2986 Steps

by Verlax

Chapter Sixteen - The Duel

"Okay, don't panic. There has to be some kind of modus to get out." Dostoyevsky said to himself, all the while looking frantically around the room. "Your son doesn't know me. Is there a possibilitatis that I could get out by pretending to be a local nobilis here on a social visit?"

"Unlikely." Quicksilver responded, himself looking for a possible way out for the old pegasus. "With the plate I ordered placed on the door nopony should be allowed in, and you don't look like any of my close associates who could be excerpt from it."

"Any other ideam?" The doctor asked. "I do not wish to bring forth the furor of your son if I can help it. At the very least he does not know about Primrose yet. I still could try to pass him that wa…"

"THEY DID WHAT?!" The two ponies jumped when they heard the feral scream coming from downstairs.

"Cholera." Dostoyevsky cussed in his native tongue. "Scratch that last bit; he knows."

"Please, try to understand doctor. My son is not a bad pony, nor is he overly violent. But when it comes to protecting his little sister, he could kill." Quicksilver tried to justify his son's behavior. "And as for your earlier question: no, I don't have any other idea. But can't you just fly out through the window? You're a pegasus, are you not?"

"No, infortunatus. I'm too old and heavy for my wings to lift me from the ground." Dostoyevsky grumbled dejectedly. It was an unfortunate truth; despite his rather youthful appearance, at least for his actual age, he was not as fit as he used to, and his body was slowly giving up on him, his wings being the first thing to go. And being a pegasus that couldn't fly anymore was all the more infuriating to a proud son of Furious Sky.

Shaking his head, Dostoyevsky concentrated on the here and now. He really didn't fancy ending up skewered by Quicksilver's son, and all the stories of lynch mobs killing doctors, not understanding they were trying to help, or the stories Twilight told about doctors in Zebrica ending up eaten alive didn't help much. It was then that his eyes fell on the old saber hanging on the wall, giving him an idea.

"I think I intelligo what to do." He said slowly, his eyes never leaving the weapon. "I shall simply try to avoid your son by going recta to the door. If I'll be fast enough I may be able to get out without giving your son even the slightest ocassio to react."

"Are you sure that's wise, doctor?" Quicksilver looked unconvinced. "This plan of yours heavily depends on the element of surprise and loads of luck."

"I realize that, yes." Dostoyevsky nodded. "That is why I will be bringing your old machaera with me, so if push comes to shove I can defend myself."

It took a second for Quicksilver to realize what Dostoyevsky meant by that, but once he did he became appealed by the idea. "You want to fight my son?!"

"Only if there will be no other way." The old noble replied easily. "And besides, I have a good few decannium of experience in swordplay under my belt. I should be able to disable your son without leaving any life-threatening or lasting injuries." He ended confidently. Quicksilver looked him over for a few seconds, and then, with a sigh, nodded.

"Very well then, you may take my sword. Just please, try to refrain from hurting my son too bad. I've already lost one child, I don't want to lose another."

"You have my word." Dostoyevsky swore and quickly took the blade, attaching it to his belt and hiding it in his thick coat.

The way downstairs was both easier and harder at the same time for the elderly pegasus. With each step he took down he could feel he was nearing an unfortunate and unavoidable confrontation, one that he couldn't for the love of Faust blame on the young pony. He could understand the colt's, Sharp Arrow's ire, and if the situation was reversed he would probably do the same thing as him. It didn't change the fact that it was his life at stake here, and he still wanted to live a few years more. Fortunately for him though, Dostoyevsky managed to reach the bottom floor and not run into the young master of the house, allowing himself a sigh of relief.

*click* * clack* *click* *clack*

So far so good. He was half way towards the door and there was still no sign of Quicksilver's son.

*click* * clack* *click* *clack*

"I have to warn you Dostoyevsky, my son is on the top of his class when it comes to swordplay." Quicksilver warned him from behind his back. His exhausted body was barely able to keep up with the pegasus. "He’s actually one of the best in the academy."

*click* * clack* *click* *clack*

"Now he tells me." Dostoyevsky silently fumed, yet still went on, undeterred.

The doctor passed one corridor and turned into another. Before he managed to make a full turn however he bumped into the large frame of no other than Sharp Arrow. A sudden surge of adrenalin pumped in his veins, his heart beating like mad, but more importantly his instincts kicked in, and without a hint of emotion on his face Dostoyevsky proceeded to greet him.

"Good evening." He nodded and without breaking his stride passed the stunned colt.

The term colt was used very loosely to describe Sharp Arrow. What the photo in Quicksilver's study wasn't able to convey was just how large of a pony this boy was. Easily half a foot taller than Dostoyevsky, as well as significantly wider, Sharp Arrow was a literal mountain of muscle, his mere presence feeling overwhelming. He was clad in the standard cadet uniform of the Equestrian Military, and a saber was resting at his side, sheathed at the moment. Hopefully, it would stay that way.

"Em… good evening?" Sharp Arrow finally replied, confusion written on his face.

*click* * clack* *click* *clack*

"Almost there!" Dostoyevsky thought to himself. "Just a little further…"

Meanwhile Quicksilver was trying to buy some time for him, engaging his son in conversation.

"My, you've grown! What are they feeding you in that academy?" Quicksilver chuckled, slapping his son on the arm weakly. "Welcome home son. I'm sorry for my dreary state, but unfortunately, I'm not feeling too well."

"Hi dad." Sharp Arrow responded, his voice gaining a bit of an edge. "You know the doctors took Primrose?" Dostoyevsky nearly stumbled at that. Whatever this colt had been told, it most definitely didn't have anything to do with what actually happened. Quicksilver too seemed to notice that, and seemed to have decided to pony up.

"Well, about that…"

For a short second Dostoyevsky entertained the thought of waiting to see where this was going, but decided against it. This was a distraction after all, and he had to use it. Quickly closing the distance between himself and the door, he reached for the handle and pushed.

The door was locked.

"Szlag!" He whispered a native curse under his breath.

All this became more complicated in a manner of seconds. Now he had to somehow find the key, which was probably in the possession of the maid from earlier, which means he'd have to look for her, probably passing Sharp Arrow on the way. This was definitely not good.

"Leaving so soon?" Dostoyevsky momentarily froze, hearing the voice of Sharp Arrow from behind him. "I think you need somepony to open that door for you first." The pegasus glanced behind him, only to see the large frame of the noble's son slowly approaching him. Both the tone of his voice and the glint in his eye were worrying.

"Say, are you perchance a doctor?"

Yep, definitely not good.

His cover has officially been blown. While a good diplomat, Dostoyevsky was a terrible liar, so he didn't even bother to try and hide his occupation. Instead, he turned around to face the large cadet and look him in the eye. As he was doing so, he moved one of his hooved under his coat and rested it on the gifted blade, preparing for the worst. His wings twitched in nervous anticipation.

"Confirmitavum." He nodded.

"What?"

"It means yes." Dostoyevsky murmured, limiting his use of Old Cirran to a minimum.

Sharp Arrow took a deep breath, filling his lungs with air.

"Where's Primrose? Where'd you take her?" He asked, his steely voice carrying an obvious threat.

"She's in the hospital. She's ill." Dostoyevsky replied simply. He didn't have to add it was leprosy; at this point, it was pointless to do so.

Sharp Arrow took a few steps forward, each time his hooves made contact with the wooden floor sending a slight tremor. He stopped merely a few feet from the noble.

"You will bring her back here, now!" The cadet demanded.

"I can't. Quarantine." Dostoyevsky replied in an unnaturally calm voice. "I would be breaking the law."

"Son, please, calm down. We really can't do anything now. This pony really is representing the authorities, and…" Before Quicksilver managed to say anymore he was cut off by his son, who turned to face him with a rage-filled scowl on his face.

"If you're not stallion enough to defend your own daughter, I will!" He hissed at his father. "Now, you will bring her back." Sharp Arrow turned back to Dostoyevsky, his voice sounding like a growl.

"I can't." The doctor repeated. "The law…"

And then, in but a blink of an eye Sharp Arrow drew his saber and making a quick slash closed the distance. Fortunately, Dostoyevsky was observing his body language the whole time and knew in advance what he had planned. Drawing his own weapon he allowed the two blades to collide, parrying the hit, and in a surprisingly quick maneuver he managed to reposition Sharp Arrow, so that the two of them changed their places. While this may have been a good move from a fencing point of view, now the cadet was blocking the only way outside.

"We don't have to do this." Dostoyevsky tried to reason, all the while adopting a proper fencing stance. "I don't want to hurt you."

"But I will hurt you if you won't give us Primrose back!" He cried and attacked again.

Dostoyevsky parried the blow and stepped back. Quicksilver was shouting something in the sidelines, but he didn't pay him any attention, too busy with avoiding Sharp Arrow's attacks. No matter how much he didn't want to do this, Dostoyevsky had to admit: the colt was a really good fighter. The elder pegasus may have several decades worth of experience in swordplay and warfare in general, but his body was growing old and weak, and couldn't hold up as it should against the youthful vigor of Sharp Arrow. Add to that the difference in height, sheer strength displayed by the youngling, and the fact the borrowed saber he was using was a work of an amateur when compared to his own, with a weird balance and slightly dulled over the years of disuse, and you have yourself a very one sided fight. Even if Sharp Arrow's technique left much to be desired of, his speed and relentless attacks were enough to keep Dostoyevsky on guard.

The doctor ducked under a wide slash that would've beheaded him. This was getting ridiculous; he was fighting with a mountain of meat, was barely keeping up with him, and still had to hold back. He couldn't disarm Sharp Arrow like he initially planned –the cadet was too good for that, and fleeing was out of the question for obvious reasons. Killing him was out of the question too –his word as a noble was on the line here, and he didn't want a killer's fame, nor did he want to break the hearts of his family.

Dostoyevsky performed a quick counter attack, forcing the cadet to give up what ground he won. He was getting tired however, and wouldn't last much longer.

"Quicksilver, open this Faust-damned door already!" He bellowed, parrying a downward slash with a loud clang.

"Don't you dare!" Sharp Arrow threatened, pressing his momentary advantage.

Quicksilver passed them both and ran into the staff's room, pushing aside the frozen, terrified form of Feather Duster. Finding the key would take a while, and Dostoyevsky was quickly losing what little strength he still had. No matter the difference in experience, an old pony such as himself couldn't win with a youngster when so severely handicapped.

Quickly running out of options, Dostoyevsky decided to perform one last trick. This would either end in a spectacular success, or be the end of him, but at this point, he really didn't have any options. Looking into Sharp Arrows eyes, Dostoyevsky tried one last time to put an end to this meaningless fight.

"Sharp Arrow, please. We don't have to fight…" He didn't finish however, realizing something was out of place.

Sharp Arrow's eyes. They were so… distant, so vacant. There was nothing in them, nothing but an endless, black abyss, darker than the deepest pit. For a split second Dostoyevsky felt almost losing himself in this emptiness, in this unnatural void of eldritch darkness. But just as suddenly as he noticed it, the darkness disappeared and Sharp Arrow's eyes changing back to their normal, frenzied teal of hatred.

"You should find him and kill him!" He bellowed with primal rage and unleashed a devastating flurry of blows. Dostoyevsky was hard pressed to avoid being hit, climbing to the peak of his skill to avoid, dodge, or parry them all. He was on the verge of collapsing, his strength leaving him with each move he made, and only his willpower allowed him to continue fighting. In his frenzied state Sharp Arrow was attacking in blind fury, with no technique to his blows whatsoever, but they were no less dangerous than precise slashed made by such masters of the saber like Little Knight from back in the Commonwealth. Any of them could end his life if he allowed himself to grow sloppy. Dostoyevsky had to end this. Right now!

The doctor waited for the perfect moment to attack. Seeing an opening, he feigned an upwards cut, but in the last moment readjusted on his hind legs and with all the might he could muster sprung forward, performing a long, wide slash, aiming at Sharp Arrows hooves. The blade connected with the cadet's front legs and forced him to drop his weapon, clutching and howling in pain as blood poured from his wounds.

He was breathing hard, but couldn't help but slightly smile. He did it. He managed to end the fight with minimal injuries on both their sides. Sharp Arrow may be in pain now, but his wound was shallow and didn't threaten his life. It would take only a week or two to heal enough for the colt to be back to full health. Satisfied, Dostoyevsky tried to stand up, but it was then that he realized that there was something seriously wrong. Looking down he realized, that he was standing in a small puddle of his own blood.

While performing his last desperate move, Dostoyevsky failed to notice that Sharp Arrow managed to reposition his own blade and perform a sloppy thrust with his saber. A deep gash ran the length of his belly, not deep enough to reach anything vital, but large enough that if he didn't get medical attention within the next half hour he would die from blood loss.

He tossed his gifted saber on the ground and limped towards the door where Quicksilver stood, just moments ago managing to pry it open. The local noble stared wide eyes at his son's moaning form, unable to compute what just happened.

"Dress his wound. They're not deadly." Dostoyevsky said towards Quicksilver, all the while trying to stop the bleeding from his belly.

"I… I will." Quicksilver stammered out. "Please, don't mention what happened here to the guards.."

"I won't." He assured him. "Farewell."

The moment Dostoyevsky passed the threshold he realized how empty his words were. Once he reaches the hospital, assuming he will reach it before he bleeds out, the doctors will recognize his wound was dealt by a sword. And the moment that happens, the staff will immediately call the guards, as per procedure. Even if he tried to stop them from doing so, Dostoyevsky doubted they would listen. He may be the director of this hospital, but he couldn't force his employees to break the law.

He left the mansion behind him, in the billowing snowstorm that picked up not five minutes ago. The silent, empty streets of Flankfurt greeted him with their eerie silence, the only witnesses to his plight. Wincing in pain with each step and leaving a red trail of warm blood that was bound to disappear within the next few seconds, he forced himself to pick up the pace. The hospital was far away, and this district was on the opposite side of town…

Eh, who was he kidding? It was only 2986 Steps…