by Chogan Swan
“Without me,” whispered Nimshii, “Your inheritance will crumble. Power will slip through your fingers. Your enemies will trample you and hang your head at the gates of the city.” Morningstorm could not hear, but his lip-reading was excellent.
“I know my enemies,” said Arturo with force. “At least I know one of them.”
“You won't be rid of me,” said Nimshii. “A weaponsmaster's duties are far more than teaching. Your father knows I am of use to him. As for this other matter, I cannot afford to let this attempt to thwart me pass. I will kill whoever you have put up to this. He will die in agony. Perhaps you will come to your senses again.”
“I have come to them now,” said Arturo. He stepped back and walked to his father again.
“Your man is crazy enough to fight him?” Morningstorm whispered.
“I know what I'm doing, Father,” Arturo said, voice quiet and even.
“So be it then,” replied the high lord with a sigh. He stood. “Both parties will come to the seaside practice field in one hour. There will be a recess of the council until tomorrow morning.”
Taking his cue, the steward rapped his staff again, and Morningstorm, swept out the door, surrounded by his guards. Arturo and his knights followed at a respectful distance. The weaponsmaster signaled the sergeant-at-arms to take over his post and stalked out alone. The room erupted with speculation and hurried conferences.
The sergeant-at-arms moved aside, letting the lords of the city fight to reach the doors. But the steward—banging with his staff for order—was swept away by the throng. It would be crowded at the seaside practice field, and everyone wanted a good view.
~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~
At the practice field, the air buzzed with the speculations of the gathering crowd. The mid-morning sun warmed the day, but—though they were close to the sea—the wind failed to push away the smells of the city. Seth sat on a campstool. Keri stood behind him, looking at the crowd and rubbing his shoulders. Seth didn't need the massage, but he figured Keri needed something to do, so he wasn't protesting.
He looked at the battleground from their position in the midst of a clump of Arturo's guards. They sat at the edge of the roped-off battle area in the middle of the practice field, a circle about fifty yards across. The ring was flat and dry, a packed sandy earth—no trouble with footing.
Though the crowd sounded large, he couldn't see to the back, so he couldn't be sure. Nobles perched atop wagons and carriages, holding scented kerchiefs to their faces or breathing through clever, expensive masks that filtered the foul air. Their guards tried to push the press back and keep order, but Seth saw a few cutpurses and pickpockets working their trades. Arturo's carriage, pulled by four matched grey geldings, trundled towards them through the crowd. Thirty mounted guards went in front clearing a path, and twenty came behind. The carriage and guards pulled to the front of the crowd, displacing a section of spectators. Arturo pushed open the door of his carriage and looked out. Seth stood and walked over to offer him a hand down, but Arturo shook his head.
“I would rather get on my horse from up here; still a bit stiff in that leg.”
“AAK! Does Ibuchan never stop stinking?” Fletch groused, settling himself on the carriage window. Then—remembering his manners—he added, “Greetings, Lord Arturo.”
“Greetings, Fletch,” Arturo replied with a slight bow. “You are welcome to perch on my shoulder if you would care to. That way no one will feel inclined to throw a rock at you. My guards take things like that a bit personally. That's why they're called my personal guard, don't you know.”
“A generous offer, my lord,” said Fletch, with a flap to Arturo's shoulder. “But a poor pun; you remind me of a co-regent I know.”
Arturo chuckled, “Seth, your raven friend is a treasure. It must be good to be sure you will always hear the truth uncluttered from someone.”
Seth laughed. “Even uncluttered truth can be tactful, but Fletch has seldom been accused of that.”
Arturo motioned him closer and lowered his voice. “They should be here soon. Nimshi can't be certain he will face you, but I think he suspects it. I tell you, it felt good to stand up to him at last. I feel as full of hope today as I do of worry, and both at war with each other. Seth... you must beat him.”
Seth squeezed Arturo's shoulder.
“Here they come,” Keri said in a grim voice.
Fifty mounted light-cavalry pushed through the crowd, followed by the royal carriage and fifty more mounted men. The weaponsmaster lead the column. He dismounted, threw off his dark cloak and stepped into the circle. He wore a leather shirt—Seth noted the light metal plates sewn inside and his leggings cased in whalebone and steel mesh. As usual, he was all in dark, violet and black.
Seth drew Gidrun and handed the scabbard to Keri. Arturo had given him a light helm, and Keri slipped it on his head, buckling it tight. It protected as much as possible without interfering with vision.
One guard opened the door of the royal coach, and Morningstorm D'amo stepped out to the applause of the crowd. His guards set up a chair and a V-shaped booth to protect his back from the threat of an assassin's arrow.
When the high lord was seated, the weaponsmaster walked to the center of the circle, trailed by his second—Commander Cor. Seth ducked under the rope and Keri followed. They stopped a wary dozen steps from Nimshi and Cor.
“What will it be then, my mysterious challenger? Shall we contest with staves, knives, or more obscure weapons from the ancient days? The crowd would like to see a show... I can stretch it out awhile if you want to live a few more moments.”
“Swords; I have my weapon,” Seth said.
“Yes, I see, the blade you chose at the weapons practice, is it not? Tell me, have you remembered anything else besides which end to hold? I have many questions about you. Perhaps you will answer them when you are in sufficient pain.”
“Perhaps not,” Seth said, “Let's get started; I have other things to do today.”
“The sword then...” said Nimshi. “Commander?”
Cor stepped to the edge of the rope then brought back the weaponsmaster's blade. It too was black, a narrow blade, blunt at the bottom and double edged at the point. Seth recognized the style—forged in Tyr-Goth. Cor and Keri stepped back, staying just inside the rope on opposite sides of the circle.
Nimshi moved in with a casual saunter. He stopped just out of range, holding his blade with one hand, then eased forward on guard. When the points of their swords were just past each other, he brought his blade into line; Seth countered as he did, a minuscule movement of the tip. This was a subtle and deadly game. From this range, either could lunge into a killing thrust, there would be no time for a swinging attack. The tips of the blades danced, circle... counter circle... wrist somewhat higher... then lower. The crowd muttered; when would they start fighting? Few had any idea the fight had begun in earnest; their blades had yet to touch.
Then there was a lightning flicker of blades and a quick musical chiming. The weaponsmaster stepped back frowning. He’d been blocked, each tiny circle countered before he’d completed it. Not only stopped, but stopped as he started.
Seth could see him considering a new plan. Seth’s focus sharpened, the brief attack had brought him back into practice. His mind and body remembering every lesson Marshall had pounded into him. He waited, watching Nimshi. This time the weaponsmaster would come in harder; he’d want to test for strength. Seth considered how much to show him. His overall strategy would depend on it.
~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~
Keri muttered, fretting. “What are they doing out there?”
“He's still alive,” said Arturo.
“Don't worry, he is quite good at this,” said Fletch. “Don't tell him I said that,” he added in afterthought.
“You are so confident he will win?”
“I have it on good authority,” said Fletch, “that he is perhaps the best swordsman in the five kingdoms.”
Arturo's ey
es widened. “What authority?”
“William Marshall,” said Fletch.
“But... he's been dead eight years,” protested Arturo.
Fletch chuckled in his raspy voice, “Marshall would tell you that was an exaggeration.”
~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~
Nimshi came back in on the attack, harder this time. Seth gave ground, appearing a little more rushed in his responses, waiting for an opening. The weaponsmaster was building a pattern, looking for responses.
Seth stepped by Nimshi's next high thrust with a riposte that sunk past the plate protecting the weaponsmaster's chest and into the pulling muscle beneath the collarbone.
~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~
Nimshi jumped away with a startled oath. He'd been touched; hurt; it had been two decades since anyone had injured him in a fight.
For an instant, he thought it had been luck, and was about to go back in. He was angry now, and he wanted to finish this young upstart, but something told him otherwise. Somehow, he knew he'd lost the second round too. The next one could be fatal. He was already losing blood. He stepped away and circled to the right, stamping his left foot in a pattern.
Seth moved counter to the circling, keeping their positions within the ring equal. He closed in.
~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~
Fletch hissed to Arturo, “Lord, there is a man with a dart tube in the crowd behind the second. He is trying to get a shot at the prince.”
Arturo started, “Fitzroy! Sniper behind Commander Cor, can you hit him?”
“He gives no target,” replied the Perthian knight voice tight, his bow was already at full draw, waiting for the shot.
Fletch launched himself from Arturo's shoulder. Arturo drew his blade and kicked his horse forward, slicing the encircling rope out of his path.
Keri was already running across the ring. She’d seen the dart tube in the same moment Fletch had.
~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~
Out of the corner of his eye, Seth saw Keri dashing past. Nimshi moved to intercept.
In that moment, Seth understood; Nimshi's plan was to move aside to allow an attack from behind him. Keri moved to foil it.
Seth dashed forward, cutting off Nimshi's rush toward Keri.
Nimshi slid to a stop and parried to save himself.
“Hey, Cor!” shouted Keri, her knife whirred as it spun through the air between them.
Cor threw himself flat.
The knife flashed by his head as he ducked, almost parting his hair with the wind of its passing. The sniper wasn’t so lucky. He crumpled, the hilt sticking out of his throat. Cor looked up. Keri had a knife in each hand, both poised to throw. Arturo and his knights were thundering across the circle toward him. Cor shrieked and curled up into a ball.
~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~
Arturo pulled his mount to a sliding stop before a screaming crowd of onlookers, who were struggling to get out of his path. Arturo’s guard halted their charge with only a few riders—who couldn't see what was happening up front—unhorsed in the rear. They recovered fast, leaping again to their saddles.
The crowd—still not adjusted to the idea they were not to be trampled after all—kept screaming and pushing to get away. Some hid under wagons, rich and poor alike huddling together in hasty companionship.
Arturo glanced at the dead sniper then at commander Cor, “Arrest that one for conspiracy,” he snapped to one of his guards then looked around in panic. Nimshi was gone; Seth was gone. He saw Keri fighting her way through the crowd.
Fletch swept by his head. “This way! This way!” croaked the raven as he flapped after Keri.
Arturo wheeled his horse and whipped him back in the way they’d come. His guards moved out of his way then turned and spurred after him. The crowd on the other side of the practice field—by this time expecting something like this to happen—scattered. Arturo and his guard thundered after the raven into the heart of Ibuchan.
~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~
I was right behind him.
Seth stopped at a crossroads. The streets were almost empty. Everyone was still at the seaside field for the duel.
Above him, Fletch croaked, “Straight on. Straight on.”
He plunged forward. Seeing a flicker of movement ahead, he sped up, but then came a corner and he had to slow, coming around it with caution.
A black-clad leg vanished down another side street. The man was fast. Seth sprinted after him. This street was wider, with no alleys—nor any doors or windows close to the ground. At the end of the street, the massive doors of a stone temple swung open for Nimshi who ran as though the wolves of the starveling hunt were behind him.
Nimshi slid through the narrow opening, screaming, “Shut them quick, you slugs. Shut them and drop the bar.”
Seth clenched his teeth. He wouldn't make it in time. The spider was in its hole. Justice would be mocked.
The doors were shutting. When Seth arrived, only a slight crack remained. He threw his body against the door and pushed with every ounce of strength he had. Still the crack narrowed.
No!
He would not allow it. He remembered Jyrmak's warning voice.
You must not use the power in anger.
But this time his spirit urged him ahead with its cry for justice.
“Hold!” he commanded.
A white wall of fire rose to meet the door.
It stopped closing. He smote the door with his hand.
The fire moved forward; the door tumbled inward with a cloud of dust and debris. Dazed, robed men lay mixed in the pile of rubble, boards and dust.
Nimshi stood on a flight of steps leading up out of an inner courtyard into a temple's large dark chamber.
“I know what you are now, island man,” screamed Nimshi. “Go away. Go back. I am not without power. Only one word is lacking in my contract to the shadow. If I speak it, you will face the power of the baal.”
“Speak it then, and meet your doom,” Seth said. “It would be worse punishment than any I could give you, but it will change nothing. I have overcome spirits of the Dark before this. They are not invulnerable, no matter what the Hand would have you think.”
“I could kill you myself,” snapped Nimshi, “but I won't need to. We're on my ground now. Reinforcements will be here soon.”
Seth grinned, “Mine or yours?” He walked forward.
Nimshi turned and fled into the building.
Seth followed close.
~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~
Keri, breathing hard, staggered up to the shattered doors and scanned the wreckage. Other than a groan from someone beneath the boards, the courtyard was quiet. She took a few steps. Trapdoors in the ground flew open, and a flood of yellow-robed men vomited up from the earth, acolytes with cold eyes and armed with ugly, curved scimitars. Keri dashed up the steps and through the inner doors of the temple, slamming them shut behind her. She located a steel bolt on the back of the doors and slid it fast. There was a moment of hesitation outside then the acolytes battered at the door of their own temple.
Keri looked around; only dim, red light from a crimson stained-glass window lit the chamber. A dark spot covered a patch of the floor. She touched a finger to it and raised it to her nose, sniffing—blood. Another drop lay further down in front of a side passageway. This one looked as though it had fallen from someone running; it was elongated and smeared. She followed the trail.
~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~
“Down here. This way.” Fletch croaked. Arturo and his knights thundered up the street and through the broken temple gates. The courtyard milled with bald men in yellow robes waving scimitars and beating at the door to the inner sanctuary. “Lay down your weapons, I command you,” shouted Arturo. The acolytes turned to see the source of this new disruption. A thrown scimitar, cut through the air toward Arturo's head, but his quick parry knocked it from the air. His personal guard gave an ugly shout and drew their swords. They charged past Arturo toward the mob of monks. Arturo sighed. This would
be messy.
~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~
Seth was getting close. After a few turns and branchings of the hall, the light from the entrance had disappeared, but his quarry knew the way well and sped on without hesitation. Seth followed the garnet colored glow of footprints on the cold stone floor and the flickering eddies of heat left by the passage of the weaponsmaster's body.
To his eyes, the walls were a ghostly blue, cooler than the air surrounding them. His eyes were getting better at this. He rushed on, close on the heels of the black-robed man.
~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~
Keri was lost. After a few yards, she could no longer see the spatters of blood; it was too dark. Though blinded, forged ahead, trying to run her fingers along the walls to keep track of side passages. She moved faster, getting the hang of what she was doing, but then an unexpected stone pillar caught her square, head on, and she fell stunned.
After a time, she pulled her wits back together.
How long have I been dazed?
She struggled to her feet. Rapid footsteps were approaching. Still groggy, she almost shouted a warning about the pillar, but thought better of it and crouched by the wall instead. The mystery runner knew about the pillar, because he missed it, but Keri was an obstacle he hadn't counted on. A foot hit her leg, and a knee smacked her in the shoulder. With a loud oath, the runner sprawled on the floor.
~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~
Nimshi scrambled to his feet and snatched his sword from its scabbard. He felt odd—not just from the unexpected spill—but something else. Then he remembered; he had said it… in anger at the unexpected collision. The word had been swimming in his head, hammering at his tongue, trying to get out—the last word in the incantation. The words of the hateful island man came back to him.