Insult to Injury

by David Thackaberry


Miguel Chivaldori strode down the crowded street, barely noticing the
people near him as he pressed through the crush to reach his home.

Suddenly he heard shouting from above, and looked up just in time to see a
man fall feet-first onto him from a high window.

After Miguel extricated himself, he finally managed more than a glimpse of
his assailant. The man now standing in front of him was a head shorter
than him and of a slight build. He had close-cropped black hair and wore
dark clothes, with a sword at his hip and a black cloak thrown over his
shoulders. He had a half-smile on his face which made it seem that he was
permanently amused by something that no-one else could see.

Wearing that half-smile, the black-cloaked man reached into his purse and
flipped a silver coin to Miguel, saying, "I apologise for not looking
before I leapt. I hope this is adequate recompense." He turned and walked
away, ignoring the continued screaming from above.

Before he took three steps, the silver coin hit the back of his head at
high velocity. He turned back and regarded the coin thoughtfully.

"I take it, then, that this was not adequate."

Miguel smiled icily. "You have it right, stranger. You have had the
misfortune of landing on Miguel Chivaldori, the greatest swordsman in the
world. And you have the look of a thief, in your choice of clothing and
exits."

The stranger spread his arms wide, still smiling. "What is poorly
protected is as good as freely given. I am merely a beggar, surviving on
others' generosity. Would you kill a poor beggar?"

"I would save my arguments for the Highest Court, were I you,
thief." Miguel drew his sword. "Now, what name should I give the watch
when they come to collect your corpse?"

"Should you be alive to greet the watch after my escape, you can tell them
that my name is Joe Bloggs. My actual name, however, is Gallant
Vester." Gallant bowed. "Gallant by name, gallant by nature."

"You look Spanish," observed Miguel.

"That is as it should be, for I am indeed Spanish."

"You sound Spanish."

"As I should, for I am."

"Your name does not."

"It shouldn't, for it isn't. I made it up myself."

Miguel became aware that his sword's tip was slowly dropping towards the
ground, and snapped it back up. "Most people seem satisfied with the names
their parents give them."

"I am not most people." Gallant removed his cloak and set it on the
ground, then drew his sword. It gleamed silver along the length of the
blade, and had a jewel-encrusted basket hilt.

"Who did you steal that fine blade from, thief?" Miguel asked.

Gallant replied quietly, "This is one thing that I was not given. Now, let
us -" He looked up, then back at Miguel, and said, "Excuse me." He dipped
into his purse with his left hand and brought out a silver coin, then
wound up and threw it at a window above him.

Miguel heard a thud, then silence reigned.

Gallant turned back and grinned. "The yelling was annoying, and the coin
should be adequate recompense. Now, let us begin!"

The crowded strett had grown much less so at the sight of bared steel, and
the two swordsmen had room to manuevre as they closed with each other.

"By the way," said Gallant as he parried an exploratory thrust, "how do
you know that you are the best swordsman in the world?"

"I have won the Naples tournament three times in a row," Miguel answered
proudly. "All the best swordsmen combat there, and I am the best of the
best."

"I've never contested there. Well," amended Gallant, "I did once, five
years ago, but I withdrew after the second round."

"Why?"

"The standard was too low. I will admit, however," and Gallant ducked a
slash that separated some of his hair from his head, "that it seems to
have improved since."

Gallant lapsed into silence, and they fought for a minute until Miguel
failed to entirely dodge Gallant's flashing blade. Blood seeped from his
left arm as he observed, "You are good."

"As are you," Gallant responded. "You seem to have a different style to
most Spaniards. I would like to learn it sometime."

Miguel laughed shortly. "There is not much chance of that. My style
depends on my sword."

The two men fought in silence, except for the clash of blade against
blade. They traded blows for another minute before Miguel said, "You are
very good."

"Thank you."

"In fact, I believe you are winning."

"So you should, for I am. However," Gallant stepped back and looked to his
right, "we look to have attracted the attention of the city watch, so it
seems we will both survive this day."

Miguel glanced at where Gallant was looking, so didn't see Gallant kick
him in the stomach, send his sword spinning high into the air and catch
it.

"If you challenge me again, however, you shall surely die."

Gallant bent to pick his cloak up, and paused at Miguel's current eye
level. "Thank you for the gift of this fine sword, by the way. It will be
of great help in learning your style of swordplay." He stood, donned his
cloak and started to walk away.

Miguel struggled to his feet, wheezing. "Wait!" he called after Gallant
with all his breath. "You can't do that!"

Gallant glanced back and flashed Miguel a grin. "Would you prefer me to
carve my initial on your chest?" Then he was running, black cloak
billowing behind him.

			      *****

After he was released from the watch-house, Miguel Chivaldori walked back
towards his house with a murderous scowl on his face. He was so
preoccupied with his thoughts that he didn't notice the old man walking
next to him until he heard a quiet voice say, "I saw your little
scuffle. That was some good swordfighting, boy."

Miguel turned his scowl upon the old man. "Not good enough."

The old man walked a little way, then said, "I could give you a second
chance at him."

Miguel shook his head. "No. I was beaten in a fair fight, and I would like
to cut my losses."

The old man chuckled. "Boy, you think that was a fair fight? That bastard
Vester cheated!"

Miguel looked sharply at the old man, then seized his robe and pulled him
over to a storefront. "What is your name, old man?"

The old man rearranged his robe, then sniffed. "My name is
immaterial. What matters is how I can help you against Vester."

Miguel said grimly, "Very well. I will call you `old man'. Now, how did
Gallant cheat?"

"Vester," the old man corrected, then glanced around. "You saw his sword?"

Miguel snorted. "At closer range than I would have preferred," he said
drily. "Get to the point, old man."

The old man leaned close to Miguel and whispered, "It was magical."

Miguel frowned. "That is not very specific."

"He got it from the best weaponsmith in the world. It increases his skill
in battle."

"So you can make this smith forge a sword for me as well?" Miguel
asked. "Ah, now that would be a fair fight."

"Ah...no," the old man said. "That smith is currently unavailable. The
plan I have is to relpace Vester's sword with an imitation. With it, he is
the best. Without it...well, he may still be the best, but if anyone can
beat him, you can."

"I see," said Miguel, frowning. "Well, that would still be a fair
fight. But where are you to get a replica of a sword made by the finest
smith in the world?"

"From the second-best smith, of course," answered the old man. "But I am
afraid that you will have to convince him yourself. All I can give you is
the location of his abode."

Miguel slowly smiled. "Old man, I am sure that will be enough."

			      *****

Miguel, armed with a hastily bought replacement sword,  trudged up the
snow-covered path towards a large house, barely visible through a thick
blizzard. His breath clouded the air as he reached the front door, opened
it and stumbled into a small room where two men were sitting on chairs
near a door with a bell fixed to it.

Miguel closed the door, shook some snow out of his hair, blew on his hands
and asked, "So, why are you two here?"

"To see the smith, of course," answered one. "I rang the bell an hour ago,
and have been waiting since."

"I also wish to see the smith," said the other. "I have been here aday. He
must be engaged with some arduous labour."

Miguel nodded, rang the bell and sat in a chair.

Ten minutes passed in silence before Miguel stood up and rang the bell
again. He sank back into his chair, drumming his fingers on the armrest.

Another five minutes passed, then Miguel stood and started to ring the
bell continuously.

The other two men exchanged glances, then looked at Miguel as if he were
mad.

The noise continued for another ten seconds, then a voice shouted, "All
right! All right! You didn't have to wake me up!" A peephole opened in the
door, and the voice said, "Three at once, eh? I usually only get one a
day."

Miguel heard a latch being thrown back, then the door was opened and he
stood face to face with the second-best swordsmith in the world.

He was largely unimpressive, being a short and fat old man, but one very
impressive thing was the sword that he was holding against Miguel's
throat.

"One false move and you all die. Now, what are you here for?" The
smithnodded towards one of the other men.

He answered, "I desire a sword with which I can fight ten men and win."

The smith smiled, and said, "I can do that. Go inside." The man hurried
through the door.

The old man looked at the other extra and asked, "And you?"

The man bowed, and replied, "I need to fight an army and triumph. I would
like a sword that I can use to do so."

The smith nodded, and said, "I can do that. Go inside." The man sidled
past the two stationary figures.

The smith looked at the man at the point of the sword. "And you?"

"I need two swords," answered Miguel. "One is for me, and will be made to
my specifications."

"Easy enough," said the smith. "And the other?"

"The other sword is for Gallant Vester."

The smith exhaled slowly and lowered his sword. "That I cannot do."

Miguel raised an eyebrow. "You can make a sword that can defeat an army,
but not one the equal of Vester's?"

The smith snorted. "Those two will be dead within a year if I give them
swords. If they were skilled enough, they could use one of my swords to
defeat an army - if, I say. Gallant Vester's sword, though...that has
magic. I cannot equal it. Only Gallant himself could forge another."

"Vester," corrected Miguel absently. "But you misunderstand. I wish a
sword without magic, but so close to Vester's that even he would not
notice the difference."

The old man's eyes lit up. "Hmm. Now that would be a challenge." He
considered for a while, then said, "All right. I'll try it. Come through."

Miguel walked through the door and down a corridor, entering a room with a
square table in the centre and the two aspiring swordsmen standing near a
wall.

The smith pushed past Miguel, sat, and indicated for the others to do the
same.

When everyone was seated, he leaned forward. "Now," he intoned. "There
remains the question of payment."

One of the men said, "I offer a pouch of gold."

The smith waved him away, and said, "Not nearly enough."

The other man said, "I offer a pouch of precious gems."

The smith shook his head. "Still not enough."

Miguel thought of his empty money pouch, drummed his fingers on the
tabletop, and finally said, "I offer a wager."

The old man broke into a grin, and said, "Music to my ears. Tell me," and
he pulled some cards from his pocket, "have you ever heard of a game
called Mao?"

			      *****

Miguel threw down his hand in disgust. "You win," he snarled at the old
man. "Now, what were your rules?"

"Keep your legs crossed, play with your left hand, keep your mouth closed
while playing and blink when you play a card," recited the smith happily.

Miguel stared at him with open mouth.

"What were the terms of service?" asked the smith. "One month, three
months and a year, wasn't it?"

"It was," said one man, "and I shall serve you faithfully for a month, as
agreed." He rose and left the room.

"I shall serve you faithfully for three months," said the other man
stiffly, and left the room.

"I shall serve you for a year," Miguel said, "but could I have a few words
with you first?"

"Of course," the smith smiled. "I will be gracious in victory."

Miguel's sword left its sheath in a blur and came to rest against the side
of the smith's neck.

"Three words, in fact," he said. "Forge. Or. Die."

The old man looked down at the sword and tsked. "Very poor craftsmanship."

"Not poor enough that the blade will snap before passing through your
neck, I suspect."

"But your threat is empty. If you kill me, who will forge your swords?"

"If necessary, I will find the third-best smith in the world. Be assured,
I could kill you."

The smith smiled and pushed the sword away from his neck. "I am sure you
could. But you won't."

Suddenly he laughed, and said, "I like you, though. You remind me of
myself when I was younger. I'll make you a bargain. If you serve your
term, I will give you the swords you seek."

Miguel slowly nodded. "I can accept that." He started for the door, then
paused and turned back. "By the way, what's your name?"

"My name is unimportant. I am the second-best swordsmith in the world."

"Very well," said Miguel. "I will call you 'old man'."

"Well, if you're going to be like that," huffed the smith, "my name is
Bob."

Miguel considered Bob for a moment, then shook his head. "I will call you
'old man' anyway. Whoever heard of a blacksmith called Bob?"

			      *****

Miguel stumbled backwards through the front door, lost his balance and
landed in the snow with a thump.

Bob stormed through the door. "And take your swords with you!" he shouted,
throwing two bundles at Miguel. He stomped back inside and slammed the
door.

Miguel gathered the bundle, stood, glared at the closed door, then turned
and started back down the long path to civilisation.

Vester, he thought, I have you now.

			      *****

"Old man!"

Miguel waited as he heard footsteps approach the door he was regarding,
then a bolt being thrown back.

The door opened slightly and the old man cautiously looked out. His face
brightened as he recognised Miguel.

"Boy!" he cried. "I didn't expect you back so soon. You said in your
letter that you would be gone for at least a year."

Miguel shrugged and stepped inside the house, closing the door behind
him. "I burned some of his meals. And his sheets, for that matter. He
threw me out, but he gave me the swords. I wear one at my side now."

The old man's breath caught as he saw the bundle slung across Miguel's
back. "May I...may I see it?"

Miguel smiled. "But of course, old man." He reached over his shoulder and
drew the blade from its cloth wrappings. The flash of silver and precious
gems briefly illuminated the dark corners of the room.

"I tested it myself," said Miguel. "It is a superb blade, but not
magical. This plan of yours might just work."

"Yes," agreed the old man hoarsely. "All that is left is the
substitution."

"Where is Vester, old man? Is he still in the city?"

"Yes. In fact, you are lucky. I've never known him to stay in one city for
five months before. I don't know what's keeping him here."

"Maybe he desires a rematch," smiled Miguel. "Well, he shall soon have
one."

He turned to leave, then paused as a thought struck him.

"By the way," he threw back over his shoulder, "your name isn't Bob, is
it?"

"No," the old man replied, appearing confused. "Do you really want to know
my name?"

Miguel shook his head and resheathed the blade. "Just as long as it isn't
Bob," he said, and left.

			      *****

Miguel silently slid the first-floor window open and slipped into the
darkened room. He heard quiet snoring from his right and made out the
faint image of a chair to his left. He moved silently to the chair and
looked more closely.

There was a swordbelt hooked on the back of the chair, and Miguel could
see a familiar basket hilt sparkling dimly in the moonlight. He reached
for it, paused, then drew his hand back and wrapped it in some cloth from
the bundle across his back.

Thus protected, he drew the magical sword from its scabbard and carefully
sheathed the imitation in its place. Wrapping the blade in cloth, Miguel
walked back to the window, then swung outside, closed the window and
dropped to the ground below.

Vester, he thought, I have you now!

			      *****

Miguel paced back and forth across the street from the inn where Gallant
was staying, the frown on his face and sword on his belt keeping the
morning crowd well away. His head suddenly jerked up as he glimpsed a
black cloak swirling near the inn's door.

"Vester!" he roared. "Come and face me!"

Within a few seconds, there was a line between Gallant and Miguel clear of
people. Gallant looked at Miguel, and a smile slowly spread across his
face.

"Miguel!" he said, striding towards his opponenet. "What a stroke of
luck. I was hoping for a challenging fight before I left."

Miguel thought, More challenging than you think, Vester. He grinned and
said, "I have also been seeking a fair fight."

Gallant nodded. "I have been studying your style. I believe it may be
superior to even mine."

"We shall soon see," said Miguel. His gaze was drawn to the sword at
Gallant's waist, with its familiar jewel-encrusted basket hilt, and he
smiled. "Shall we begin?"

Gallant nodded again, still lost in thought. "Yes, of course. A most
interesting style."

With a flourish, Miguel Chivaldori drew his sword, made by the second-best
smith in the known world, and prepared for the closest battle of his life.

"However," added Gallant, "I believe I have mastered it. I must thank you
again for giving me the chance to test it."

Gallant Vester reached behind his back and unsheathed a second blade. It
was an almost exact replica of Miguel's, but gleamed silver along its
length and had jewels embedded in the crosspiece.

Still wearing that obscure half-smile, Gallant added, "Along, of course,
with my new sword."