The Reluctant Swordsman

by David Duncan

  "The first oath," he said.

  The youth's eyes flickered again to Wallie's sword hilt. Reluctantly he drew his own again. "I, Nnanji, swordsman of the Second, do swear to obey your commands and to be faithful, saving only mine honor. In the name of the Goddess."

  The onlookers fell silent; something was not right.

  Now Wallie realized that the first oath was too frail for his needs; it was used mainly to impress civilians, as when a small-town mayor might hire a mercenary to clean up a nest of brigands. In this context it was little more than a public acknowledgment of Wallie's higher rank. It reserved the oath-taker's honor, and that could mean anything.

  "And the second oath also."

  That was much more serious, the oath of tutelage. Young Nnanji's eyes bulged, then seemed to count the intruder's facemarks once more. Slowly he sank to his knees, offering his sword in both hands. He lowered it with a worried frown.

  "I am already sworn, my lord."

  Of course he was, and for Wallie to demand his oath was mortal insult to Nnanji's present mentor, whatever his rank, and that must lead to bloodshed. For Nnanji to swear to another mentor, moreover, was technically betrayal, although few would have argued the point with a Seventh.

  Wallie put what he hoped was a stem expression on Shonsu's face-uneasily aware that it was probably a terrifying grimace. "What rank is your mentor?"

  "A Fourth, my lord."

  Wallie drew his sword, and a loud rattle of shingle announced that the priests and healers were leaving.

  "He can't even avenge you. Swear!"

  The lad started to proffer his sword again, then again he lowered it. He stared up at Wallie with tortured eyes. His sword was junk, his yellow kilt had been washed to a threadbare beige, and he had patches on his boots, but he set his jaw in hopeless defiance.

  Wallie was baffled. All he needed was a junior to second him in a duel and here he had run into a death-before-dishonor idealist. A mere Second talking back to a Seventh? The rank stupidity of such obstinacy suddenly infuriated him. He felt a blaze of anger. He heard an angry snarl... his arm moved...

  He stopped it just in time-his sword an inch from Nnanji's neck. Nnanji had closed his eyes, waiting for it.

  Wallie was horrified. What had happened there? He had very nearly-very nearly-lopped off the kid's head. Just for displaying courage? He moved the blade away, to a safe distance. Nnanji, evidently discovering that he was still alive, opened his eyes again warily.

  But it was still a stand-off. Even that narrow escape had not wiped the sullen obstinacy off the lad's face, and Lord Shonsu of the Seventh obviously could not withdraw his demand. Being a highrank swordsman was not quite as simple as the demigod had made out. Hastily Wallie began to rummage through his new knowledge of the swordsmen's craft and he found an escape.

  "Very well!" He gave the command for battle: "Blood needs be shed declare your allegiance."

  The kid's eyes bulged. "The third oath, my lord?"

  "Do you know the words?"

  Nnanji nodded vigorously. He did not ask for details, although in theory he could have done so. It was a lifesaving solution to his scruples. "Yes, my lord," he said eagerly. Laying his sword at Wallie's feet, he prostrated himself totally on the shingle.

  "I, Nnanji, do swear by my immortal soul and with no reservation to be true in all things to you, Shonsu, my liege lord, to serve your cause, to obey your commands, to shed my blood at your word, to die at your side, to bear all pain, and to be faithful to you alone for ever, in the names of all the gods."

  Then he kissed Wallie's foot.

  If that wasn't slavery, Wallie thought, then what was? The god had spoken true when he said that the swordsmen were addicted to fearsome oaths. He gave the reply: "I take you, Nnanji, as my vassal and liegeman in the names of all the gods."

  Nnanji uttered a loud gasp of relief and scrambled to his knees. He picked up his sword in both hands and looked up expectantly. "Now you can order me to swear the second oath, my lord!"

  Wallie almost laughed. Here he was trying to start a mortal combat, and this kid was tying him up in Jesuitic quibbling. Still, there had better be no ambiguous loyalties. "Vassal," he said solemnly, "swear to me the second oath."

  Keeping pale eyes firmly fixed upon Wallie's, the lad swore: "I, Nnanji, swordsman of the Second, do take you, Shonsu, swordsman of the Seventh, as my master and mentor and do swear to be faithful, obedient, and humble, to live upon your word, to learn by your example, and to be mindful of your honor, in the name of the Goddess."

  Wallie touched the sword and gave the formal reply: "I, Shonsu, swordsman of the Seventh, do accept you."

  "I Nnanji, swordsman of the Second, as my protégé and pupil, to cherish, protect, and guide in the ways of honor and the mysteries of our craft, in the name of the Goddess."

  "Well done," he added cheerfully and helped him rise. Now he had a protégé as well as a sword. With a few clothes, he could even start to look the part.

  All the onlookers had gone, except for two brawny slaves who were watching the scene with carefully impassive faces. Slaves, being property, would never be in personal danger.

  "Thank you, my lor... my liege." Nnanji looked like a man who had jumped out of bed and found himself knee-deep in snakes. He slipped his pathetic sword into its scabbard, blinked, and straightened his shoulders. Obviously he was making some mental adjustments. He had just changed mentors, which was no small matter in itself, and he had also just become a vassal-a dramatic event for a swordsman of any rank. The third oath was very rare, given only on the eve of battle and hence never required of a Second. A mere apprentice would not be expected to fight in such things. Perhaps it had never been sworn within the temple grounds before.

  He stared at Wallie doubtfully. He had gone from dull routine to the brink of death-or so he must believe-and then into high adventure. And this highly dangerous opponent was now, if his facemarks were true, a formidable protector. "My liege," he repeated, tasting the unfamiliar word.

  Wallie gave him a moment to collect himself, then said, "Right! Now, Nnanji, there is going to be bloodshed. You will second me. Under no circumstances will you draw your sword. If you are attacked you will make obeisance instead. I waive onus of vengeance." There would be no point in having both of them die if things did not go according to the book. "You know the duties of a second?"

  Nnanji beamed, excited. "Yes, my liege!"

  That was lucky-they came from a sutra much higher in the list than the minimum required for second rank.

  "You will make no offers, nor accept any."

  Nnanji's eyes grew wide at that, but he said yes again.

  Wallie nodded, satisfied. "Now, where is the reeve?"

  "My liege, I think he is in the temple. He was watching the Time of Judgment."

  Of course! He would. Wallie raised his eyes to look across the heat-blurred courtyard to the great steps. The top was crowded with multicolored spectators watching this unexpected drama. Somewhere in there Hardduju must be thinking hard.

  He paused to plan his challenge.

  "What ranks would you expect to be with him, apprentice?"

  Nnanji wrinkled his snub nose. "I saw him earlier, my liege, with Honorable Tarru and two Fifths."

  "Go to him now," Wallie said. "Do not salute! Then say, 'Lord Shonsu sent me with this message.' Keep your right arm at your side with the fist closed, your right foot forward, and your left hand flat on your chest. Show me."

  Nnanji did as he had been instructed, frowning with concentration. The lack of salute was the insult, of course, but the other was the sign of challenge to a Fifth. Nnanji might guess what it meant, but he must not be told its meaning, nor what rank it addressed.

  Wallie nodded. "That's it. Remember-no salute! If you find him alone, then go and get a highrank witness first. And don't answer any questions. He may say that he is coming, but that's all."

  Nnanji nodded solemnly, his lips moving in silence. Then, unexpected
ly, he grinned a huge and juvenile grin-he understood.

  "Off you go, then!" Wallie gave him a cheer-up smile.

  "Yes, my... at once, my liege!" Nnanji shot off across the shingle with his long legs flailing.

  Wallie watched him for a moment. It would be unfortunate, but understandable, if the kid just kept on going through the temple grounds, through the town, up the hill, and over the horizon.

  Then Wallie turned to stare at the two slaves slouching under the meager shade of an acacia. They flinched slightly. He chose the larger.

  "Strip!" he said. The man jumped in alarm, ripped off his black loincloth, and kicked off his filthy sandals. "Scram!" Waffle said, and both men scrammed. He dressed with relief, tired of wearing nothing but bloodstains. The hot sun had already dried him.

  He crunched up the beach to step onto the fiery flags of the courtyard. He had forgotten how very large it was-a city block wide and at least twice that in length. The priests and healers from the beach were strung out across it in order of age, with the youngest and fittest halfway up the steps beyond. Nnanji was still going, past the sixties and fifties, closing in on the forties. Pilgrims and priests were lined up four or five deep along the top, their backs now to the Goddess, studying the drama unfolding at the water's edge. Those vast steps looked like one side of a stadium. That seemed very appropriate under the circumstances a pity that he could not sell tickets.

  Then he identified Hardduju, starting down from the temple arches. With him were four other swordsmen. Nnanji had reached the steps and was angling up toward them.

  Wallie recalled with guilt his first impressions of the temple. He had thought then of megalomania, a rapacious priesthood aggrandizing itself from an impoverished peasantry, but that had been when he was an unbeliever. Today he had talked with a god, and now the temple seemed a magnificent tribute raised by generations of faithful worshipers. Magnificent it certainly was, although its architectural style was alien to him; the columns perhaps from Karnak, with Corinthian capitals supporting Gothic arches and, above those, baroque windows and, ultimately, reaching for the very sky itself, Islamic minarets of gold. Undoubtedly the builders' plans must have been changed and revised many times over centuries of construction, yet the disparate elements had aged into one harmonious, splendid, and reverent monument of mossy, weathered stone.

  Nnanji and Hardduju had met. Wallie wondered if the lad would have enough breath left to give his message. Apparently so, for he turned and started bounding down the steps again, returning to his liege. Please don't break a leg, young Nnanji! Now, would the reeve accept the invitation to a challenge, or summon reinforcements, or advance with his present force? Good-he was coming down with a single Fourth. The other three were following more slowly. The shoot-out was about to begin.

  Nnanji was down to the courtyard again, running back through the waves of heat that now danced above it. Somewhere in Wallie a small voice of conscience was complaining that thou shalt not kill, being told that a god had commanded this killing, grumbling back that at least you shouldst not be looking forward to it. For Wallie was very conscious that his pulse was speeding up and he was relishing the coming fight. Bastinado? I'll show the bastard! It helped when a god had told you that you were going to win.

  Spectators were still spilling from the temple and spreading over the top of the steps like mold. Anxiously Wallie scanned the courtyard, wondering when the rest of the guard would start arriving.

  Nnanji was back, shining a over and barely able to speak.

  "He is coming, my liege," he panted.

  "Well done, vassal!" Wallie said. "Next time I'll find you a horse." The boy grinned and kept on panting.

  Hardduju was following at a leisurely pace. He must be a very puzzled man-how had the prisoner obtained a sword? The most obvious answer would be treachery in the guard-the condemned man had not been taken to the Judgment at all. Was this stranger an imposter as he had appeared, or a swordsman? The signal that Nnanji had given him must have come from a highrank swordsman, therefore Shonsu. If he was not an imposter, then why had he behaved like one in the temple? Yes, Hardduju must be very puzzled. Of course he might suspect something close to the truth, a miracle. Now Wallie could see why the demigod had only partly cured his wounds-Hardduju had seen him just the previous day, and a visibly miraculous cure would be a clear sign that there was divine intervention at work.

  Wallie stood his ground and let the reeve advance to normal conversation distance. The florid face was redder than ever in the heat. The beefy belly was as sweaty as Nnanji's ribs. The man was out of condition, and his weight would slow him. But some of the sweat running down his face must be from fear, and Wallie found that idea very pleasant.

  Nnanji moved to Wallie's left, the Fourth to the other side. Wallie smiled, paused a moment for the tension to grow. Now he knew the rituals. As the younger and the visitor, he was expected to salute first. Then he drew. He spoke the flowery and hypocritical words, flashing his wonderful sword in the gestures. He sheathed it and waited.

  Yes, there was fear. The reeve's eyes flickered around too much. He was delaying his response, knowing what must follow as soon as the preliminaries were over.

  Wallie went ahead anyway and made the sign of challenge-not challenge to a Seventh, but public challenge.

  "Just a moment!" Hardduju said. "You were under sentence of the court. You didn't get that sword at the Place of Mercy. Until I'm satisfied that the sentence has been carried out, I do not recognize your standing."

  Wallie made the sign a second time. A third time would not require an answer.

  Hardduju glanced behind him, then looked at his second. "Go and fetch some guardsmen," he barked. "A prisoner has escaped." The Fourth gaped at him.

  He had brought the wrong henchman, thought Wallie; he had not worked out a strategy in time. Nevertheless, he must not be allowed to delay this contest any longer, or he might manage to evade it somehow.

  "Go!" Hardduju shouted at the Fourth.

  "Stay!" Wallie barked. "Lord Hardduju, will you return my salute in the ways of honor? For if not, I shall denounce you and draw anyway."

  "Very well," the reeve snapped. "But then you will explain that sword to me."

  He drew and began the response-and then lunged. He would have fooled Wallie, and probably nine out of ten swordsmen, even Sevenths, but Shonsu was the tenth. His instincts had been watching Hardduju's left shoulder. When it started to swing away from him, he threw back his own left foot and drew, the superb blade bending like a bow to give him a few precious milliseconds. He parried quinte, but he was off balance, and his riposte failed. Yet it was Hardduju who backed off.

  He stared narrowly at Wallie for a moment; this was no imposter. Then he lunged again. Parry, riposte, parry-for a few seconds the metal rang, and again it was Hardduju who recovered, but he guarded quarte, too low for Wallie's advantage in reach and height. One mistake is enough. Wallie cut at the outside of the wrist. It was an unusual move. Had it been parried successfully, it could have left him open. It was not parried. Hardduju's sword clanged to the ground, and he clutched at his wounded arm.

  "Yield!" shouted the Fourth, although he should have waited for an offer from Nnanji. Nnanji had remained silent as instructed, so the yield was invalid.

  Wallie saw the horror in his victim's eyes, and his resolution wavered. Then he remembered the power of the little god as it had been revealed to him. With more fear than hate he carried out his orders, ramming the god's sword into Hardduju's chest. It slid free easily as the body crumpled.

  The fight had taken about half a minute.

  Wallie Smith was now a killer.

  ††††††

  The clashing of swords was succeeded by Hardduju's death rattle, a brief drumming of heels on flagstones-and then silence, broken by a shrill whoop from Nnanji. He started to come forward, then froze when no one else moved. Wallie, not daring to take his eyes off the Fourth, made the acknowledgment of an inferior. The Fo
urth swallowed a few times, looking back and forth from the dead man to this nemesis from the River. For a few more seconds the issue hung in the balance-would he accept this as a fair challenge under the rules, or shout for the guard and die? There were grounds for dispute, for the rules had not been perfectly observed, but the errors had not been Wallie's, and the man knew it. He drew his sword and made the salute. Wallie responded. It was to be peace-for the moment.

  Now Nnanji could stalk forward to pick up the dead man's sword. In proper form he dropped to one knee and proffered it to Wallie, marring the solemnity of the ritual with an ear-to-ear grin. To be dragooned into service by a naked unknown intruder was one thing; to be suddenly on the winning side in a notable passage of arms was something else entirely.

  Wallie hardly glanced at the sword being offered to him. It was a gaudy weapon with too much elaborate filigree on the hilt to be properly balanced, but it was now his and would be worth a great deal of money. It would also be a much better sword than Nnanji's, and by custom the winner in a duel gave an honorarium to his second.

  "You can keep that," he said. "And see that that thing on your back is returned to the kitchen where it belongs."

  "Devilspit!" Nnanji said, astounded. "I mean thank you, my liege!"

  Wallie wiped his sword on the dead man's kilt in the traditional sign of contempt. "We're not done yet," he said. "Who were Lord Hardduju's deputies?"

  "Only Tarru, my liege, of the Sixth."

  "Honorable Tarru to you, spot. Can you lead me to him?"

  "He's coming now, my liege." And Nnanji pointed to the three men Hardduju had left on the steps. One green kilt and two reds-a Sixth and two Fifths. They were halfway across the court. More swordsmen were streaming down the temple steps, and others into the court from both ends.