Hal - The Duellist #1

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Native Talent

Hal woke to the sound of someone banging on the door. Opening it, she found Arec grinning unsteadily, already the worse for drink.

"Master told me to wake you. Says you're expected in the hall. Here," he threw a clean linen shirt and trousers at her. "Take this. Better hurry," he slurred. "Don't want to miss the fun."

She changed into the fresh clothes and trudged down to the great hall, the strains of music, dancing and laughter drifting along the corridors of Hannac. Standing in the doorway, Hal stared, open mouthed at the scene before her. Long trestles sank beneath the weight of food – roasts of all descriptions, bowls filled with dried fruit brought up from the cellars, huge loaves of bread and flagons filled to the brink with wine, beer and fruit compote. The fortress's inhabitants had already been driven to wild dancing by a group of musicians in a corner of the room. Franc sat behind a trestle on a raised platform at the opposite end, and she wound her way through the dancers and then climbed up onto the dais to greet him.

"You don't disappoint," she yelled above the noise. "I doubt even Marc could organise such festivities."

He smiled in response and gestured to an empty chair beside his own. "We've been waiting for you. Thought you would sleep away the entire day."

"I was exhausted. I've had more comfortable nights than on the stone floor of your great hall."

"I never knew you were so demanding, Hal. Besides, I found you a room, didn't I?"

Franc had allotted her a tiny chamber in a tower on the southern flank of the fortress, simply furnished but with a view over the woods and lowlands stretching far away to the shores of Brennac.

"It was palatial in comparison," she conceded.

He filled her wine glass to the brim. "So, it's been quite a while since you last did any training with your sword, I'll wager. Would you pay your father the honour of a duel?"

She choked on her drink, spraying the contents over the table. Ignoring her, Franc smiled, sipping at his glass. "Did you never wonder where you got those fancy fencing skills of yours?"

"I practised, hard. Every day since I was a child."

"Undoubtedly. But don't you suspect you have just one drop of native talent coursing through your veins?"

She shrugged. "Possible, I suppose. I hadn't given it much thought. "

Franc had an unnerving ability to appear serious when he was joking, and to disguise his true emotions with irony. Unless, of course, disguise was no longer an option.

"So, if you entertain it as a possibility, maybe you'd put it to the test? I'd break my vow of modesty to declare that you got that drop of talent from myself."

"What?"

"Well, you certainly didn't get it from Cara." As if to provoke her further, he leaned over the table to engage Arec in conversation. She drained her wine glass and reached for an apple moodily, worrying it rather than eating it.

"I wouldn't want to hurt you, old man." She threw the core onto her plate and sat back in her chair, stretching her legs out and folding her arms behind her head.

Arec grinned up at Franc, who rubbed his hands in glee. "Don't do this to yourself, Halanya. If you have a weakness for anything, it's a challenge."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

Standing, she poured herself another glass of wine and knocked it back.

"Alright. Just as long as you are aware of the risk."