by Garon Whited
“Victory?”
The council of nine consulted each other by eye. The spokesman, a burly, bearded man shook his head.
“The challenger lives.”
I held up the helm again.
“He lives because I permit it.”
“He challenged your worthiness as a warrior, not your rights as a First.”
“I am worthy,” I told him, feeling my annoyance rise again, “and I decide who I kill.”
“His life is forfeit.”
I stood over his supine form, drew Firebrand, and hefted Osric’s mace.
“Osric of—”
Barachel, Firebrand supplied.
“—Barachel challenged me,” I shouted. “I defeated him. His death is mine to mete out, but I choose not to. His life belongs to me, not to you.”
“His challenge is one of life and death.”
“And he’s lost his life. It’s mine. Are you going to come down here and take it from me?” I did not add “you pompous bag of wind,” but I might have thought it loudly.
The council of nine fell back from the rail and huddled up. The muttering from all around the arena seemed like an echo.
Hazir put on his helm, took his sword and shield, and came out to stand beside me.
“You’re mad,” he told me, as Galtos and Jolus started toward us. “Mad, but you’re also right—and I hate you for it, a little.” A moment later, three more warriors hefted weapons and came out.
“Yes,” I agreed. “Yes, I am. And I don’t like me much, either, sometimes.”
The gradual movement of warriors did not go unnoticed on the platform. They kept glancing out to the arena. By the time the council lined up at the rail again, there were thirty warriors surrounding us. One of them knelt by Osric, talking quietly to him. Osric remained on the ground, looking in two different directions at once.
“For a false challenge, the life of Osric of Barachel is forfeit,” they decided. “It now belongs to you, Al of Lucard, newest member of the First of Sarashda. Do with him as you see fit.”
I lowered my weapons.
“I thank the council for its wisdom and its mercy. May I ask what standing the council chooses for me?”
“You take Osric’s standing. You are twenty-second of the First.”
Resistance is futile, I thought.
I bowed politely. Several warriors helped carry Osric off the field and laid him on a bench along the wall.
This concluded the major excitement of the day. The council of nine pulled up chairs—servants pulled up chairs for them—and sat by the rail to watch. Everyone else found someone to beat on and they started practicing. I checked Osric over while Hazir sat down on a nearby bench to watch.
“Get your hands off me!”
“You’ve got a dislocated shoulder and possibly a broken collarbone,” I replied, mildly. “I’ll break your head if you don’t shut up and lie still.”
“And I’ll hold you,” Hazir added.
He shut up and lay still. I put his dislocated shoulder back where it belonged and dinged him with the healing spell in my ring. I also prodded his collarbone, gently. He grunted at the shoulder, winced slightly at the bone. The bone didn’t move. I got out my pocket mirror.
“Look at me.” I flashed the sun in his eyes, watching the pupils. They seemed normal. “I think you’ll be all right. How’s your neck?”
“It hurts,” he replied, as one might to an idiot. I suppose it was a stupid question.
“I’m not surprised. Go to bed and stay there for a couple of days. Put pillows around your head to keep your neck straight and still. Try to keep it from moving for at least three days, then be gentle with it for a week—no sudden movements—even if it doesn’t pain you.”
“What are you, a physicker?”
“I’m a warrior who’s seen a lot of injuries and remembers how they’re treated. Get your own physicker, if you like.”
“I’ll do as you say, since I belong to you,” he said, bitterly. I grabbed him by the gorget and pulled him half-up from the bench.
“Now you listen to me, you arrogant son of a bitch. I’m short-tempered today and I went to both great effort and great risk to not cut your head off and use it as a projectile. You show all the gratitude of a spoiled child. So here’s your life—and you’re welcome to it. Do with it as you will, for I wash my hands of you and all responsibility. Live well or in misery, die nobly or in agony, but no longer think you can trouble me with your woes.”
Hazir looked startled. Osric looked stunned. That may have been due to the wall, though.
“Wait, I—”
I shoved, slamming him back down on the stone bench with a clanking thud. I walked away, ignoring him. With a little luck, his stiff neck would loosen up. Eventually.
Hazir walked with me to a bench in the shade. We sat down together and he half-smiled.
“Osric seems uncommonly well,” he observed.
“He’ll be fine, if he takes my advice, which I doubt.” I grumbled as I applied a cloth to my brow. “He’s not my problem, now. Tobar is. How did Tobar convince him to risk his life? I didn’t think I insulted him that badly.”
“Neither did I. Osric is a headstrong and prideful man. He works under Tobar’s tutelage, however, and may have misinterpreted a suggestion.”
“Under his tutelage? He’s a trainee?”
“No—not exactly. How do the First of your home make their way, in a monetary sense?”
“Investing. Land, farms, mines, craftsmen—we own things and take a share when other people use it.”
“I do not understand.”
“Look, if I own… let’s say I own a farm. It’s mine. Now, I can work the farm and raise a crop—don’t give me that look. It’s an example. If I work the farm, I harvest a crop, I sell the crop. Fine. On the other hand, if I get a farmer to raise a crop, he knows what he’s doing. He raises a better crop and I ever could. He sells it and makes more money than I would. I take a share of the profits because it’s my land, my farmhouse, my barn, all that—he’s basically renting it from me. He makes a profit, I make a profit, and we both make a living.
“Now, when I own three farms, I can’t work them. But my renters can. If I own a mine, I can dig ore, but not much. If I have miners dig it out, they get a lot more of it, and I get a share of it. See how this works?”
“It sounds like heresy,” he suggested, watching my eyes. I don’t know what he was looking for, but he found puzzlement.
“How so?”
“You would be of the merchant class to do so, not the warriors.”
“Didn’t Devlin rent me her mine?”
“She was asking for a bribe,” he reminded me. “To conduct commerce of that nature would be beneath her. To rent a property would require the use of a member of the merchant caste.”
“Ah. Yes, I see your point. So, tell me more about how Tobar and Osric are making a living.”
“Tobar, as one of the First, has the right to teach the arts of the warrior. Osric, being one of the First, may also do so. Under Temple law, Osric may teach on his own, but the custom is for the council of nine to be the formal instructors. In practice, and in this case, Tobar has one of the nine schools in Sarashda. Osric and some others of the First—not on the council of nine—work to teach students there, as in the other schools.”
“Got it. And you think there was a miscommunication?”
“If, as we suspect, Tobar is behind this challenge, it is possible Tobar had something else in mind when he spoke to Osric. It would help explain why the council of nine did not insist on his death, but gave his life to you, instead.”
“Gave?” I echoed. “Judging by their hesitation, those fatheads wouldn’t have agreed without your assistance.”
“And the insistence of others,” Hazir agreed. “But it is still a defeat for Tobar. Regardless of the order or misunderstanding behind this, he would not want one of his subordinates killed. It would reflect badly on his school.”
“Yes, but not as badly. He will likely feel he has been more deeply slighted, now.”
I grunted a noncommittal. I dislike being the target of someone’s misapplied vengeance. To be fair, I dislike being the target of properly applied vengeance. Hell, I dislike being a target.
We sat together and watched the lower-ranked warriors beat on each other for a while. Several of them were quite good, too, if a bit sloppy. I was reminded of fighter practice when I participated in the Society for Creative Anachronism. Lots of good fighters, there, too, and a lot of them self-taught. Which is most important? Natural talent, determination, or a good teacher?
“Want to beat on each other with sticks?” I suggested.
“No. I’ve seen your work.”
“Oh, come on. Maces are heavy and slow. I’m talking about swords.”
“It is not appropriate. You are twenty-second. I am only thirty-sixth.”
“So you’ll learn something. Maybe I will, too.”
“Which reminds me. Are you looking for students? I was asked while you fought with Osric.”
“No, I don’t think I am. But wouldn’t that violate custom?”
“If you take on private tutoring? No. You may teach an apprentice—or your son—without fear. More than three, however… Opening a school would be against the custom.”
“Ah, I get it. Still, no. I’m just offering to practice with you, nothing more.”
“It would still be improper?” he half-asked. “You are well above me in rank.”
“You’re not challenging me for a position, dammit.”
“Perhaps. If you insist?”
“If it’ll help, I insist. Come on. You can’t sit back and let your armor do all the work.”
Hazir reluctantly followed me to the weapons rack. I selected one of their sword-sticks to match the one Hazir took. We found an open space and had at each other.
I thought I detected a pattern. Hazir was a good technical fighter. His footwork was precise, his attacks and parries picture-perfect, but his practical education was somewhat lacking, much like Osric. From what I saw, there was a clear division between the heavily-armored, wealthy gentry of the fighting class, and the lighter-armored, lower-income members. The wealthy were trained formally in a scientific fighting method. The not-wealthy were schooled in Hard Knocks Academy. Each method had its good points. Hazir, for example, was fast and precise, but he didn’t adapt well to unexpected circumstances. People in less fanciful armor were often lacking in some of the finer points, but they responded well to almost anything. They weren’t limited by their training to only expect certain avenues of attack.
Out on a battlefield, no doubt the heavily-armored Firsts would acquit themselves well. In a dark alley, on the other hand, I think I want some of the others on my side.
To illustrate: Hazir was never body-checked before. I swept both our wooden swords out of line, stepped forward and turned as I slammed into him, knocked him flat, then helped him up. We practiced the maneuver, both to the right and the left, until he was hitting me hard enough to stagger me. Hazir finally decided he’d had enough.
“Why is it you still stand?” he asked, working his shoulder after the last impact.
“I’ve been hit like this before. While you’re practicing hitting someone to knock them down, I’ve already had practice at taking the hit.”
“Ah. There is an art to this crude and brutal maneuver?”
“There is,” I told him. He considered me, still standing, while he continued to rotate his shoulder. From our relative sizes, he no doubt thought he outweighed me by twenty pound or more.
“I believe you.”
We moved to the benches again, in the shade. I fetched my basket and we parceled out lunch. Hazir sent his flunkies off for some fresh fruit, bread, and beer. I sliced meat and cheese for the flatbread. We ate in a companionable silence for a while.
“Al of Lucard?”
I looked up. Galtos and Jolus stood at a respectful distance. I beckoned them over, started wrapping meat and cheese in a flatbread.
“Hazir, these are Galtos and Jolus. Jolus, Galtos, this is Hazir.”
“We are acquainted,” Hazir informed me.
“Just making sure. What’s on your mind, gentlemen?” I handed Jolus a makeshift burrito. He accepted it with surprise.
“We couldn’t help noticing—”
“Everybody noticed,” Galtos interjected.
“—you were out on the sands.”
“Yes?” I prompted, handing another burrito to Galtos. He nodded his thanks and tore into it.
“I know you are both of the First, but may I… that is, if we are not presuming too much…?”
“If all you want is to practice, I’m game.”
“You are?” Hazir asked, eyebrows climbing.
“We’re all warriors, yes?”
“Yes.”
“And the objective of all warriors is to be better warriors?”
“Yes,” he agreed, cautiously.
“Then maybe they can teach me something.”
“They are not of the First.”
“Who among the First is going to practice body-checking with you?”
“You make a strange point, but it still seems odd.”
“Is there a rule against it?”
“A rule? No. It simply is not done.”
“I’m an iconoclast. Tell you what,” I said, turning to Galtos. “You help Hazir work on knocking people down, and on not being knocked down. I’ll work with Jolus. Anything in particular you want to practice, Jolus?”
“Disarming. Captives can be ransomed. Bodies can only be looted.”
“A wise and practical man,” I observed. “Let’s see how far we get before the fresh food comes back.”
It didn’t start out so great, but I think it turned into a good day. My shoulder hurt and my wrists were aching, but it still felt good to get into a fight or fifty without worrying about being killed. I don’t even remember all the names of everyone who wanted to fight me. It seemed as though everyone wanted to. I didn’t exactly oblige. Went ahead and pounded people—men and women alike—hard enough to convince them I knew what I was doing, then showed them what they did to let me do it.
It was a lot less effort than simply doing mock battle all day long. I should get out more often, make more friends, and pretend to try to kill them.
This was my feeling as Bronze carried me back to the valley of the mine. We followed the road to the valley, turned up and around on the switchback to the overlook where the mine entrance lay, and stopped dead.
My door was open.
While it’s true I don’t have a lock in the usual sense—no door-mounted, key-based system—the inside of the door has two wooden bolts, both of which slide into holes in the rock wall. I bolt the door from the outside with my patented Psychic Vampire Powers™. I figured it was good enough, since there was no mundane way to open it from the outside.
I was wrong. There’s no way to open it from the outside if you want to keep the door. On the other hand, with an axe and determination, it can be done.
Bronze took station facing but to one side of the door, smoke trailing from her nostrils, tail twitching and ready to lash. Her mane stood up a trifle, shifting like hair underwater. I stood on the other side and drew both swords.
Firebrand?
I don’t hear anyone.
We’ll be cautious, just in case. Prepare to flare.
On it.
Bronze applied one forehoof to the door and it flew open. I thrust Firebrand around the edge and it pulsed with an eye-searing white glare. I entered at an angle, getting out of the doorway itself, and looked for targets. When nothing exploded, zapped, or screamed, Bronze craned her neck to one side and peeked in.
We needn’t have bothered with all the caution. No one was there. I did a quick check of the rest of the tunnels to be certain while Bronze guarded the entrance. W
e took stock of the situation.
My power crystals, left charging in their lamp-brackets, were gone. Someone chiseled out the crystals formerly mounted in the wall to power my escape gate, as well. Whoever it was also helped themselves to my food supplies while they were robbing the place. One of the divinity dynamos was wrecked, smashed on the floor and against a wall. The other was still in place and running—possibly because they upset the first one, spinning at high speed, and it banged around violently? Whatever the reason, they didn’t touch the second one. On the other hand, they took my altar ego’s sigil. They also took my wall-mounted mirror. It wasn’t a fancy mirror, but it was a good one of glass and silver I’d already smoothed and refined, so it was a high-quality one. About the only things of value they didn’t take were the loops of metal wire embedded in the rock—my escape gate and my grab gate.
As for the rest, it was tossed about, turned over, broken, and disarrayed. If they were looking for money, they were disappointed. I carry most of my cash. Well, Bronze does. If someone wants to dig it out of her pockets—the integrated saddlebag-boxes—they’re welcome to try, and good luck to them.
In retrospect, I know what I did wrong. I paid my rent. Someone noticed two big bars of gold, realized today was a warmeet day, and put two and two together.
I pushed the remains of the door closed and started a repair spell on it. With the spell running, I played jigsaw-puzzle with the largest bits and they stuck together. Wood is much easier to work with than rock! I also spent some time and effort on a hefty electrical discharge spell. The next person to hit my door much harder than knocking on it was going to feel the wrath of Tesla. I also righted my banged-around dynamo and started a repair spell on it, too. Osmium tends to crack instead of bend, so playing jigsaw-puzzle with it was required. Once the pieces were at least precariously in place, I let the spell run on its own to meld the pieces into a true whole again.
With that done, I found a nice rock, sat on it, and pondered what to do next. As I pondered, I realized my glowing ball of light was much brighter. It didn’t illuminate the room, but it was bright enough I thought it should, if it was normal light.