At last the applause died, and Egil once again stood in the center of the amphitheater floor. Dressed in black and looking every bit the sinister figure, he held his deadly axe in his hands and slowly raised it above his head and the hall grew quiet. “Dear Queen Gudrun”— again he turned to the crowd—“and milords and ladies and honored guests”—he flourished his lethal weapon in a whirl and some ladies in the hall gasped—“I may seem Death’s champion”—he grounded the steel head of his axe to the floor and leaned upon the oaken helve—“yet I am as nothing when compared to the exotic golden warrior of distant Ryodo, mysterious realm to the faraway east. I give you Lady Aiko”—Egil paused, one hand clutching his neck—“but I warn you: watch for your heads.”
As Egil stepped from the amphitheater to stand below and to the right of the throne, Aiko moved to center floor. She bore her plumed helm under one arm, and her swords were sheathed in scabbards harnessed across her back. Upon reaching the midpoint, she paused, and then bowed deeply to the queen, followed by a bow to the guests left and right. She donned her strange helm, with the skirts of the cap flaring out to step down nearly to her shoulders and ’round the sides and behind. A nose guard projected down the front to join with the cheek guards. The peacock plume atop the cap arched over and back to lie at a shallow angle. If the guests had not seen her beforehand, they could not have said whether this warrior was male or female.
Aiko stood for long moments with her eyes closed and her arms extended out to her sides, her bright green and red and blue and orange and violet and yellow ribands hanging down and still. Then she whirled and spun, her ribands streaming, and suddenly her swords were in her hands, the steel flashing in the lantern light. And she danced, or drilled, depending on how one looked at it, twisting, turning, weaving, advancing, retreating, leaping and landing, forward, backward, side to side, the swords gyring and spiraling, her hands reversing their grips so that the blades lay along the length of her forearms, only to reverse again. She thrust ahead and thrust behind, and turned and kicked and thrust, and whirling she slashed the air, so swiftly the blades hummed. She ran up the floor and down the floor and ‘cross the floor side to side, all the while hacking and slashing, spinning and cutting, her streaming ribands like streaks of rainbows trailing after, and the crowd oohed and ahhed. And she whirled and gyred, spinning faster and faster as she came up the floor toward the dais, a blur of leather and bronze and steel and color, until she was before the steps, and of a sudden she stopped, facing the throne, her swords now sheathed—just how or when she had done so, none could say. And slowly, carefully, she removed her helm and bowed low to the queen.
The hall erupted in roars of acclaim and thunderous applause, and the queen herself pounded her trencher table, setting crockery and knives and spoons aclatter. And Delon in shimmering blue and green stood and applauded, and he swept his iridescent plumed hat from his head and bowed low. Seeing Delon’s display, a flash of rage crossed Gudrun’s face, only to be replaced by a smile that went no further than her mouth. She held up her hands for quiet, and when it fell, “Most impressive,” she said, “but I wonder if it is as deadly as it seems.”
Gudrun turned to her left and called out, “Stahl.”
A tall man in black leathers with a saber girted at his waist stood at a nearby table and bowed. “Milady?”
“Stahl, you are my champion. Can you best this yellow warrior?”
The crowd drew in its collective breath and, from his place to the right of the throne, Egil started forward, only to be stopped by a glare and a raised hand from Aiko.
Stahl smiled and stepped to the amphitheater floor. He was lithe and lean, perhaps thirty, and he towered over Aiko by a head or more. “My queen, the true test of the sword is in battle and blood…not in a dance.”
Gudrun turned to Aiko. “What say you, sword dancer, will you test your skills against my champion?”
Aiko glanced up at Stahl, now at hand, and said, “I do not fight merely for show.”
Stahl snorted in derision, but the queen raised an eyebrow. “Ah, then, golden warrior, you fight for principle or prize?”
Aiko stared flatly at Gudrun. “Either or both.”
“Then what will you have?”
Ignoring Egil’s silent gesture of negation, Aiko asked, “What do you offer?”
The queen gestured magnanimously. “If you win, take what you will.”
Dissembling, Aiko looked about, her gaze passing over golden goblets and jewelry and other riches. “Would you give me a ring?”
Gudrun raised her hands so that her jeweled rings faced Aiko. “Any we wear.”
Still disguising her true goal, Aiko then turned and gestured at a serving girl. “Would you give me a thrall?”
Gudrun smiled. “Any of our slaves.”
Now Aiko drew nigh to that which she truly wanted and held out a hand toward the left-hand wall. “Would you give me an animal from your gardens, or perhaps a bird?”
Stahl growled, “She delays, my queen.”
Agitated, Gudrun snapped, “If you win—ha!—we will give you all four: a ring, a thrall, an animal, and a bird. Do you accept?”
Aiko smiled slowly. “Oh, I will take but one and not all, if I but have your word that you will freely give me what I choose.”
“You go too far, yellow woman, when you question our word. Yet we, Gudrun the Comely, Queen of the Jutes, do so swear.”
Stahl turned to Aiko. “You have bargained for your reward should you win, yet it is a bargain made in vain, for I will be the victor. Regardless, there are two sides to any bargain, and so I ask: what will you give when you lose?”
Aiko looked up at him. “What would you have?”
Stahl turned to the queen. Gudrun shrugged noncommittally and said, “Ask what you will, my champion.”
Stahl leered down at Aiko. “I ask that you spend the night pleasuring the royal guard.”
The hall burst into laughter and there was a smattering of applause. But above it all there came a cry from Arin: “No, Aiko, pledge not.”
Alos, goblet in his right hand, pitcher in his left, lurched to the edge of the amphitheater and called out in his native tongue: “Nei! Nei løfte!”
Egil, too, protested, shouting “No,” but once again Aiko quelled him with a staying hand.
She turned to Stahl. “I do so swear.”
Stahl grinned wolfishly and then turned to his table and called out, “Braun, my main gauche and helm!”
As a rotund man rushed out from the chamber, Aiko began removing her bright ribands. Egil stepped to Aiko’s side and stood taking the ribands from her. As he reached out for the bright green one, he whispered, “Aiko, you don’t have to do this. There are other ways to get what we came for.”
Aiko looked at him and murmured back, “But this way we have it given to us freely.”
“If you win, Aiko. Only if you win.”
She glared at him, then her gaze softened. “Fear not, my friend, for I will not lose.”
Finally the last of her ribands was loose, and Aiko took up her helm and removed the peacock feather and handed it to Egil, who slipped it through a band in his hat. She donned the helmet and drew her blades and stood and waited, her leathers dark, the small bronze plates sewn on her jacket dull in the lanternlight, her steel helm casting no glints, her swords now in hand. She looked every inch a grim warrior, and Stahl was taken somewhat aback, yet he was taller, heavier, and would outreach her by a foot or more.
The rotund man came scurrying back into the hall. He bore a main gauche and an open-faced helmet with chain-link hanging down ’round the back from side to side. Stahl donned his steel cap and handed Braun his belt with its scabbarded sword, then he drew the blades, the main gauche in his left hand, the saber in his right. Bearing the scabbards and belt, Braun scurried away.
Aiko faced him, her eyes shaded by her helm. “To first blood?” she asked.
Stahl nodded. “To first blood.”
Together they
walked to the very center of the amphitheater floor, Aiko seeming tiny beside his towering form. When they reached midfloor, Aiko called out to the assembly entire: “This will be no courtly mock battle with elaborate flourishes for show—but to first blood instead.”
And Stahl called out: “But should someone suffer a fatal wound, well, can I help it if my skill is so great?” He bowed ’round to all as they cheered and called his name.
Alos, sitting on the edge of the amphitheater shouted out: “Focka du!” Then he raised his pitcher to his lips and guzzled from it.
Now Aiko and Stahl turned to face the queen and bowed.
“Let it begin,” she cried.
The duelists faced one another and saluted with swords—Stahl’s gaze arrogant, Aiko’s impassive—then dropped into crouches, circling warily. Of a sudden in a whirl of steel, Aiko sprang forward, her blades but a blur—
—cling-clang, shing-shang, cling-clang, shang-zs—
—and after but eight quick strokes she disengaged and stepped back.
Frowning, Stahl looked at her—“First blood,” she said—and then he felt the warm trickle running down his right cheek.
Unbelieving, he struck his right hand to his face and wiped. His fingers came away wetly scarlet. An incredulous gasp went up from the crowd, and Stahl, stunned, turned to his queen. “Milady, hers could not be but an accidental touch. I demand true satisfaction. Let not the whim of Fortune settle this match.”
Aiko looked impassively at Gudrun. “Fortune goes to those who are most prepared.”
The queen glared at Aiko and showed her teeth in a rictus grin. “To second blood,” she hissed.
“Madam, I protest,” called Egil.
But Aiko held up a hand to silence him and then turned to Stahl. “To second blood, Stahl. But be warned, if it’s to third blood we must go, then it will be to the death.”
Stahl clicked his heels together and bowed his head sharply in acceptance.
Once again they saluted with their steel, the look in the queen’s champion’s eyes now uncertain, wary, the look in Aiko’s impassive. As before Stahl dropped into a crouch, but Aiko stood erect and waited, turning to face him as he circled. Then in a blur, steel skirling on steel, she attacked—
—shang-clang, shing-shang, chang-shang, clang-zs—
—and once again she disengaged and stepped back, calling out: “Second blood!”
The crowd groaned, for a trickle of blood now streamed down Stahl’s left cheek.
Unbelieving, Stahl looked at the golden warrior and her blades, and opened his mouth to speak. But Egil had crossed the floor to come to Aiko’s side, and he escorted her to stand before the queen. “Milady,” he said, bowing, “Lady Aiko has proven her skill, not only by drawing first blood, but by drawing second blood as well. She bargained fairly for reward should she win, which as you can see she has done. Hence, let her choose her prize, then let us resume your celebration of love.”
Queen Gudrun glared at her disgraced champion, then through gritted teeth hissed at Aiko. “Of the four that I offered, choose.”
“Den flugl, den flugl!” cried Alos, waving his pitcher aloft, then whispering to one and all, “We want the rutting bird.” And he gulped down another great swallow, red wine running across his cheeks to dribble onto the lapels of his tan jacket.
Aiko wiped the tips of her blades clean on one of the ribands Egil yet held, then sheathed her swords in the scabbards at her back. Then, with her hands on her hips and her feet apart in a balanced stance, she faced the queen.
Now Gudrun leaned forward on her throne and snapped, “Well, what will it be, yellow woman: ring, thrall, beast, or fowl?”
Silence fell as all waited to hear Aiko’s choice, and somewhere in the distance above the susurration of rain a bugle sounded.
Aiko looked up at the angry queen and her gaudy escort, then she glanced at Egil with the iridescent peacock feather in his cap. Suddenly her eyes widened in revelation and she turned to the queen and smiled and pointed. “I’ll have him.”
She had singled out Delon the Bard.
CHAPTER 41
What?” asked Egil, stunned.
Fire lighted Delon’s eyes and he leapt to his feet.
“You cannot be serious!” exclaimed the queen.
“Oh, but I am, milady,” answered Aiko. “It is Delon the Bard I want.”
Wine sloshing in his hand-held pitcher, Alos staggered a few steps out onto the floor, shouting, “Nei, nei, Aiko. Den flugl, den fockan flugl!”
“You cannot have him,” declared Gudrun.
Her gaze hard as flint, Aiko placed her left foot on the first step of the dais. “Would you go against the gods and break your word? The word of Gudrun the Comely? Pledged here before all your vassals? A thrall you promised, any of my choice, and the silver collar and chain marks Delon as such.”
In the great hall the guests sat transfixed, silent but for a murmur here and there.
“You cannot have him, for he is to burn tomorrow and join my other beloveds.”
Delon gasped in startlement.
A vision of pyre-blackened stone in an enclosure behind the castle flashed through Aiko’s mind. Now she stepped her right foot to the second tread of the dais. Through gritted teeth she declared, “Then you will give him to me ere then.”
“Bah!” shouted Gudrun. “I will give him to you afterward—his ashes, that is.”
Now Aiko moved her left foot to the third tread.
“Stahl!” cried the queen.
But Egil stood with axe in hand between Gudrun and her champion, and Stahl raised his saber to guard. The guests drew in a collective breath, waiting.
In that moment the doors to the great hall boomed open, and inward, followed by the door warden, strode three mud-spattered men in dripping cloaks. They cast back their hoods, revealing the one on the left to be Baron Steiger; of the remaining two, the one on the right with a bugle depending by baldric from his shoulder was a young man who could have been Stahl’s brother; the other was a bearded man in his forties, and Egil’s eye widened in recognition and the scar on his forehead and cheek flared red. But ere he could say aught, Steiger pointed at Egil and shouted, “There he is, my Duke, the vile Fjordlander who slew your brother!”
Duke Rache drew his sword, as did the baron and the other man, and the duke called out, “Prepare to greet Hèl, Fjordlander.”
“Kill them!” cried Gudrun, triumph in her eyes. “Kill them all!” Her finger stabbed out: “That man and his comrades: this yellow woman, the Elf there, and that old man!”
Before any could move, Aiko drew a sword, and with a single stroke, she clove through Gudrun’s left wrist, the severed hand clanging to the dais as the silver bracelet struck stone then fell free from the stump. Gudrun shrieked in horror and pain, her eyes widened in shock as blood fountained from the cloven wrist, and Aiko hissed, “Be grateful it wasn’t your head.” As Gudrun’s eyes rolled up and she fainted, the golden warrior turned, and in the same movement sent a shiruken whispering through the air to take Baron Steiger in the throat, and he fell to the floor gurgling.
A second shiruken thunked into the back of the neck of the door warden, who had turned and was running for the exit, and he stumbled and fell, his spine severed, the man dead before striking the floor.
Guests screamed in fear and scrambled back against the walls…all but Arin, who reached beneath her gown and drew her long-knife from the scabbard strapped ‘tween ankle and knee. She moved to stand in the main doorway, her blade gleaming in the lanternlight. The guests, many armed with nought but ornamental daggers, did not try her skill.
“Get her,” cried Duke Rache, pointing at Aiko. “The Fjordlander is mine and mine alone!” and with a snarl he attacked. Stahl and the other man charged toward Aiko, and she whipped her second sword free and stood on the dais waiting. Delon dashed left and down, the silver chain and bracelet ringing upon the stone.
Rache’s sword clanged against the Fjordlander’s
axe, driving Egil back and away, so great was the duke’s fury. But then Rache’s blade met swinging axehead and shattered at the hilt. Momentarily, Rache looked at the bladeless grip in his hand, then flung the hilt clanging away, and shouting in rage, his arms outstretched, his hands like claws, Rache leaped at Egil, and was slain by a blow to the skull. Without giving the duke a second look, Egil turned and ran toward the dais to aid Aiko.
Stahl sprang up the steps and closed with the golden warrior—shing-shang—to be skewered. “Third blood,” growled Aiko, jerking her sword free from Stahl’s toppling corpse in time to meet the next foe.
This man moved upward warily, his rapier held across his body. But then from behind a silver chain whipped ’round his neck, and he was jerked from his feet and fell backward down the steps, his head striking granite as he tumbled, and when he came to the bottom, he moved no more. As Delon untangled the chain, he looked up at Aiko. “Time to go, I believe.”
In a hall filled with weeping women and quailing men, Aiko glanced at unconscious Gudrun, the queen’s wrist yet pumping blood. Aiko turned to the cowering guests and called out, “I will take my prize, now, and leave you with that which you have earned.” Then the golden warrior moved down the steps.
When she reached the bottom, Egil said, “We are in the stronghold of the foe and must needs go over the wall, yet our rope is in our room. Too, we have to get the rutting peacock.”
Aiko shook her head and jerked her chin toward Delon in his gaudy, iridescent apparel. “Look at him closely, Egil. What else could he be but our rutting peacock?”
The Dragonstone Page 27