There was another faint boom, and the speaker stopped. Orso guessed that someone had indeed engaged in combat.
They listened to the cries and screams and shouts echoing down the hallway. Orso could tell the soldiers weren’t sure what to do: go and surrender, go and fight, or wait for the fight to come to them?
The big one slowly turned to look back at Orso. “This is your doing, isn’t it.”
“No, no!” said Orso. “It isn’t!”
He stepped closer, rapier drawn. “Did you open the doors?”
“No!”
“Let them in?”
“No, I’m just as surprised as you a—”
He shook his head, furious. “I can’t believe it…We’re going to get shot to pieces in this ancient damned dome, and all because of some sneaky little striper.”
“If you’re going to kill him, Ernesto,” said the soldier on the right, “then go ahead and get it over wi—”
But he never finished the comment. Suddenly his mouth opened wide and he gasped and choked, his arms shot out at odd angles. Orso, blinking, realized the soldier had something protruding from his chest—the blade of a scrived rapier.
“What!” cried the soldier on the left.
The blade withdrew and the sergeant dropped to the ground, revealing Gregor Dandolo standing behind him, rapier in his hand. The soldier on the left spun to face him, but he was far, far too slow: Gregor pivoted and struck out with his rapier as fast as lightning, opening up his throat. Orso saw hot blood splash his invisible barrier, and the soldier collapsed into the waters, pawing at this throat.
The big soldier wheeled around, raised his rapier, and advanced on Gregor. Even though he was still stunned, Orso realized he had never actually seen a real swordfight before. In Tevanne, where so many lexicons allowed you to use augmented bolts or blades, most people died suddenly and quickly—not so much a consequence of art and skill as sheer power and, usually, surprise.
Dying was very easy in Tevanne. Artfully fighting was not.
Yet this was what Gregor and his combatant engaged in, however briefly: two men with two blades scrived to amplify their speed and weight, dueling within the dripping hallway, their rapiers crashing into each other with near-deafening clangs. The blows were outrageously quick, but Orso could see there was a method to it: for example, you couldn’t just lift your sword to block your opponent’s, as a scrived blade moved faster the more you moved it, so your opponent’s sword would easily swat your rapier from your hand. Instead, you had to swing your own blade at the exact right speed and in the exact right direction to deflect the blow, which would hopefully open up your opponent for your own counterattack.
Orso could also see that Gregor was a lot better at this than his opponent. He didn’t just attack the man—he engaged in what was clearly a process, opening the man’s stance with a series of strikes, and then…
One, two, three. First the man’s leg was lopped off at the knee, then his arm as he fell, and then suddenly he was missing his head. Orso felt warm drops patter his cheeks and arms, but that was nothing compared to Gregor, who was doused with great fans of blood splashing his chest and thighs.
Gregor looked surprised, and stared down at what was left of the man with an expression of faint dismay, like he’d left home and just realized he’d forgotten something.
“Oh,” Gregor said faintly. “Oh dear…”
Orso slapped the cuirass button again, and this time it finally worked: the barrier vanished, and he fell forward into the water. Then he crawled to Gregor, who was still standing there with a shaken, horrified look on his face.
Orso reached out to touch him. The man was absolutely covered in blood, from head to toe. “Gregor? Are you…are you all righ—”
“I…I remember,” whispered Gregor. Tears ran down his face, mingling with the blood on his cheeks. “I remember. I remember…” Then his face went slack, and he stopped speaking.
Then the hallway filled with light. They both turned and saw soldiers pouring around the corner, scrived lights held high and espringals pointed. One of them bellowed, “Lay down arms, lay down arms!”
Orso reached forward, pulled the rapier out of Gregor’s bloody hand, and tossed it into the water. Then he held his hands up as they advanced.
* * *
—
Gregor Dandolo saw sand, and beaches, and the moon at sea.
He saw caves, and tunnels, and torchlight on stone walls.
He saw moths dancing around him, a storm of bright, fragile, white wings.
His older brother, Domenico, whimpering in the darkness.
And then he saw nothing—just darkness, cold and silent and dreadful.
His mother’s voice floated through the darkness to him: Oh, Gregor. Wake up, my love. Please, wake up…
He heard something flutter in the darkness. He felt his heart twitch, then pump—once, twice—and his lungs suddenly burned for air.
He took in a breath, and as he did his vision returned to him, and he saw a stone ceiling above him—perhaps a cave, flickering with torchlight.
Then his mother was there, kneeling above him. She was younger than he remembered—her hair was longer, and her face was clear of familiar creases and wrinkles. Five years younger? Ten? He wasn’t sure. She was weeping, her hands running over his chest where he lay on the stone floor, saying—What did they do to you? What did they do?
Gregor looked down and saw he was clad in a dreadfully familiar rig: a lorica, with one arm set in a huge, retractable pole arm, and the other in a bolt caster. The cuirass of his lorica was torn in many places, however, and he could see his own flesh below, with huge gaping wounds in his chest and abdomen…
Please, said his mother. Please, please, no…
And then his body shivered, and blurred…and to his shock, the wounds vanished. Or at least the most lethal of them vanished: he still had puncture wounds in his shoulder, but his stomach was now smooth and whole again, the horrid gash there completely gone.
It’s working, his mother whispered. She sighed with relief. It’s working. But you’ve done so well, Gregor. You did exactly as we needed.
Gregor tried to look around. He was in some kind of cave that was littered with bodies: soldiers, guards, slaves, all of them hacked to pieces. Everything was wet and slick with gore.
Ofelia Dandolo stood and walked away, stepping over the bodies, ignorant of the hem of her dress soaking in blood. She approached the cave wall—it appeared to be some kind of ancient doorway, caved in and crumbling, its stone entryway marked by curious symbols.