Percival's Angel by Anne Eliot Crompton

Graying red curls and beard framed a lined, scarred face. The left eye drooped.
    This scowl was the first he had directed at Percival, who had seen him scowl at lesser men. He would then order beating or scourging, which his servants would promptly carry out.
    Why the goddamn do they obey him? No telling who’ll be the next one flogged. But if they stood together, he could not command them.
    (Lili knew no answer to this. When he asked her by lamplight in their chamber, she finger-talked, Human ways. Your blood knows, not mine. )
    That day when the red charger went lame had been a deciding day for Percival. He did not know horses wore shoes, which could be lost. By himself, he might have eaten the charger and roamed like a beggar fool forever after. But Lili showed him what had happened. Lili brought them to Gahart’s Hall and requested shelter and a horseshoe. The red charger, and Percival’s red armor, had won them respect. They had both learned much, and quickly, ever since.
    One thing Lili had finger-told him about Gahart. He thought of it now. Gahart’s frequent anger was most dangerous against cowards and lowlies who failed to meet his smoldering eyes. Lili had signed, If you have to, face up to him.
    Percival met Gahart’s scowl with a smile. And stood up.
    â€œAaaagh, very well! Fight your way.” Gahart rose as well. He called the startled victor away from his ale and ordered gloves and a new cudgel brought for Percival.
    Servants dumped more kindling into the fire pit. The fire reared and roared. Percival faced the young victor of moments ago.
    He had never held a cudgel before. Fey boys might wrestle for fun, almost never in anger. But never had he seen boys or men go at each other with sticks.
    Lord Gahart’s men had been showing him sword-play. This would be yet a different art.
    The cudgel hung heavy, cold, in his hands. He shifted and balanced it. How’s that fellow hold his? Left hand here, right hand…so.
    The thwacks and cracks of the previous duel still sounded in his ears. That one’s strong as a plowing ox. Got to move fast. Get in there before he sees me coming.
    Percival felt a lump grow in his throat.
    Then from the dark flooded a river of strength. It flowed over and around Percival and fountained within.
    â€œHah! Goddamn! Come on!”
    Percival crouched forward; eagerly, he shook the cudgel.
    The Ox grinned. Firelight gleamed in his slitted eyes and clenched teeth. He crouched, danced a few steps, raised his cudgel.
    Before he sees me coming.
    Percival jabbed the cudgel like a sword, under and up.
    Cudgel crunched jawbone. Jaw crumbled. Teeth and blood flew.
    The Ox reeled back. His cudgel crashed to the floor.
    Percival sprang after him, cudgel high.
    Roars from the dark.
    Lord Gahart thundered, “Enough! Lay off!” Hands grabbed out of darkness and dragged Ox away.
    Percival stood disappointed, swinging his blooded cudgel at air. Never got to learn it after all.
    He felt men moving away, drawing back from heat and light, and from himself. Never learn it now. They won’t give me a chance to learn. Know I’m too good for them.
    Of a sudden, the magical strength that had supported him ebbed away. Now I’m only me. Who was I, just now? Who was it fractured Ox’s jaw?
    Lord Gahart called out, “Come get your prize, Percival!”
    He stood by the tapestried bench, waving his little bag high. Laughing.
    Prize. Oh, aye. Gold coins. This time I’ll know to keep ’em for myself.
    Percival took the bag from Gahart. A moment he hesitated, remembering Ox’s awkward bow. Should I do that?
    He sat down.
    Bettors came and paid Gahart, who filled a third bag with winnings, then seated himself again by Percival. The fire wavered and sank. In gathering darkness, men wrapped themselves in cloaks and blankets and went to sleep on benches around the walls. Servants moved quietly, cleaning up. One refilled Gahart’s ale flagon.