here shook his head. “Put that one back,” he chastised Simon. “We aren’t here to see how well you hide behind a shield. I want to see you fight.”

Simon thought about protesting. That was what a squire who was used to fighting a certain way would probably do, but it felt too cowardly for him. He’d spent a week pussyfooting around, and he was sick of it. So instead of griping, he put back the shield and the sword, then picked up a two-handed variant that was a foot longer. It was heavier, but it would give Simon some extra reach, and it earned him a smile from the gray-haired knight, even if it was gone so quickly that he wasn’t sure he hadn’t imagined it.

After that, there were no other words. The man simply picked up his own wooden sword and squared off against Simon, waiting for an attack. Simon didn’t leave him waiting for long. Instead, he strode forward and swung twice. Both were feints, and as much to make him look hesitant as to get a feel for the heft and balance of the weapon.

He bided his time for those first few half-hearted exchanges, waiting for the look of disappointment. Then, he lashed out, striking as hard and as fast as his battered body would allow, butting his opponent on his back foot immediately.

Simon’s efforts weren’t enough to win the match in a single go. Maybe they would have been if he’d chosen a weapon he was more familiar with, but that was half the reason he’d ultimately chosen the two-handed blade; he wanted to appear inexperienced, and his opponent was all too eager to take advantage of that inexperience.

Less than a minute after the fight started, it ended with Simon getting jabbed hard enough in the ribs that it was clear the death blow had landed. “Again,” his opponent called out before Simon had a chance to catch his breath.

This knight was clearly more talented than Sir Derinholt had been, but Simon expected that of those who were here. When he was healthy, he’d be faster and probably stronger than him. Right now, though, it was closer to an even match.

Their second round didn’t last much longer than their first. Simon didn’t win it either, but he was apparently doing enough to draw a crowd.

“The strength of youth,” his opponent answered dismissively, using his wooden sword to stretch his arms, like he was just getting warmed up. “If that’s all you can do, even injured, I’m not sure what to say. I don’t even see how you caught Sir Derinholt’s eye, but you certainly wouldn’t have caught mine.”

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That annoyed Simon. What are they expecting here exactly? He wondered. What’s the right play?

He’d been trying to hide the real him enough that trying to go all out on the knight opposing him felt wrong, but at the same time, he felt like underperformance was quickly becoming a dangerous game. Up until now, he’d ignored his sight because of his fever, but now that most of that infirmity had passed, he used it to study his opponent, and he did not like what he saw.

The man might be putting up a front that was something like disdainful impartiality, but beyond that, Simon could see swirls of contempt and disappointment along with other negative emotions. He still wasn’t focused enough to get a perfect read, but he was sure that he’d have to show this guy something, or it wouldn’t end well for him. Whatever the Unspoken were after, they weren’t going to accept injury or inexperience as an excuse.

“Maybe I’ll try a different weapon,” he answered uncertainly as he walked back over to the weapons rack and pretended to take a minute selecting a more appropriate weapon. As he did so, though, he was breathing slowly and trying to find focus.

This isn’t a life or death fight, he reminded himself. There’s no reason to fuel blows with rage when you could use stillness to your advantage.

Those were fine words, but even focusing, stillness was hard to come by in this situation. Uncertainty fought him, and lingering sickness tainted it. However, Simon did what he could, and when he turned to face the knight once more, he was focused enough to see a look of appreciation on the man’s face as Simon walked toward him.

This time, when they crossed blades, it was completely different. Before, the strikes had been quick and haphazard, but that hadn’t been enough, and while it felt strange to be fighting without a shield, this was still better. What Simon lost in reach, he gained in speed, and more than that, in clarity.

Simon’s sight wasn’t so clear in that moment that the knight’s aura betrayed him completely, but it provided him just enough warnings to react to. A twitch here, followed by a spike there, and every exchange only intensified that interaction.

Still, it wasn’t enough. He must see something like this, too, Simon said to himself, wondering if there was a way to suppress his own aura. Now was the wrong time to try it, of course, but it was worth thinking about in the future.

What he focused on instead were the little things. If he couldn’t out-predict where his opponent could strike next, he could strive for superior positioning. So, slowly, their fight intensified, becoming a dance. Wood rang against wood with dull, flat noises, whether Simon blocked strikes high on his blade, or low on the hilt. It was different enough to be distracting, but there was no denying that he was acquitting himself better than he had before.

Both took minor blows, but nothing that either of the men would claim as a victory. One rough slash reopened a wound on Simon’s left arm, making him drip blood on the ground, but he ignored it, even after his opponent asked, “Would you like a break to, you know—”

Caught up in the moment, Simon almost answered, “I’m lifetimes past pain,” but fortunately, he choked on them instead. They were wrong for the moment, but that didn’t make them less true. The injury was less than nothing, and instead of backing off, he pressed forward.

That colored his opponent’s aura with the gold of appreciation, and maybe admiration, but Simon didn’t care about that either right now. A moment ago, it would have been a good sign. Now he only cared about winning.

He might have won, too, had he not pushed his still-weak body too far. One moment, he had the knight on the ropes, forcing him to backpedal furiously as he pushed past the exhaustion, and the next, he was falling as the leg that housed his worst infection suddenly gave out and went out from underneath him, bringing him to the ground.

There are worse outcomes, he sighed internally. He’d put on a good show. That was what had mattered.

Simon only lay on the flat of his back for a few seconds before a hand was extended to help him up. “That was… intense,” the knight said as he lifted Simon to his feet. “Tell me, where did you learn to fight like that?”

“You should see me with a shield,” Simon answered before retreating to his standby. “I learned a lot from Sir Derinholt.”

The knight looked at him appraisingly a bit longer. Simon could see that his aura had changed to show much more positive colors after that performance. However, since the man was being so guarded, he hazarded another statement. “Does that mean I passed, uhm… whatever this is?” he asked.

“We don’t take a lot of squires as old as you,” his opponent said as he helped him to his feet. “We don’t take many people as old as you, really.”

Simon didn’t have to fake being crestfallen. For a moment, he worried he was going to have to start over, but as a child, and try all of this again. It was doable, of course, but it would take years to set up. Even as he started to work through the contingencies, though, the knight continued. “As a knight, though, well, we’ve taken worse than you before. You seem alright, Enis.”

“So I can join the order then?” he asked after a moment of delay, careful not to use the name.

The knight shrugged. “That… is beyond my ability to decide. All I can do is give my recommendation, which you will have. After that… well, you already know where the Broken Tower is, and who we are more or less, so the Grandmaster’s options are rather limited.”

You mean if they don’t let me join, they’ll kill me, Simon answered to himself. He wasn’t so foolish as to say any of that out loud. Instead, he merely let himself be escorted to grab something to eat after he’d stripped out of his borrowed armor.

The knight he’d been fighting introduced himself as Sir Graython. He wasn’t the only one who escorted Simon, either. Some of the other men who had been watching joined them.

The small group celebrated with dinner and more than a little drinking. The conversation that night was less of a debrief or an interrogation that Simon had been used to up until now, but he was sure that he was still being tested. This time, it was almost for his personality. Jokes were exchanged, insults were given and received, and a good time was had by all.

By the time all of them finished the rich stew he’d been served, a glass of wine was put into his hand. That wine turned out to be drugged. He could taste that from the first sip, but he said nothing. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen at this point. The worst they’ll do is kill me, he said to himself as he continued to toast and enjoy dinner.

Less than an hour later, he passed out. He couldn’t remember quite where exactly. He was reasonably certain he hadn’t crashed out in the mess hall, and seemed to recall being taken to a room to sleep it off, but he couldn’t be sure.

What he could be sure of was that he woke up somewhere else. As he stirred, he realized he was in a dungeon, or something like it, at least according to his nose. He was hit with the smells of urine and damp stone even before he opened his eyes, and when he did, he thought he was bound by manacles because he heard them move.

He wasn’t bound, though; it was the other shape in the dim room who was chained. They started moving almost as soon as he awoke. “We have a visitor,” she hissed. “The first one in a long time. Tell me, what is it you’ve done for them to send you down here to me?”