by K. J. Coble
“Weasel!” Durrim repeated. “Quit sulking in the dark and get down here!”
Cheers shook the chamber. Anzo made to wave off the accolade but the din of the crowd rose and he acquiesced, moving to the nearest stairwell. Descending to the floor below, he found himself herded by claps to the back and roars of Vhurrian mirth towards the table of honor. A full, sloshing mug of ale was forced into his hand. Shoved more than encouraged, he mounted the stairs of the platform and came to stand before Eyeloth and Theregond. The cheers got louder, boots hammering the floor, fists pummeling tables. Grinning despite himself, Anzo turned to the acclaim and lifted his mug, took a drink as the cacophony of the hall reached deafening.
“My lord Theregond,” Durrim had to shout to be heard. “Allow me to present to you the man of which I spoke. This is the Weasel, Anzo Severnus, Last of the Vyrm Kyn, Destroyer of the Flinarr, and Slayer of Ghosts!”
Anzo didn’t quite hide his grimace at the string of contrived titles. Somehow in the racket he could pick out Heathen’s booming laugh. He bowed to Theregond. “What Durrim has told you, lord, are no doubt a glorious tally of lies.”
More laughter at that. Theregond shook with it, crow’s feet bunching into wrinkled webs that spoke of age as much as strands of gray beginning to streak the crimson of his beard. But his eyes were green fire and energy to shame a boy half his age. “Glorious lies are often better than the bloody, filthy truth of a thing,” the King replied. He smote the tabletop. “Well, join me then, Weasel, and help me sort the tales out.”
With a bit of calculation, Anzo leapt onto the table and crashed down onto the bench at the King’s side. The salutary roar of the crowd told him the gamble had paid off.
“Durrim thinks too highly of me,” Anzo said as the party lost its focus and began to drift off into its component parts.
“He thinks too highly of me,” Theregond replied, “but only a fool wallows in humility.”
Anzo wasn’t sure if that was a jibe. He nodded agreeably rather than appear to ponder too long.
“The boy is impressed by the right things, though,” Theregond went on. “And that makes a king curious as to what manner of a man can command such respect.”
Eyeloth rose from his seat, offered Theregond some softly-spoken words, and drifted with his entourage down from the platform into the crowd. Durrim had done the same, his own followers congealing about him until the celebration acquired obvious divisions: the parties of father and son with the bawdy mass of Erevulans jostling between them.
Theregond sighed, eyes on the interplay. “The fools. How will they stand together when the time comes?”
“We’re working on it,” Anzo said, taking a pull of ale, his first of the night.
“So I’ve heard.” Theregond pivoted in his chair to take in Anzo fully. This close, his size was even more impressive, a six-and-a-half-foot mass of muscle only just beginning to soften at the midsection with middle-age. Scars knotted on his bare forearms and one of his pinky fingers was missing. “I understand you’re trying to drill the Hamrak in the Aurid way of war?”
“I’m trying,” Anzo replied.
“You think that will give them the edge when the Faces come?”
“It has been my experience that while courage and aggression please the gods, discipline will often win the day.”
Theregond grunted and took up an ale mug, sipped at it. “Spoken like an Aurid.”
Anzo tensed at the king’s tone, berated himself silently for the carelessness. “I was an Aurridian slave, as was my mother, a Legionnaire’s whore.” He shrugged and let the lie take hold, become comfortable as truth. “I learned things.”
Theregond grinned wolfishly. “The Aurid record is hard to argue against. And it’s been my experience that the gods prize victory above all other things.”
“Perhaps the King would like to try his men against our training?” Anzo asked, hoping the bravado would shift away suspicion.
Theregond laughed and slammed Anzo on the shoulder. “Oh, I think I like you, Weasel!” He nodded. “Yes, a challenge. I like that! And perhaps you and I might cross blades.” He flicked his eyebrows. “I am also told you were a gladiator. I saw the blood games of Aurid, once. Long ago, when their pretty-boy diplomats were feting my father, they took us to one. Amazing warriors, the killer-slaves, so fast I’d been told they could pluck a fly from a wall.”
“I don’t know if I’m still that fast...” Anzo trailed off with a mischievous grin. “But tomorrow—fifty of ours against fifty of yours—we might find out.”
“Oh, yes.” Theregond drummed the table with the flats of his palms. “A challenge we will have then!” He took up his ale mug again, held it to Anzo, who raised his own. “Fifty against fifty—” green eyes flashed with something harder than playful banter “—and we will see what manner of man you are, Weasel.”
***
The unseasonable heat of the previous day was gone the next morning, an overcast darkening the sky and a wind out of the southwest carrying with it the faint taste of frost. The bulk of Caerigoth crowded around the parade ground, hundreds shivering, bundled against the cool, but none of their excitement or anticipation dulled. Folk watched from the ramparts and the roofs of huts. Chatter was a constant susurrus, laughter, boasts, and catcalls good-natured but with the real edge of inter-tribal rivalry. The clank of baubles and jewelry was obvious, wagers passing amongst men, escalating to ridiculous risk.
A lot of bets were going to be lost, this day.
Theregond stood amongst his picked men on one side of the grounds, towering head and shoulders above them, thumping his chest, calling encouragement, sneering openly at Anzo’s contingent, arrayed opposite.
Both contingents had come with shields and armor, but with weapons exchanged for wooden practice swords, cudgels, or blunted spear shafts from Caerigoth’s armory. The rules set out ahead of time for the melee had been simple: lethal force was to be avoided, but beyond that the side with the most standing at the end was the winner.
In other words, there were no rules.
Anzo paced behind the shieldwall of his contingent, all men from Durrim’s entourage. The Prince himself waited outside the perimeter, scowling. Anzo had prevailed upon him not to get involved, let him keep this a challenge between his way and Theregond’s. Anzo figured that the younger man was relieved not to risk face with his Erevulan mentor, but he wasn’t likely to thank him for it. Anzo had his own reasons, of course.
“Any time you’re done pissing yourself, Weasel!” Theregond barked across the open space. His followers bawled their disdain.
“Hold the line,” Anzo said to his men, ignoring the jeers. “Remember, no one breaks out. Those fools will wear themselves out on your shields. When the time is right, we will put them back on their asses.”
“I’m ready to put Theregond back on his ass, myself,” Heathen growled from his place in the heart of the shieldwall. A growl of approval shivered through the Hamrak.
Anzo touched the giant’s shoulder. “Hold the line.” Leaning close to his ear: “Theregond will want to get to me. He’ll make this personal. That’ll be the mistake we’re waiting for.”
“Are we going to stand here all day?” Theregond roared. “Weasel, if you wanted to dance, we could’ve done that last night!”
Anzo grinned as laughter rippled from the crowd. Despite the dryness of his mouth and the rank sweat-on-leather stink of nervous men around him, he was enjoying himself. And, he had to admit, he was starting to like Theregond. “I was hoping not to get my toes stomped,” he replied.
Theregond grinned while his men howled at the words. “Well, you’ll be getting more than that stomped, this morning!”
“Looking forward to it,” Anzo shot back. “Why don’t you come over here, then, and we can give these people what they came to see?”
“Now you’re making sense!” Theregond waved his arm and his contingent started forward, spewing curses and taunts, pummeling shield rims with their m
ock weapons.
A ripple went through Anzo’s shieldwall, old instincts warring against the new training. “Easy, lads,” Anzo implored them. “Let them come to us.”
Theregond’s party approached at a casual trudge. Anzo had seen this before: none would disgrace themselves by showing the eagerness that hints at anxiety. They would strut forth with racket and insults, promising suffering and death on their adversaries, mocking danger, reveling in it, even. But the ragged edge of drink and adrenaline would soon wear through the thin sheath of control.
“Easy.” Anzo wondered if he wasn’t saying it more for himself.
The Erevulans reached the middle of the parade ground and slowed, their catcalls growing lewd, beginning to reach the quivering intensity of animals stirred by distant thunder. Anzo smiled, could see the outrage building amongst them. This was no way to fight, thet’d think. Why did the Hamrak shame themselves by not coming out to meet them? He caught a flicker of doubt on Theregond’s face, the King already seeing expectations disrupted. Anzo wondered if the man had been on the business end of an Aurridian phalanx before.
With a bellow, Theregond cajoled his men onward. Their mass began to grow ragged, men shivering on the edge of frenzy. The king rapped a few back with flicks from his wooden sword but was clearly as close to unhinged as the rest. The crowds ringing the parade ground filled the air with cheers and encouragement, but the note of the din darkened, grew ugly. Erevulan onlookers called cowardice and some of the Hamrak were beginning to turn their anger on their own men. This was not the Vhurrian way. This was shame.
Anzo’s shieldwall shivered again. He booted a warrior in heel when he let his spacing slip. “Hold, damn you all! It’s coming.”
At thirty paces, Theregond turned and accepted a wooden shaft from an Erevulan behind him. Other men in the front rank were accepting mock spears from the rear ranks. With a howl, Theregond flung the staff. It crashed into the locked shields, splintered wood, and sent a Hamrak staggered backwards a half a step with a yelp of pain. A wave of shafts followed, pummeling the shieldwall, drowning out the ambient racket with a pattern of impacts. A shield boss rang like a bell as a projectile glanced off and flew over the top of the formation, missed Anzo’s head by a hair’s breadth. He didn’t move, stood coolly, forcing an appearance of boredom.
In battle it would have been a storm of spears and throwing axes. In battle the result would have been the same: battered shields, battered nerves, but the formation intact and still waiting.
The wait was not long.
His face gone red as his beard, Theregond pumped his wooden weapon into the sky and screamed for the charge. His Erevulans vomited forward, closing the distance in the time it took Anzo to draw in a final breath. Shields crashed together, iron boss or rim ground against wood, men huffed with the shock of impact, armor jangled, and dust swirled above them.
An Erevulan tried to vault up over the locked shields, his face a screaming blur under a glistening helm. Heathen thrust his wooden blade through the gap in the formation the contact caused, its dull point slamming the helmet from the man’s skull and sending him tumbling from sight. Another tried to shoulder through the wall by brute force. A Hamrak blade darted from behind a shield to punish his ribs and Heathen dropped him with a blow between the shoulder and neck.
Anzo stood at the heart of the formation impassively. The Erevulans raged about the shieldwall, pounding, shoving, and shrieking their outrage. Their packed mass spread like a tide foaming about a boulder on the beach. The Hamrak formation tightened in response, folding inward on the wings but not giving at the center. As the Erevulans opened gaps between them, the Hamrak saw chances and lashed out with quick, tight thrusts, just as Anzo had taught them. Theregond’s men fell with battered ribs, hips, and thighs. A small trickle of stragglers had begun, dazed, bloodied men crawling or limping away, cradling injured limbs or simply spent.
“Weasel!” Theregond shrieked. The king flailed against the center of the line, pummeling tirelessly against the formation till repeated blows had chewed his wooden blade down to its iron-rod core. “By whatever gods you blaspheme, get out here and face me!”
Anzo nodded to himself. It was time. “All right, lads! Forward!”
With a communal groan of effort, the Hamrak rose up on their toes and lurched into the Erevulans, a wave of steel, banded wood, and armored flesh. The effect was instantaneous. Their opponents fell back and fell apart. Some dropped where they were and rolled onto their stomachs as blows rained down and feet clambered over. Others scattered, tried to reform in knots, even as glances about showed they were well and truly beaten. Others fought on until the avalanche overwhelmed them.
There was a reason breaking before a determined enemy in battle meant slaughter.
“Weasel!”
The moment of crisis came in the instant of triumph. With victory before them, the Hamrak formation splintered and came apart, the overall struggle disintegrating into individual ones. Through that disarray whirled Theregond.
A Hamrak stepped into the king’s way only to be struck into unconsciousness by a lightning lash to the skull. A second leapt onto his back to drag him down but he kept coming. Heathen stepped into the king’s path, ready for a tackle, but Theregond twisted in mid-step and cast the clinging Hamrak off onto Heathen, toppling the giant. “Weasel!” The King erupted at Anzo like a boar wounded to madness, his shield gone, his twisted, mangled mock sword clutched in both hands.
Crazy son of—shit! Anzo backpedaled to give himself time to raise his shield. Thergond’s blow struck it with enough force to send numbness cascaded up into Anzo’s armpit. He fell back again, the impact half-spinning him away with no chance at recovery, no chance at an answering stroke. Theregond followed, his beard laced with spittle, his eyes twin globes of incandescent green fire. His weapon flashed up, fell again, punched through the wood of Anzo’s shield to clang against the boss.
Anzo groaned, pain lancing through the numbness. He folded backwards, caught himself by throwing out his right leg in a stiff plant. Hobnails scrutched the dust. Theregond released his sword, lodged in the wreck of Anzo’s shield, and tore at the jagged wood, bloodying his hands, pulling Anzo into a killer embrace while he unleashed a rutting stag bawl.
But Anzo’s sword arm was free. With everything left to him he thrust.
Theregond’s breath blew out with a surprised grunt. His eyes widened before frenzy gave way to realization and the first hints of returning humanity. He looked down, saw Anzo’s mock blade folding the rolls of his paunch.
“You might have torn my throat out with your teeth, my lord,” Anzo hissed, “but you would have joined me in death.”
Anzo became aware of an odd silence around them, as the thundering of his pulse in his ears subsided. Theregond stumbled backwards half a step, gaze still on the wooden sword planted in his belly. Anzo lowered the practice weapon and glanced about. The melee had subsided, as had the cries of the crowd, all eyes turning to the pair of them. Heathen mopped sweat from his brow, eyes fiery as he clearly struggled to master his battle lust.
From a far corner of the ramparts, a lone hooded figure watched Anzo with an jade stare, glowing with concern, even at that distance.
Theregond rubbed his gut, blood from a gashed palm smeared across mail. The wild animal light faded as a smile crinkled his features. He snorted. “Joined in death, yes...” the snort became a booming laugh “...yes, but you would have gone first, I think!”
An uncertain grin twisted Anzo’s lip. “We’ll never know.”
“Not today.” For a moment the king’s tone was cold, almost a promise. The moment passed, shattered by the renewal of his laughter. “But, by the gods, you are a tough, little shit, Weasel!” He stomped forward, arms wide and welcoming. Anzo let the shreds of his shield fall and surrendered himself to the crushing bear hug, felt himself shaken to the core by the other man’s mirth.
Caerigoth rattled with cheers. Theregond pulled out of the embrace, clutch
ed Anzo’s hand in his and held them high to the crowd and the former combatants. “It seems there is something even an old cur like me can be taught!” he bawled over the din.
The cries rose to a wilder pitch. Opponents from the melee drifted into each others’ arms, backs slapped and grudging respect passed around. Women bore forth trenchers of ale while others went to see to the injured, a few sprains, broken bones, and wounded pride. Scowls confronted smiles as gamblers exchanged winnings and losses. A fight might have started but was swallowed in the press of the crowd spilling onto the parade ground.
On the far side of the ramparts, Varya turned and vanished down a ladder.
Theregond released Anzo and turned to face him. “You can teach these girly Aurid tricks to others?”
Anzo nodded as he rubbed the feeling back into his battered shield arm. “I’ve the beginnings of a cadre here, already, men who can pass on their learning.”
“It won’t be easy.” Theregond scratched his beard. “The Vhurrs cling to the ways of their fathers. They revere the Path of Orkall, even as his Way is shown to be false.”
“As you said last night, the gods have a funny way of appreciating the victors.” Anzo shrugged. “I’m sure even Orkall would see the wisdom of that.”
Theregond snorted. “To the Endless Hells with Orkall! What has he brought us?” The king’s eyes held a mischievous twinkle. “I’m finding there are better ways.” He waved off the thought. “But enough of that! Dine with my men tonight, Weasel. Share our cup with us, you and yours.”
Anzo shifted uneasily, a glance shot through the crowd to Durrim and his followers in one grouping—his father’s in another. “I’m...flattered, my lord, but—”
“You worry at appearances?” Theregond nodded. “I can respect that. But you are with Durrim and he is already pledged to me.”
“Yes, but he is torn, too,” Anzo replied. “I would not be the man to make that rift worse.”