Paolo.

As I had hoped, the delvers hadn't registered any magic because my healing ability was as natural to me now as my great strength and cunning. The officiants would never know that I had found a means for me, a mere mortal, to counter Clasicant's undeserved long life and agility.

I flexed my neck and shoulders so the tilly could see that nothing he had done thus far had weakened me in the least. All the nicks, the gash down my neck, and even the cut across my shoulder were all gone, leaving blood on my clothes but not slowing me down in the least.

Clasicant was in a very different state, and slowing even more. He staggered back, slipping on his own blood.

I stood more erect, not even bothering with a fencer's protective stance, and began to march forward. His eyes widened.

I swung a casual backhand at him, and he ducked, stumbled again and rolled away, grunting painfully when his dead arm tripped him up and spoiled the grace of the maneuver.

I grinned darkly. This was going to be fun.

"Tuli, he's using magic!" He had rolled onto his side of the garden, and he hissed loudly at his second.

"He can't be," the other knight said, uncertain. "Rip, the priests would have—"

"Sparking delvers—I don't care," Clasicant growled. He was desperate. "Something's not right. Tell them—the wound on his neck—"

I cut him off with a new advance, bashing sparks from the stone wall when Clasicant dodged away, but succeeding in separating him from his second. I had gloated long enough. Can't let Stande or the priests suspect foul play, I decided. They won't understand.

"Stop running, coward!" I called. "Let us see how pretty Maid Orluz finds you when I've removed your nose. Or maybe an eye or two." I chuckled at the very thought. "You've only minutes left to live. Why not let me chop off more limbs so I don't have to spend them chasing you like a slicked pig!"

He circled drunkenly, but I cut him off by heading across the ring and forcing him toward the wall. He was beginning to watch me like a cornered animal.

I lunged mid-stride to take him by surprise, and with a hop and a lunge I shot toward him, rapier point first. Normally an opponent would see this coming unless dazzled by a feint or fancy footwork, or, as in this case, if the opponent was delirious with blood loss.

I mis-judged.

Instead of retreating and being pinned against the wall again, he beat my blade to the side and dragged his across my midsection as I passed. My momentum carried me further than I would have liked, and his rapier dragged away a portion of my arming jacket.

It wasn't a deep wound, as the rapier wasn't very sharp along the shaft, but the crowd gasped at the sight of my blood. Too much of that and they might be won over to his side.

Bastard.

I retreated a safe distance and tore away the hanging leather flap so it wouldn't tangle me up.

I noticed Sir Pertuli speaking with Father Bessik, although the latter was only listening with half an ear. I narrowed my eyes. I needed to divert them.

"You will find that although I bleed," I said, raising my red-soaked fingers, where I had absently touched them to my side. Let the healers see that I did indeed bleed, just as human as they. "You have no hope of defeating me."

"What is it, Paolo?" Clasicant demanded weakly, still suspicious. How had he sidestepped my lunge so easily, in his state? "Some kind of cloaked spell? Is Demis doing something?"

Ha, now that was a good one. The idea of Demis, my pious but dim-witted brother using any kind of magic without blowing himself up was almost amusing enough to make me laugh. Still, his suspicions might get me in trouble, true or not.

I glanced at Demis to make sure he wasn't doing anything that could be misinterpreted, but the idiot was only watching me with a zealot's intensity and mouthing the words, "Kill him!"

I rolled my eyes. "You grasp at straws, tilly. No one is cheating here. Your life is ebbing and your eyes deceive you. Let us put an end to this—now!"

I lunged, hurling my pace-long sword straight at the tilwen's heart. He didn't parry.

Only too late, I saw he was playing my game, twisting so once again my sword slid across his arming jacket's tough polished leather and into his limp elbow. The cut was vicious but possibly unfelt if his bound arm was numb enough. The limb certainly couldn't get any bloodier.

I found however, when I peered down, that Clasicant's steel had been truer than mine. It had gone into the opening on my side where the jack had been cut away, the blade sliding between my lower ribs and out my back. He could barely stand, but his pommel rested against his own hip, braced so my momentum had done all the work.

I gasped, eyes wide with shock as the pain sank in. I was sure it had gone right through a kidney, or a spleen, or whatever organs were lurking about in the armor of my ribcage. It would have been a mortal blow for a normal man, if there had been no healers, and an end to 'The Heal' under any normal circumstances.

My eyes searched his. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't lose, but with a wound like this, if I didn't cede victory, I would almost certainly be denounced as a cheat.

"Let us see how strong your secret enchantments are," Clasicant said dryly. His voice was weak but stern; grave. "I don't. Abide. Cheats."

The rage gave me strength once more. I hefted my blade, turned it downward, ready to strike a decisive blow. As long as I had the rage, I was alive. If I take him with me, they would have to heal both of us ...

His right hand was pinned between us, his blade lodged in my body, and his left was useless. Yes! Now. One thrust through the heart and —

With a twist and a sudden yank, the tilwen pulled his blade free and danced backwards. Not pinned after all then. I collapsed to my knees, a fountain of blood spurting from my side.

"No!" I groaned. "I will. Not. Be beaten by... an aging... tilwen blowhard!" I tried to move my left foot under me, but nearly fell over. It had started shaking uncontrollably. I caught myself with my left hand, keeping my rapier between us with my right so he wouldn't try anything more permanent while I worked on recovering.

Clasicant did something I couldn't quite follow—my thoughts were hazy and red, somehow—and my sword flew through the air to my right.

I shook my head, trying to clear it. My breathing came more quickly though the pain in my side was beginning to lessen. I was dimly aware that a steel point was once more at my throat. I swatted at it, but it moved and returned unerringly to my neck again.

"Do you yield?" The tilwen asked in a hoarse voice. "I don't know if I have the strength to stay my hand much longer."

I glared at him flatly. He stood a whole head or more shorter than I, and maybe two-thirds my weight, dead white from blood loss and doubled over in pain, and he thought I would grant him victory.

"Paolo, please!" My weakling brother called from behind me. "We yield!" He cried.

"Never!" I shouted, snarling at him. The red haze behind my eyes was making it hard to see, but I felt no pain. Not any longer. "I will not... " I was panting and having trouble finishing my thoughts, too. "...be beaten!"

My head jerked back almost involuntarily.

A minute, perhaps, and, fully healed. Just need... time.

Pummel tilwen whelp to pulp. If need be.

Don't need. Sword.

Swords for weaklings.

My breath was heavy. Something burned in my throat.

"Don't be a fool," Clasicant demanded, still not grasping how out-matched he was. He touched his weapon to my skin, and a jewel of scarlet emerged and ran down its tip.

In that jewel was power.

They had no idea how much.

"I will be," I gnashed, and this time when I grabbed the blade, I connected, pulling it aside and throwing the tilwen off balance. "The greatest duelist this city has ever seen!"

There was something rising up in my throat—like rage or bile—making my voice harsh and croaking. My vision became even more cloudy, and the sensation felt like it would push my eyes from my skull.

There was also pain in my hand, but I ignored it, languishing in the horror it caused the tilly bastard that had offended me. The blood pooled and dripped from between my fingers, but struggle as Clasicant might, he couldn't free his sword. What is pain to one such as I? 

Another retch, and a more powerful push from deep my chest. Now that wasn't normal.

Suddenly amid the rage and bloodlust I had another, panicked thought. One that came from a place within me that I hadn't visited for months. Have I pushed too far? Leaned on my new gifts too heavily?

I refused to believe it—to even think it. My time can't be over—not yet! They promised me more time!

I fought the sensation inside me aching to be free, even though it seethed through my blood into every part of my body. I felt unsteady and shaking with nerves, I let go of Clasicant's blade.

Strange emotions warred on his face as he saw my weakness. He looked down at the sword in his hand, and over at the priest, unsure of what to do.

Yes, a little more time to recover. That's all.

The tilwen began backing away. My skin was on fire; stretching thin. A little more time.

"Y-you see," I hissed, in vibrating, deep tones that clawed at my throat. I gave my head another shake to clear it. These feelings don't make any sense. I'm not thinking properly. I had to kill the tilwen at all costs. 

"Itss—it iz my ti-yaaah-ime—there is n- no room at t-ta the tah-top for youuoooaa-aaargh!" My words ended in an animal's howl of pain as convulsions wracked my body.

I felt something like horror. Something like elation. My stomach clenched violently. My hands and feet felt like something was pushing through them, out of them. Like the fire in my blood had solidified into bone spikes, pushing through my fingertips and toes.

I-I had to vomit. I think I did, but I couldn't clear my throat. Oh gods, something was pushing up. Something... deep.

Clogged. I can't breath. My face, my skin. Everything hurts.

Someone screaming.

I scratched frantically at my face, my head. Swimming... then, darkness.