Broken Blades Page 2

  “Good evening, or as we say in Germany, Guten Abend.” Armin smiled. He’d seen other minders offer a Hitler salute, but he didn’t. As a member of the Wehrmacht, he wasn’t obliged to offer one anyway, and he found the constant saluting quite silly.

  “If you would allow me to introduce myself. I’m Armin Truchsess von Kardenberg, and I have been tasked to ensure that all your needs and requests are met, as the Kommandant may have mentioned. There may at times be issues arising during your stay where you may find it helpful to have a contact on the ground, as it were. If you need a translator or any special equipment, I shall take care of it. I will be honored to take you on a tour tomorrow. I have no doubt that you are tired now after your long travels and after being subjected to speeches, so I will be making this brief. You’ll be pleased to hear that the kitchens—forty of them—are in that u-shaped complex over there. Each one specializes in one national cuisine, and I trust that you will be finding the range of food to be satisfactory. These grounds over there provide the athletic training facilities.” He offered a smile. “If I can assist you in any capacity, my quarters for the duration of your stay are over there, in the building adjoining the village. Please feel free to call upon me at any time.”

  An indistinct chorus of thanks and acknowledgments answered him, along with some good-natured laughter (he didn’t think his English was that bad), and he thought he spotted that fabulous dark-skinned American runner, Jesse Owens, at the back, speaking softly, smiling. Several other blacks were in the crowd, but he recognized him, possibly the most famous of them all.

  They were all kinds of people—all beautiful in their own way, as physical strength and grace added a glow to most human beings, elevating them in some way, and their youth and optimism certainly helped. Another man caught his attention briefly as they filed past him.

  A redhead, hair much darker than he was used to, a rich color that would have stood out anywhere. Fine skin, not milk pale, just a few freckles, and curious, brown eyes. The man had a lithe, graceful build, molded by a sport that required reflexes and speed, but not gangly like a runner.

  Armin found himself holding that gaze—maybe longer than he should have, but a delicious frisson coursed through him at that look. Open, guileless, maybe. The man regarded him, though likely with less intention, maybe no intention at all other than to meet a provocative staring contest.

  Armin broke the tension with a smile, and the red-haired American smiled back at him, showing teeth and good humor that was unguarded for a long moment, before one of his team mates said something to him Armin didn’t understand, and they’d walked past.

  When the last ones had gone, Armin returned to the buses to watch the unloading of the luggage. For the moment, all he had to do was be present, and oversee in a more or less official capacity. Maybe they wouldn’t require him at all, but there were all kinds of potential emergencies—illnesses, or lost papers or required additional tickets.

  His duty was to act as a go-between between the team and their US attaché, so he went to catch up with the man and ensure everything was in order.

  * * * *

  Maybe the pagan gods of adventure and sports were smiling on Armin, because the next day, he fluently inserted himself into the group of fencers for breakfast. They bore his uniformed presence with something between goodwill and exasperation, maybe not unlike an awkward pupil at school creeping into a popular group.

  Armin was determined to not notice the hint of unease. He was getting used to their English as well. There were some he didn’t understand at all, not while they were eating or speaking in low tones. He’d eventually accomplish that, however; he had plenty of time.

  To his subtle delight, the red-haired American sat with the fencers, so Armin may have been somewhat distracted watching the man’s fingers, his quick gestures that, to another fencer, resembled parries and ripostes as he talked to his team mates.

  Armin reminded himself several times to concentrate more on his breakfast and be an unassuming presence rather than dive right in and join the joking and the banter. As bizarre as it was, he was the foreigner here, though representing the host nation. Only, of course, he didn’t at all, despite the uniform. The refusal to let him represent Germany on the piste sat deep, and he’d spent too much time pondering the implications and the future. He’d agreed with himself that he could still represent the Wehrmacht, and, if not the Third Reich, then at least Germany—the substance and foundation underneath the swastika flags.

  “Does everybody in this country wear a uniform?” one of the Americans asked, and the conversation dimmed somewhat.

  Armin swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “To me it seems like Germany has finally accepted that Paris rules fashion. In the absence of good taste, dressing people the same seems like a very efficient solution.”

  The American frowned, and Armin regarded him with lifted eyebrows, but kept his features blank otherwise.

  The American broke the eye contact and seemed to pretend the exchange hadn’t happened, but then the redhead elbowed him. “I think that was a joke.”

  The first one looked up at Armin, eyes narrow. “It was?”

  Armin glanced at the redhead, then briefly redirected his attention to the first one. “Apologies. Some things do get lost in translation. Though I think the field gray of my uniform does complement my eyes.” This time, he smiled, signaling that, yes, it had been a joke, and this time, some of the Americans got it and grinned.

  He called that a success and didn’t press the issue any further. They’d get used to him, and being too friendly would feel suspicious, and being too reserved wouldn’t serve any purpose at all. He found athletes easy to be with, too—they were so focused on their rivals and their own skills and how things would measure up and to fulfil their own hopes and dreams that they exuded an energy unlike any other type of people. For the moment, it was pleasant to pretend he had made the team (if in ways he’d not anticipated).

  Chapter 2

  “Is this how you’re going to fight tomorrow?” Mark laughed as George picked up his foil off the floor. “Are you sure they didn’t mean to put you on the women’s team?”

  “The women’s team?” George stood, weapon in hand. “Remember who almost lost to whom, Driscoll.”

  Mark shrugged. “Almost, my dear friend. Almost.”

  “Uh-huh.” George eyed him. “Just be glad Goldman refused to compete, or neither of us would be here.”

  “He’d only have taken one spot.” Mark wiped some sweat off his brow. “So you wouldn’t be here, but—”

  “Don’t get full of yourself, kid. Just remember, winning back home doesn’t guarantee you a gold medal here.”

  “Well, if you’d like a chance at that gold medal”—Mark pulled his mask over his face—“why don’t we practice just one more time?”

  “Very well. How about actually fencing this time?”

  They took their positions, facing each other, but then George lowered his foil. “And look who’s back.”

  “Huh?” Mark lowered his foil and turned around. Through the mesh, he saw their chaperone, the dark-haired German with that striking scar along his left cheekbone. Slowly, Mark took off his mask. There was something about the uniforms these men wore that made them … imposing? He wasn’t even sure that was the word. And this one? Three times today Mark had caught himself staring at him, and he had no idea why.

  Make that four times.

  As Mark turned back around, George lowered his voice. “How do you say his name again?”

  Mark laughed. “Uh, I think it was Truch…von Truchenberg? Von Truch…karden—”

  “It’s Truchsess von Kardenberg, Herr Driscoll.”

  Mark straightened. George’s eyes widened.

  Mark faced the German. The man looked back at him with those piercing blue eyes and a perfectly schooled expression. His shoulders were square beneath his uniform, his posture rigid. Even the long, slim scar seemed to be at attention.

 
; One eyebrow rose slightly. “Something wrong?” His accent was as sharp as his uniform and his gaze.

  Mark, realizing he’d been staring, cleared his throat. “No. No. Just wondering how you can breathe in that uniform.”

  “In this—” The German glanced down, then back at Mark. “I don’t understand.”

  Mark laughed and waved a hand. “Never mind. Just … never mind.” He coughed. “Uh, could you … how do you say your name again?”

  Something that might have been amusement flashed in the German’s eyes. “Truchsess von Kardenberg.”

  “You’ll forgive me if it takes a while for me to learn to say it,” George said.

  Von whatever-his-name-was sniffed. “Perhaps von Kardenberg would be easier.”

  Mark quirked his lips, trying to decide if he should take offense or be grateful for the shorter name.

  George idly tapped the ground at his feet with the tip of his foil. “I don’t suppose you have a first name that doesn’t involve quite so many oral gymnastics?”

  Cringing, Mark looked at the German, hoping his teammate hadn’t insulted their host. Chaperone. Whatever.

  The German offered almost nothing—no smile, no shrug, not even a release in the tension of his rigid posture—but his slight nod relaxed Mark a little. “If it would be easier, you may call me Armin.”

  Armin. Mark decided he could remember that well enough.

  “So. Armin.” George folded his arms, letting his foil dangle from his fingers. “Who’d you piss off to get this detail? Must be dull as all get out to follow a bunch of fencers around.”

  This time, it was definitely amusement. “Following you around is not nearly so dull as watching you fence.”

  Mark and George both chuckled.

  “Not a fan of the sport?” George asked.

  Armin put his hands behind his back, and his shoulders seemed to be even squarer. “I most certainly am.”

  Mark and George exchanged glances.

  The German grinned. He actually … grinned. “I simply find it dull to watch when it isn’t executed well.”

  Mark’s jaw fell open. George blinked. They glanced at each other again.

  Then Mark turned to Armin. “That your way of telling me the Germans are going to beat me?”

  Armin lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug. “I would predict any German victory over the Americans won’t be worth discussing after the Hungarians and Italians collect all of the medals.”

  George sniffed indignantly. “We’ll see about that.”

  Armin’s subtly arched eyebrow was probably the reserved German version of rolled eyes and a condescending snort.

  “You fence, Armin?” Mark asked. “Or just an expert from the sidelines?”

  Armin eyed the weapon in Mark’s hand. “I have been known to step onto the piste.”

  “Yeah?” Mark gestured with his foil. “Grab a mask and a weapon.”

  He fully expected the German to give a dignified shake of his head and bow out, but instead, Armin turned to the pile of practice gear laid out at the edge of the small yard. “Very well.”

  As Armin selected a mask and foil, George and Mark faced each other again.

  “I heard the Germans are arrogant,” George said quietly. “Didn’t think they were this full of themselves.”

  Mark grunted in agreement, but he surreptitiously watched Armin. The way the man tested each foil, going straight for the left-handed weapons just like Mark did, grasping the grip without a trace of a novice’s clumsiness, suggested Armin did more than just “step onto the piste once in a while”.

  And for that matter, he didn’t strike Mark as being fit in the same way many of the other uniformed Germans were. He had a way of moving that was … different. He wasn’t so rigid, not so stiff, instead possessing what Mark could only describe as powerful grace. Though the uniform seemed to be fitted with steel bars on everyone else, holding them ramrod straight from head to toe, Armin only had that stiffness when he faced the Americans he’d been called upon to chaperone. With his back turned, scrutinizing foils and looking over the masks, he was more relaxed.

  Did Mark and George make him nervous? Did all of the Americans? Hell, it was impossible to distinguish nerves from irritation with some of these Germans. Any variety of discomfort seemed to play out the same way in their faces and shoulders.

  But from time to time, Mark had caught a glimpse of this side of Armin. The man who might very well be going into Berlin and drinking beers with his buddies the way Mark and his friends did back in Council Bluffs. Did they wear their uniforms when they did that? Seemed he hadn’t seen a German wearing anything other than—

  “Hey. Driscoll.” George waved a hand in front of his face.

  Mark shook his head. “Sorry. What?”

  George eyed him, and then glanced at Armin, and a strange knot of panic formed under Mark’s ribs.

  He cleared his throat. “Just waiting for von Kardenberg to pick out a weapon.”

  George grunted quietly, but didn’t say anything, and Mark started to relax a little. Maybe he hadn’t suspected anything. Not that he’d have any reason to. Just because a few of the boys back home had their “ideas” about Mark didn’t mean George would. What athlete didn’t look at an opponent to size him up?

  Armin came back with a foil and a mask. He turned to George. “May we trouble you to referee?”

  George shrugged. “Sure.”

  Mark and Armin faced each other on the piste. Armin’s stance was as effortless as his grip. Left-hander on left-hander—so much for the advantage Mark had over the few right-handers who made it into the sport’s upper echelon.

  George stood beside the piste. “This isn’t a formal match. First to three wins.”

  “Sounds good,” Mark said.

  “Very well.” Armin pulled on his mask, again with a smooth, practiced motion as if he’d done this hundreds of times. The gray and green uniform made him look strangely menacing. The mesh obscured his features as it did any opponent’s, but Mark had committed those blue eyes to memory, and he could still feel them through both his mask and Armin’s.

  George glanced at Armin, then at Mark. “En garde. Prêts. Allez.”

  There were no medals at stake here, and Mark freely admitted he was showing off, so he attacked immediately, advancing quickly and smacking Armin’s blade with his own.

  The German didn’t move. Neither to retreat nor push away Mark’s weapon. He held his ground as if he’d known all along that Mark’s “attack” was nothing more than a show of bravado. Mark heard a sharp breath, and couldn’t help wondering if Armin was—quietly, subtly—laughing at him.

  And that was when Armin attacked.

  In one swift movement, he knocked Mark’s blade out of the way and advanced. Only years of training prevented Mark from an embarrassing loss, and he parried as he retreated. As soon as he had his feet firmly under him, he attacked too. Armin retreated, but the second Mark’s attack waned, he took the offensive again.

  He was fast with the blade and even faster on his feet. He shouldn’t have been able to move like that in that uniform, but he did. Rather than restraining him, the fabric moved with him like a second skin. He maneuvered the foil as if it was an extension of his arm, an elongated limb he’d used every day of his life.

  Attack. Parry. Retreat.

  Mark misjudged Armin’s strategy, and realized a second too late he’d let him get too close. The foil bit in just above his hip.

  They both lowered their weapons and stepped back.

  George gestured to indicate the point had gone to Armin, and both men nodded. Then they took their stances again.

  “En garde. Prêts. Allez.”

  Back and forth, advancing and retreating, attacking and parrying, they fought. Armin was good, and he made it look easy, his movements elegant and precise. He was solid on his feet, every motion fluid and smooth, as if he was born for this. Against such a strong adversary, Mark couldn’t help quietly celebrating
when he managed to place first one, then a second hit on Armin’s torso. Of course, Armin also scored a hit, and Mark was fairly certain there would be a bruise on his shoulder for the next few days.

  By now, a small crowd had gathered.

  “Score is tied,” George said. “Two hits apiece. Next point wins.”

  Mark and Armin faced off, and for a long moment, neither moved. Then Armin feinted, lunging forward and smacking his foot on the piste, but not actually completing the attack. Mark didn’t fall for it. He tapped Armin’s blade. Armin tapped his. Mark did it again.

  This time, when Armin went to tap Mark’s blade, Mark circled his around Armin’s and attacked, advancing swiftly and thrusting straight at Armin’s chest for the—

  The tip of Armin’s blade connected with Mark’s side, just beneath his ribs.

  Mark’s hit Armin’s chest.

  They both froze.

  Murmurs went up all around them, the spectators asking each other who’d scored first.

  Mark stepped back and took off his mask. “The point is his.”

  George nodded. “Then Armin is the winner.”

  More murmurs and a few gasps, but Mark ignored them. He pulled off his mask, and Armin did the same, his dark hair ever so slightly damp and disheveled. One swipe of his hand, and every strand was straight again.

  “Well done, Armin.” Mark shook his hand, and then wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his glove. “What are you doing escorting us around? The way you fence, seems like you should be on the German team.”

  Something—the ghost of a wince—tightened Armin’s lips for a split second, but he quickly schooled his expression. And then he grinned, which made Mark’s knees shake. “I would have liked to be on the team, but thirteen other Germans bested me.” The grin broadened a little, and Mark was surprised the man didn’t wink as he added, “Good luck in the Games, Herr Driscoll.”