For a moment, he was blinded as the sword's blade caught a ray of sunlight.
"Raaaargh!"
Junior Major Lelouch Lamperouge turned at the last second and let his opponent's sword-tip push into empty space. Panting, the man drew back and began to circle around him. Now with the sun in his back, Lelouch closely watched him, sword loosely en garde. They had been at it for just under half an hour. He had yet to attack, and he had yet to break a sweat. In fact, it was rather chilly to be standing around Putney Heath in one's shirtsleeves. But not for a moment did he take his eyes off his opponent. By now, the man's shirt was damp with sweat, his hair in disarray. The tip of his sabre, extended above his head, was shaking.
He paid more attention, however, to his opponent's eyes, ignoring the age-old dictum of the fencing masters to focus on the sword. Whereas they had been calculating and focused at the beginning of the combat, now they were wide and frenzied. Lelouch knew, in point of fact, that his vision was distorted by sweat and exhaustion, and of course by the tranquil fury the man made no attempt at hiding. "Do not use me so, but fight me properly!," he had shouted out five minutes or so into the fight, to the murmured agreement of his peers, but now he simply did not have the strength to speak.
Once again again he attacked, made an excellent feint over Lelouch's head, then threatened to hit him with the backblade, but Lelouch had seen it coming before the other man had even moved. His problem was, plainly, that he was too good a swordsman – every movement had method and reason in it, and every movement was planned. Every less than reflexive glance a hint, nay, a vision. There – quite obvious, in fact, the enemy ever so slightly moved his foot, shifted his weight, within fragments of a second he would execute a flèche against Lelouch's left, leaving his own left wide open. Lelouch estimated his chances and formulated a plan that was equally risky and difficult, but also just sufficiently showy – and not a moment to late, he evaded the flèche by darting past the extended sabre, or rather, falling. He didn't quite have the finesse for keep his balance. In falling, however, he turned, and narrowly slashed his opponent's side.
Then they both collapsed on the grass. Within seconds, the bystanders had c around the men. Lelouch was helped to his feet. Someone slapped his shoulder in what he assumed was supposed to be a congratulatory gesture, Major Darlton of the First Battalion, judging from the weight and power of the hand. "Well done, well done indeed! You showed those oafs from the 20th!" Lelouch thinly smiled and quickly wiped the thin coating of blood and gore off his sabre. Rolo handed him his jacket – short-tailed, deep blue with scarlet lapels, which he buttoned up single-breasted and turned outside at the top, gold piping, a bullion fringed epaulette on each shoulder – the crimson officer's sash which he slung around his waist and the whitened sword belt and steel scabbard worn above it. He straightened his collar.
"Major Lamperouge." One of the officers from the rival regiment stepped up to him. "I'm afraid Major Flaherty will not be able to continue today."
He had expected as much. The wound would not be lethal, but he would be in need of immediate medical attention. "Thank you. I advise you bring the major to the nearest hospital. Try Chelsea."
"Of course," the officer from the 20th Light Dragoons said, stone-faced, "it was our pleasure. We hope to meet you gentlemen again on the field of honour before the campaign begins."
The rival officers left in a hackney, and after enduring a series of handshakes, congratulations and bad jokes, Lelouch and Rolo also excused themselves and left the park. To economise, they did not own a carriage between them, keeping horses instead, but for once Lelouch wished for the comfort a cab would provide. "Do you know what this actually was about?," Rolo asked him as they crossed the river on Battersea Bridge.
