The Templar's Curse by Sarwat Chadda (classic books to read TXT) 📕

Except Ivan wouldn’t allow it. He didn’t want Billi involved, period. Keeping her safe sounded like imprisonment to her.

A few days away to clear her head, but Arthur would not budge on Dublin. He was gone before vigils and Billi was left alone in the apartment with a bunch of instructions about when to put out the rubbish and how she needed to play nice with Gwaine and a training schedule for her and the squires. As if she needed it. She crossed the Temple, heading towards Temple Church in a foul mood.

She could hear them arguing already as she descended into the ossuary. The catacombs beneath Temple Church were out-of-bounds to the public and for good reason. Here were stored the bones of the Templars, and here was where they trained, watched by the hollow eyes of the dead.

“You’re late,” said Gwaine, tapping his watch. “What sort of impression does that give to the squires?”

Good to see you too, you old fart.

“I thought you might enjoy some quality time with them yourself.” Billi rolled her neck and swung her arms. She was in a foul mood, and seeing Gwaine first thing was only making it worse, she needed to take it out on someone. “Where’s Bors?”

Gwaine glowered. “Gone with Arthur.”

She stopped dead, arms mid-swing. “Wait. Dad took Bors? He took Bors instead of me?” She shook her head. “He took Bors?”

“Do I need to repeat myself? Go spar with Idres. I’m getting an ulcer watching him make a fool of himself.”

Dad took... never-mind. She was going to have words with him when he got back. “Oi! Idres! Grab some gloves!”

Idres wiped the sweat from his oh-so-red face, and he lowered the great-sword he’d been swinging at a wooden post. The guy was dripping, and the ventilation down here was poor enough. “What are we doing, Billi?”

Billi took a pair of lightweight sparring gloves off a hook on the wall and slipped them on. “I’m gonna punch you repeatedly in the face until you stop me.”

He went pale.

Carados, sparring with Mordred, laughed. “See you in hospital then, Idres.”

The gloves felt good. “Shut up, Carados. You’re next.”

She didn’t need to look to see Carados’s reaction to that.

“Quit yapping,” snarled Gwaine. “Idres, listen to me. You’re a big lad, you’ve got longer reach so make use of it. Stop looking so scared. You’re meant to be a goddamn Templar.”

Idres exhaled sharply and slammed his fists together. He was big, not Bors big, certainly not Carados big, but those heavy arms and chunky shoulders could do some serious damage, if he even got them to connect.

Every morning, seven days a week, after vigils but before breakfast, they trained down here. Down amongst the bones, down amongst the ancient stones and vaulted ceilings and engraved slabs, bearing oaths and prayers reaching back eight centuries. The walls were lined with weapons’ racks and there was a heavy duty punching bag in the north-west corner. They’d installed an oak post for sword drill. Mats had been laid down for sparring practice. Idres moved carefully, fists up and head set low. “You going to give me a lesson or just use me as a punch bag?”

“Lesson? Okay.” Billi kept light, not quite bouncing on the balls of her feet but ready to move in, move out, slip this way or that. “There’s only one you really need to know.”

“Which is?”

“There’s no such thing as a fair fight.”

She slammed the sole of her foot into the side of Idres’s knee. Not enough to bring him down but enough for him to lose his balance. And what do you do when you lose your balance? You throw out your arms.

He realised his mistake a second later, and that was a second too late. Billi sprang into range and hooked with her right, a neat, tight punch with plenty of shoulder and hip, pushing off from her right foot so the power rose straight up through the floor. The blow landed a centimetre out, high on the cheek instead of the jaw. Idres’s hands shot up and Billi spun right, pirouetting on her left foot.

You only turned your back on your opponent if you were fast.

Billi was fast.

The back kick landed deep in Idres’s guts. He groaned but stayed upright. He gritted his teeth as the next blow came in, a sharp uppercut, followed by a flurry.

And he took it. Head down he let Billi pummel him. He braced his legs, planting his feet firmly on the floor slabs, as solid as a rock. Waiting his turn.

He sensed it before she did. Maybe one blow wasn’t as clean as the one before, or just a smidge weaker, but the moment it happened Idres charged, straight into Billi’s barrage of punches but he let them bounce off his skull, his heavy jaw and flint-hard cheeks. He closed the distance in an instant. His arms locked around Billi’s waist and he hoisted her in the air. She slipped one hand out. With no room and relying purely on her arms, the blow wasn’t anything special and Idres hardly noticed it. The second he noticed even less. He was going to body slam her into the mat. This was going hurt, a lot.

At the last second Billi hooked her foot around his leg, pulling it away as he stepped. She put her all into the twist as they fell.

Just, just enough for Idres to land beneath her.

Billi rolled away, all the air smashed out by the impact. Idres lay there, groaning.

She lay there, looking up at the ceiling, body as heavy as lead. How long had that fight been? A minute?

What did Dad say? It doesn’t get easier.

She looked over at Idres. She winked. “Was it good for you?”

Idres laughed. He winced. “Ow. Ow. Ow. It’s not funny.”

Mo helped her up as Carados did the same for Idres and eased him against the wall as he caught his breath. Mordred looked over at the two squires. “They’re good, aren’t