Hoping against hope that the foolish youth from the Roclaws might do what no other human had managed—the Triangle birth working to inspire hope—folks pointed me toward a small Jistani convent in the Esquihir mountains. They claimed Cleaveheart had been kept by the nuns as a weapon meant for a champion sworn to Jistan to use in destroying his enemies. I'd never been very religious—the gods are perverse and like torturing Men with dire predicaments—but I was willing to offer an oath to Jistan if he'd lend me the blade.
Of course, I was not alone in wanting to get my hands on that blade. What people told me freely, and the Reithrese had to torture out of folks, had almost been forgotten by the Elves. For reasons of their own, they wanted this blade that they called Divisator. Aarundel said that meant "Sunderer," but that was long after we first met. So, while Tashayul and I raced for it, coming from the east and the west, the Elves came in from the north.
I arrived on the site first, and the nuns welcomed me as if I were indeed the champion for whom they waited. I asked to take possession of Cleaveheart immediately, but the abbess avowed that Jistan had specified a number of rituals before the blade could be given over to my keeping.
I pressed her on this point. "I'm thinking, good Sister Constance, that Most High Jistan would understand about the urgency of the situation."
"Were that true, Neal Roclawzi, he would have given us a sign." Her face closed up in all the sign I needed to know I was doomed to wait.
Tashayul and his Skull-riders arrived as I was sleeping off a long ride and a full meal. The nuns, given the choice between death or surrender of the sword and my person, found themselves divinely inspired to declare me a heretic. This they did while I slumbered. I awoke from a dream about wrestling a snake to find myself bound hand and foot.
Standing beside the abbess, I watched from a balcony as a trio of nuns bore Cleaveheart to Tashayul. "No rituals, Sister?"
"We have had our sign, Neal Snaketongue." The nun eyed me sternly. "If you are truly Jistan's champion, He, in His divine wisdom, will find a way to unite you with the blade."
Watching Tashayul take practice cuts down in the courtyard, I had a feeling he, too, had a way to unite me with the blade, causing me to wonder if what I had taken as good omens were not so good after all. With the dawn's rose light glowing from the long serpentine blade's single razor edge, and the sword whistling as it sliced the air, wondering became knowing and I knew I'd seen my last dawn.
Two of Tashayul's guards accepted custody of me from the nuns and brought me down into the convent's courtyard. I towered over both my warders, but that was to be expected, as Reithrese tend to be slightly shorter than the average man. Even so their stocky Reithrese builds mocked my gangling limbs. In the few combats I had fought against their kind, my quickness and reach had made up for what I surrendered to them in strength. Hobbled by a short length of rope and with my arms bound behind me, those advantages went the way of my faith in Jistan.
Coming into the courtyard, perspective on, Tashayul changed and with it changed my assessment of him. Unlike his fellows, Tashayul and I could see eye to eye, which made him quite remarkable among the Reithrese. Stripped to the waist, Tashayul moved quickly and smoothly, with thick muscles sliding effortlessly beneath sweat-sheened skin that had been darkened by long exposure to the sun. His black hair had been pulled back into a ponytail that fell midway down his spine. Successful cuts at imaginary foes brought a smile to his face, peeling his lips back to reveal a mouth full of emerald teeth.
A booted foot applied to the back of my legs drove me to my knees in front of Tashayul. The Reithrese slashed the blade within a hair's-breadth of my nose, then sheathed Cleaveheart in one fluid, practiced motion. He took my straight, double-edged sword from one of his human slaves and bared it. He flipped it over and back, then tested the weight of it in his sword hand. He sighted down the edges of the blade, then leaned on the sword as if it were a cane and he a Kaudian dandy on a seaside promenade.
"You meant to kill me with this?" His voice came as hard as his dark-eyed stare, but I caught in both a theatricality meant to frighten me mightily.
"You should not be thinking that, m'lord. 'Tis a mountain tradition to be inscribing the name of a warrior one wishes to honor on a blade." I tried to smile up at him, but one of the guards crashed a backhanded cuff over my right ear.
Tashayul frowned at the soldier and shook his head. "I take it the telling of tall tales is another Roclawzi tradition? Or are you not this Neal of which my spies have told me?" He opened his arms, pointing my sword skyward, and took in the whole of the aging monastery with his gesture "Is this not the place where you said you would kill me?"
"I said nothing of the kind, m'lord." I answered him truthfully, for I'd never specified a place for us to meet. I had been too intent on discovering the resting place of Cleaveheart to make those kinds of boasts. I had assumed I'd have enough time to make them after I found the blade.
Tashayul laughed aloud, and I saw the Reithrese lounging around the courtyard smile in response. "Foolish little Neal, you gave these wretched people hope. They told you where to find Khiephnaft because they dearly wanted you to destroy me. And then they told my spies where I would find you to speed the process. Before that, I knew not where to find this wondrous blade. I am in your debt."
I returned his gracious nod. "Well met, then. As you have no further need for my service, we can speak of repayment at another time." I started to get to my feet, but rough hands pressed me back down to the ground.
"I may yet have need of your service, Neal." Tashayul handed my sword to a slave. "How old are you, boy?"
I squinted at the horizon and searched the sky for constellations before the dawn's rosy glow could devour them, all the while carefully choosing the words for my lie. "This being midsummer and a bit south of my home, I'd admit to twenty summers." In my travels I'd heard of an augury that a foe a score summers in age would be his death, so I decided to pitch some fear back at him.
The Reithrese general shook his head and pinched the pale, hairless flesh over my heart. "If I were to believe that, I would believe you carry Elven blood, for you have matured very slowly. . . ."
An offended voice from behind me cut the general off. "Beware who you slander with your musings, Tashayul."
I pulled away from the Reithrese and twisted around to look at the company of Men standing in the courtyard gateway. At least at first I took them for Men because, from my perspective, their height was not particularly noticeable. The edge of the sun backed them with yellow-fire, so all I could see were silhouettes. Only when one moved so I could see the odd curve to his bow and another doffed his huntsman's hood to let me see pointed ears did I realize the interlopers were Elves, not Men.
From the forge to the anvil, I groaned to myself. At least with the Reithrese I had a chance of being made a slave. With the Elves, well, the Eldsaga gave me a legion of fates to choose from with the Elves. Still and all, the Elves and the Reithrese were never known for their cordial relations.
Tashayul folded his arms across his broad chest. "Imperator Finndali, to what do I owe this dubious honor? Has this Man been threatening to end your life as well?"
The Elven leader dismissed me with a shake of his head. "Were he worthy of notice—say your speculation about his blood had veracity—he would be rapeget, and I would terminate his life. The Consilliarii have taken an interest in this Khiephnaft. I was sent to obtain it for them."
Tashayul's eyes narrowed. "I see. I have a pressing need for it. Do you want it now?" As he asked his question, his soldiers became more alert. They shifted positions to supply cover from Elven arrows or to bring weapons to hand easily.
The Elf shook his head with a motion that dropped his green leather hunting-hood back, freeing his fine black hair. "How long do you need it?"
The Reithrese shrugged. "Fifty years, I think. By then our rule will be restored."
"An ambitious schedule."
Tashayul glanced down
at me. "Once we destroy their breeding stock, we expect resistance to crumble. We learned that from you, in fact."
Finndali smiled in a way that sent a rime asp wriggling through my entrails. "Fifty years, then. I will have it from you at that time."
I forced myself to laugh. "You're supposing, of course, the good general will have it at that time. Fifty years will a lot of battles bring."
"But battles waged against your kind, Man."
I nodded over at the slave holding my broadsword. "Those edges opened Reithrese veins easy enough. Lest you're mindful of a way to use arrogance as armor, I'd wager he's not got two score ten years left to him." I did some quick math in my head. "I'm thinking he'll sup at death's table in less than four."
Tashayul chuckled as he shook his head and let mock surprise wash over his face. "Only four years? How did you arrive at that number?"
I decided not to tell him that were the prophecy about his death true, I'd need those years to prepare. I lied instead. "A year each for the conquest of Ispar, Barkol, and Irtysh, which brings you to the Roclaws four years hence."
"The Roclaws? Do you truly think your mountain tribesmen can defeat me?"
I shrugged. "If they saw you as a serious threat, don't you think they would have sent more than me to kill you?"
I heard a couple of the Elves laugh at my question, though a stern glance from their leader silenced them. I looked at Finndali. "Were I you, m'lord, I would take the blade now. You would find its price dear if you were to require Cleaveheart from the hand of a Roclawzi."
The Elf ignored me. "I find these younglings quite dolorous in general, but this one is a particular annoyance. Too moronic to be properly terrified."
"Pathetic." Tashayul drew Khiephnaft and presented it hilt first to Finndali. "I had thought to vet the blade's abilities by slaying him myself, but I will grant you this honor."
"Your offer is appreciated and laced with temptation, but it is your blade."
"And you dishonor it," I spat at the both of them. "Turning that fine piece of war-steel into a butcher's hatchet. Blades are what they learn, and you can't teach warring with an execution."
"Youngling superstition," scoffed the Elf.
Tashayul agreed with a nod. "Silly mountain nonsense."
"Mayhap be, but my sword learned well the drinking of Reithrese blood." Summoning a contemptuous scowl to my face, I looked from Elf to Reithrese, then raised my chin to expose my throat. "Kill me. I'll have no more of the company of cowards who dare not examine the lessons my blade has mastered."
The Reithrese conqueror threw his head back in a hearty laugh. "Is that what you want. Mad Neal? You want a chance to fight me?"
"I was thinking I wanted to kill you, but I'll settle for the latter." I shrugged. "Of course, I'm not so close to newborn that I'd expect a fair fight."
That brought the general around and even appeared to spark some interest in Finndali's eyes. "The fight has not even begun, yet you already accuse me of treachery?"
"I'd be more charitable were I not wearing these ropes. I'll be facing a battle veteran with a special sword."
"Ah, but you were bragging that you had slain a number of my kinsmen."
I frowned. "True. Still, there is the matter of the blade and this fine company you have gathered around you."
The Reithrese watched me closely. "You have a compromise to suggest?"
"Since I'm just fighting you, not killing you, I'm thinking that if I pink you with my blade, I should be allowed my life and a day's ride."
"Else you might be forced to kill me and my warriors?"
I let Tashayul's sarcastic tone pass unnoticed. "I might take pity on them and only wound them, but I'm thinking that's the likely result, m'lord."
The Reithrese eyed me up and down, then nodded slowly. "Blood me with your blade and I will give you four years. Four years to prepare the Roclaws for my wrath."
I swallowed hard and nodded. "Done."
"Good."
"One more thing."
A pained look passed over Tashayul's face. "What is it?"
I nodded toward the Elven leader. "If my pinking should kill you, Khiephnaft is mine. I want it from his lips."
Tashayul shrugged. "For the sake of the fight, m'lord?"
The Elf nodded. "Aarundel, his bonds."
Another Elf left the company of his fellows and approached me. Holding his bow and a nocked arrow in his right hand, and a bared dagger in his left, he dropped to one knee beside me. The knife's edge made short work of the ropes. I slapped him on the shoulder, prompting a shudder in his captain that this Aarundel did not echo.
"My thanks."
Aarundel nodded. "Success in your sanguineous devoir."
"Enough, Aarundel, return to your place." Finndali opened his hands apologetically to Tashayul. "Youth and their perception of the world . . ."
"No matter." Tashayul held out his right arm, and two slaves slid onto it a mailed dueling sleeve. It covered him from the back of his hand to shoulder, then over his right breast and shoulderblade. A black leather strap bound it to him across his chest and beneath his left armpit. He moved his arm around, the rings rustling as he did so, to test how much it restricted his movement. If it did at all, I was thinking, it was not near enough to comfort me.
I held my right arm out for similar sheathing, but a slave just shoved my sword's hilt into my right hand. "Not even a gauntlet?"
The Reithrese shook his head. "You delay the inevitable."
"Here, Mad Neal." Aarundel plucked a green glove from his belt and tossed it to me. "So M'Lord Tashayul does not disarm him in the first pass. A lesson quickly learned is one quickly forgotten."
I caught the glove in my left hand and pulled it on. The supple leather felt tight on my hand at first, but that eased. My fingers had not filled their sheaths fully at first, yet by the time I had worked my sword back into my hand, the slack had vanished. The glove molded itself to my hand and to the blade's grip.
I saluted the Elf, then struck an en garde position facing the Reithrese warrior. If I had reach on him, I was thinking, it would be only an inch or two. In a duel to first blood, the back of the arm is a likely target. A quick cut, a riposte, or a coupe, and a steel kiss would bring blood. With his armored sleeve in place, it would take more than a lovetap to win me the fight, and I tried to plan a strategy accordingly.
The Reithrese gave me no chance to plan. He came at me hard, starting single-handed, then shifting around to put both hands on the hilt of the blade. His first slash, coming from right to left, mirrored the one he'd shown me when I knelt before him. I jumped back from it, but felt the blade's sharp caress on my right shoulder.
A flesh wound only, it left a flap of skin flopping like an epaulet on my shoulder. The blood it brought dripped off my arm at the elbow, and the cry it summoned from his men echoed through the courtyard. I felt the pain and likened it to the sting of a bee, then dismissed it because Tashayul, having stung once, would sting again and again until I lay dead.
Another fighter, saluted by the cheers of his subordinates, might have backed off and accepted their applause. Not Tashayul. He pressed me, sweeping Khiephnaft around in a grand circle that brought it back down and toward my head. I raised my sword and blocked his cut, then sprang backward, tugging at my blade to free it. It came after a second's delay that choreographed the rest of our battle.
Khiephnaft had notched my blade. Roclawzi blade-smiths have no equal on the face of Skirren—which I can say as the Dwarves dwell beneath the earth—but Khiephnaft cut into it with the ease of a sharp knife hacking cheese. We both came to the same realization, and I saw what it meant to Tashayul reflected in his eyes. First he would whittle my blade, then he would pare me down to foolsplinters.
Double sure I was to die that day, my choices for the rest of my life narrowed considerably. I could die short or die long. The latter seemed the likelier choice, but it came with pain, which brought it into question again. Of course, I was thinkin
g, I could share some pain with Tashayul and tarnish his victory. After all, at sixteen summers I was not the one fated to kill him, but I'd heard of no prophecy concerning suffering on his part.
I attacked. Scuttling forward, I slashed low at his forward leg and actually caught him in the ankle. My blade scarred the leather of his boots, but did not get through to his flesh. Snapping my wrist down and around, I disengaged from his parry and came up in a circular slash that reached toward his flat belly. He gave a step, then batted my blade aside with his armored sleeve.
His blade came up on a wrist-twist cut that had no power, but still looked to slice me from navel to nose. Ducking my left shoulder, I went down and over in a roll that brought me halfway 'round him. By the time I came to my feet and backhanded a slash at his legs, he'd spun and parried me hard wide. That gnawed my blade again and won him back the initiative in our fight.
With his back to the Elves, he drove hard at me. Twice he came high right, forcing me to take his cuts on the forte of my blade. Like a woodsman's ax on an old tree, his sword sent chips flying from my blade. When he came in the third time, I lunged in a stop-thrust that should have spitted him, but he had anticipated me. He came up short and brought Khiephnaft around in a sweeping cut that trimmed two inches from the end of my sword.
I recall hearing that piece of steel clatter, ringing like a bell, on the courtyard floor. I shifted my sword to my left hand as I recovered, stamp-feinted with my right foot, then advanced with my left and angled a thrust at his groin. My thrust came slow and clumsy, a final act of desperation.
Tashayul's parry came hard and quick. He trapped my sword against the courtyard stones, then a final push with bunched muscles shattered my worried blade. The strength of the parry tore the hilt from my hand, smashing it down against the stone. It bounced and cartwheeled away, back behind him, toward the waiting Elves.
Once A Hero Page 2