by Ian Irvine
“Then why are you repudiating it?”
“Because I’m a man of my word.”
“An oath is an oath. No conditions can be placed on it.”
“Then prove your mastery over me in combat,” said Rix. “If you dare.”
It was a challenge Grandys could not refuse, even had he wanted to. Which of course he did not. His triumphant leer suggested that he had been expecting it. I’m predictable, thought Rix, and he isn’t. But give me the tiniest chance and I’ll drive my concealed dagger into his eye so hard it’ll come out the back of his head. Let’s see him come back from that.
“Bring the third prisoner,” said Grandys, grinning so broadly that it was almost tearing his bloated face in two.
Another prisoner was dragged out, a slender young woman with a cloud of wavy hair that flamed in the firelight. The lump in Rix’s belly became a spiked ball rolling back and forth, tearing through him. No!
The guard yanked her head up by the hair.
Her name burst out of Rix, “Glynnie!” Only now did he truly realise how much she meant to him. He lurched around, staring at Grandys. “How did you know about her?”
“She cried out your name when I commanded you at Glimmering. I see everything, Rixium. And when I happened on her in the raid on the chancellor’s camp last week, I knew she’d come in handy.”
“Sorry, Rix.” Glynnie bowed her head.
“Enough of the cooing and the cow eyes,” said Grandys. “Your little maidservant is the prize – for the winner.”
“What?” Rix croaked.
“You win, you get her,” Grandys said carelessly. “I win, I get her.”
Rix dragged out his sword. For Glynnie’s sake he must not fail. With his right hand he had been a brilliant swordsman; the match of most men in the land. And Grandys was drunk, which must slow him a little.
Rix wasn’t as dexterous with the left but after all the practice he was very good. Now he fought as though possessed, using every ounce of his skill and creative flair. He could not afford to be predictable, or allow his strokes to repeat themselves. The moment Grandys identified a pattern he would strike, and that would be the end of him – and Glynnie.
Rix could not afford a long battle, either. The longer he fought, the more likely his injury would bring him down. He attacked with a hail of blows, testing one weakness then another, and as he fought, and Grandys defended, Rix saw a reluctant admiration creeping into the Herovian’s eyes.
“You’re testing me,” said Grandys in amazement. “You’re actually testing me. Who taught you?”
Rix did not reply. He could not spare the energy. He drove Grandys back with another fusillade of blows, then rocked him with three blows in succession from his dead hand – a punch in the mouth, another to the right eye and a third to the bearded chin. The last would have knocked out most men, and it rocked Grandys back on his feet, but he did not go down.
He spat out two broken, opal front teeth. His eye was swelling badly; Rix could see red through the cracked armour around it. He looked down at his dead hand, which had been badly lacerated from Grandys’ opal armour, exposing the bone on two knuckles. Had it not been dead, he would have been in agony.
As he leapt forwards to strike a killing blow, his foot came down on a greasy platter someone had dropped on the cobblestones, and he slipped and nearly fell. Instantly Grandys was on him and Rix only kept Maloch out of his heart by the most desperate of efforts.
He was losing strength, losing heart. He could not win. Then he caught the look in Glynnie’s eyes and remembered how utter her faith in him had been, when he had promised to go with her after the war and find out what had happened to Benn. He could not let her down.
When fighting Grandys, the only defence was attack. Rix began another brilliant onslaught and knew it was his last, for his strength was failing and his vision beginning to blur. Twice he got his sword to Grandys’ chest, and once to his throat, drawing blood there, but could not penetrate the man’s defences. It was time for the last throw.
He slipped his dead hand into a sheath he’d stitched into an inner pocket. He’d previously practised clamping onto the dagger with his dead hand, then throwing the weapon using his arm rather than his hand. It was a desperate ploy and if he missed, as he probably would, Grandys would tear his throat out.
But the knife wasn’t there.
Grandys guffawed, exposing the huge gap where Rix had knocked out his front teeth, and fished the knife out of his own pocket. “Looking for something?”
Rix attacked desperately but the best of his strength was gone. He knew he was beaten; Glynnie was lost.
“Had you watched ever since I renewed the command spell, boy,” sneered Grandys, “the moment you started practising knife throwing with your dead hand, I knew what you were up to. I was going to bait my trap with the Pale slave but your maidservant is even better. And now she gets to watch you die – proof that I’m the better man for her.”
“Rix, behind you,” cried Glynnie.
Too late. The sword was struck from his hand and he was caught from behind in a wrestler’s grip he could not break.
“Bring him here,” said Grandys, dropping Maloch on a bench.
His right eye was turning purple through the cracked opal armour; it was so swollen that he could only see out through a slit. He tore a flagon from a soldier’s hand and drained it, spilling wine down his front like purple blood then, staggering drunkenly, headed down the slope to a water cistern on the left side of the open gates of Bastion Cowly. Grandys never shut the gates of his fortresses, for he had no fear of any man.
“You know what to do,” said Grandys, jerking a thumb at the cistern.
Lengths of broken timber were scattered all around, from the breaking of the gates. They would have made useful weapons if Rix had been able to reach one, but he was securely held.
The wrestler lifted Rix upright. Grandys gave him a blow in the mouth that loosened his front teeth, another to the chest that almost stopped his heart and a third to the groin that made him shriek. A second man seized his feet and they heaved him over the low side of the cistern. He crashed through a thin sheet of ice into the freezing water.
“Gather – gather round, one and all,” Grandys said, now slurring his words. He was drunker than Rix had ever seen him, but still strong, still dangerous. “Ounce of gold to the man who can guess… who can guess how many seconds Ricinus… survive. Bring the maid. Might make her more friendly.”
CHAPTER 95
Bastion Cowly had taken the message. The gate guards were swinging the wooden gates shut and the guards were scrambling up onto the wall, but too late. Before they could slide the heavy bars across the inside of the gates, Grandys and Syrten struck them together and forced them open.
Then it was on, Grandys attacking the hapless defenders with unusual savagery, even for him. Rix was sickened by the bloodshed. He could not stay close to the man, could not take part in it. He allowed a gap to open up between himself and the two Heroes, trying to knock his opponents out rather than kill them. Rufuss stalked past, killing like a blank-faced automaton. The doomed defenders counterattacked bravely; the battle broke up with dozens of little melees, and Rix lost sight of Grandys.
Rix fought half-heartedly, never wanting to raise a sword again, and when a big guard came at him, swinging a club, he was too slow to avoid it. It struck him on the side of the head and he went down.
He lay there, seeing double, so dazed that he lost track of what was happening. Grandys’ army surged past, chasing the defenders and hacking them down. Rix crawled several yards, bumped into a heap of bodies and stalled. He could hear shouting, the clash of swords, the screams of men, women and children, but they seemed to be coming from further and further away…
“There he is, the craven bastard,” said Grandys. An iron-shod boot thumped Rix in the ribs. “Get up!”
He groaned and gave a feeble heave. It felt as though his head was tearing open, but he could
not come to his knees.
“Pick the cur up!”
Two soldiers lifted Rix to his feet, then had to hold him upright. He forced his eyes open. It was dark and a fire blazed not far away. He must have been unconscious for hours. He was drenched in dried blood, though only the flaking blood on his face and in his hair was his own.
“Well?” said Grandys. He was drunk, as he was at every feast. It only made him meaner.
“Hit with a club,” said Rix. “Didn’t see him.”
“It didn’t look like you wanted to fight today,” said Grandys. “Drag him up to the feast, lads. We’ll show him how we treat cowards around here.”
The castle was small, and it was only a hundred yards to the bonfire they had made from the furniture. A bonfire so huge that it shouted Grandys is here to anyone within five miles. Butchered beasts were roasting on spits. Light rain was falling and an icy wind curled around the castle yard.
In the background Rix saw a row of bound prisoners. His gut tightened. He knew what was in store for them after the feast and, judging by the despairing looks they were giving one another, so did they.
Benches were drawn up before the fire and the troops were eating and drinking, wrapped in coats and blankets. The soldiers dumped Rix on a bench by himself and he slumped there, freezing on one side and roasting on the other. Platters of greasy, half-raw meat were carried around, along with jugs of beer and flagons of a purple wine so strong that it stripped the enamel off teeth. Rix knew he would have to drink, so he forced down several mouthfuls of stringy horsemeat. At least the grease would put a lining on his stomach.
It seemed to help. By the time he swallowed the last of it, he felt a little steadier, and even took his turn at jug and flagon without disgracing himself by throwing up. But all the while, the knot in his gut was growing. Grandys kept looking his way, then eyeing the prisoners and grinning. He always carried out his threats.
Rix could not watch any more prisoners put down, especially not these innocent folk, none of whom were soldiers. He had to strike now, before Grandys began. At least he might save a few lives in exchange for his own.
Grandys wiped his greasy hands on his month’s growth of beard, then took up Maloch, leering at Rix as if defying him to intervene. The feast went silent. Everyone was looking from Grandys to Rix, waiting for him to challenge, and be killed.
He forced himself to his feet. His head spun, but settled. He propped himself on the point of his sword for a moment, then stood upright. Had the command spell broken? If it had not, he would die for nothing.
“No more killing of innocent prisoners,” he croaked.
Grandys beckoned to the guards. A man and a woman were hauled up. Grandys put them to death with no more feeling than if they were bags of wheat.
The drunken soldiers roared, “More, more!”
“That’s enough!” cried Rix.
The pain in his gut was so bad that Maloch might already have been embedded there. He looked around at the soldiers, then back to Grandys, and met his eye. Be strong, Rix thought. This is your hour, and it could save the world – or if you fail, doom it.
“Before all these witnesses,” he said in a voice that echoed back from the bastion walls, “I repudiate my oath. You’re a mongrel, Grandys, and I can serve you no longer.”
“Your oath stands,” snarled Grandys, “until the moment you die.”
“An oath given under duress of sorcery is meaningless.”
“Then why are you repudiating it?”
“Because I’m a man of my word.”
“An oath is an oath. No conditions can be placed on it.”
“Then prove your mastery over me in combat,” said Rix. “If you dare.”
It was a challenge Grandys could not refuse, even had he wanted to. Which of course he did not. His triumphant leer suggested that he had been expecting it. I’m predictable, thought Rix, and he isn’t. But give me the tiniest chance and I’ll drive my concealed dagger into his eye so hard it’ll come out the back of his head. Let’s see him come back from that.
“Bring the third prisoner,” said Grandys, grinning so broadly that it was almost tearing his bloated face in two.
Another prisoner was dragged out, a slender young woman with a cloud of wavy hair that flamed in the firelight. The lump in Rix’s belly became a spiked ball rolling back and forth, tearing through him. No!
The guard yanked her head up by the hair.
Her name burst out of Rix, “Glynnie!” Only now did he truly realise how much she meant to him. He lurched around, staring at Grandys. “How did you know about her?”
“She cried out your name when I commanded you at Glimmering. I see everything, Rixium. And when I happened on her in the raid on the chancellor’s camp last week, I knew she’d come in handy.”
“Sorry, Rix.” Glynnie bowed her head.
“Enough of the cooing and the cow eyes,” said Grandys. “Your little maidservant is the prize – for the winner.”
“What?” Rix croaked.
“You win, you get her,” Grandys said carelessly. “I win, I get her.”
Rix dragged out his sword. For Glynnie’s sake he must not fail. With his right hand he had been a brilliant swordsman; the match of most men in the land. And Grandys was drunk, which must slow him a little.
Rix wasn’t as dexterous with the left but after all the practice he was very good. Now he fought as though possessed, using every ounce of his skill and creative flair. He could not afford to be predictable, or allow his strokes to repeat themselves. The moment Grandys identified a pattern he would strike, and that would be the end of him – and Glynnie.
Rix could not afford a long battle, either. The longer he fought, the more likely his injury would bring him down. He attacked with a hail of blows, testing one weakness then another, and as he fought, and Grandys defended, Rix saw a reluctant admiration creeping into the Herovian’s eyes.
“You’re testing me,” said Grandys in amazement. “You’re actually testing me. Who taught you?”
Rix did not reply. He could not spare the energy. He drove Grandys back with another fusillade of blows, then rocked him with three blows in succession from his dead hand – a punch in the mouth, another to the right eye and a third to the bearded chin. The last would have knocked out most men, and it rocked Grandys back on his feet, but he did not go down.
He spat out two broken, opal front teeth. His eye was swelling badly; Rix could see red through the cracked armour around it. He looked down at his dead hand, which had been badly lacerated from Grandys’ opal armour, exposing the bone on two knuckles. Had it not been dead, he would have been in agony.
As he leapt forwards to strike a killing blow, his foot came down on a greasy platter someone had dropped on the cobblestones, and he slipped and nearly fell. Instantly Grandys was on him and Rix only kept Maloch out of his heart by the most desperate of efforts.
He was losing strength, losing heart. He could not win. Then he caught the look in Glynnie’s eyes and remembered how utter her faith in him had been, when he had promised to go with her after the war and find out what had happened to Benn. He could not let her down.
When fighting Grandys, the only defence was attack. Rix began another brilliant onslaught and knew it was his last, for his strength was failing and his vision beginning to blur. Twice he got his sword to Grandys’ chest, and once to his throat, drawing blood there, but could not penetrate the man’s defences. It was time for the last throw.
He slipped his dead hand into a sheath he’d stitched into an inner pocket. He’d previously practised clamping onto the dagger with his dead hand, then throwing the weapon using his arm rather than his hand. It was a desperate ploy and if he missed, as he probably would, Grandys would tear his throat out.
But the knife wasn’t there.
Grandys guffawed, exposing the huge gap where Rix had knocked out his front teeth, and fished the knife out of his own pocket. “Looking for something?”
R
ix attacked desperately but the best of his strength was gone. He knew he was beaten; Glynnie was lost.
“Had you watched ever since I renewed the command spell, boy,” sneered Grandys, “the moment you started practising knife throwing with your dead hand, I knew what you were up to. I was going to bait my trap with the Pale slave but your maidservant is even better. And now she gets to watch you die – proof that I’m the better man for her.”
“Rix, behind you,” cried Glynnie.
Too late. The sword was struck from his hand and he was caught from behind in a wrestler’s grip he could not break.
“Bring him here,” said Grandys, dropping Maloch on a bench.
His right eye was turning purple through the cracked opal armour; it was so swollen that he could only see out through a slit. He tore a flagon from a soldier’s hand and drained it, spilling wine down his front like purple blood then, staggering drunkenly, headed down the slope to a water cistern on the left side of the open gates of Bastion Cowly. Grandys never shut the gates of his fortresses, for he had no fear of any man.
“You know what to do,” said Grandys, jerking a thumb at the cistern.
Lengths of broken timber were scattered all around, from the breaking of the gates. They would have made useful weapons if Rix had been able to reach one, but he was securely held.
The wrestler lifted Rix upright. Grandys gave him a blow in the mouth that loosened his front teeth, another to the chest that almost stopped his heart and a third to the groin that made him shriek. A second man seized his feet and they heaved him over the low side of the cistern. He crashed through a thin sheet of ice into the freezing water.
“Gather – gather round, one and all,” Grandys said, now slurring his words. He was drunker than Rix had ever seen him, but still strong, still dangerous. “Ounce of gold to the man who can guess… who can guess how many seconds Ricinus… survive. Bring the maid. Might make her more friendly.”
CHAPTER 96
The rebellion was going to end in a massacre. Tali had to come up with a new plan, fast.