by Angus Wells
She nodded and emptied her cup. “What did Ellyn want?”
“She offered magic to aid me,” I said, “and I refused.”
Shara smiled. “For honor’s sake.” It was not a question.
“Without that,” I said, “I am nothing.”
Shara said, “No,” and rose and touched my cheek again, and said, “Slay him, Gailard, and live. I’d not see you die.”
I took her hand and for a moment she clutched me, then broke free and turned away. “When this is done … When the fighting’s over and—the gods willing—Ellyn’s enthroned …”
I said, “Yes,” and watched her go.
I wished she’d not, for I wanted her then, and felt such desire for her as I’d not experienced for any other woman I had ever known. I wanted her with me, to hold in my arms and love her, and wake up in the morning with her, and all the other mornings of my life. I desired her in ways I could not explain, and knew that I must wait, and hope, and not know the outcome of my desire until she granted me permission, or rejected me. And all I could do was my duty—my geas—and hope.
We rode out into a bright morning. The sun was already high, and birds sang loud and joyous. The sky was blue and cloudless, the air sweet with the scent of the heather. I wore my battle kit. Mattich rode with us, accompanied by a small honor guard led by Rob. Shara and Ellyn came kitted in their armor, and Mattich carried that long pole decked with feathers that denoted a parley, which bound the clans to honorable talk. Save Eryk was prepared to forfeit all tradition, he must listen to us and let us depart unharmed. My hope was hung on that pole.
We found Eryk’s camp and faced his outguards. Mattich lofted the pole and the guards parted, escorting us through the great bivouac to the grandiose pavilion at its center. They gaped at me as if I were a ghost—which, likely, in their eyes I was. I was, after all, a dead man returned to life.
Word had spread and Eryk came to meet us, accompanied by Rytha. They stared at us, surprised. For a while his eyes lingered on me, as if he could not truly believe I remained fleshed and solid and human. Rytha only scowled and pursed her lips. Then Eryk laughed and said, “So, Mattich, do you come to submit? I see you’ve brought the fugitives, and I thank you. I’ll deal kinder with you for that.”
Mattich lofted his pole and cried, “I come to issue a challenge.”
Eryk said, “I see a beaten chieftain, and a dead man with him—and a girl I’d have. No more than that.”
Ignoring him, Mattich said, “I come to parley.”
Ellyn fidgeted in her saddle as if she’d unleash magic now. Shara touched her hand and murmured too softly for me to catch her words. I stared at my brother, despising him. Rytha fixed me with a gaze full of hatred.
Mattich raised his voice, loud enough all those gathered around us could hear. “I come under truce’s banner to issue a challenge. Gailard of the Devyn would claim his rightful command. He challenges you to single combat.”
Eryk’s puffy face paled. “You claim the right of single combat? You are beaten! I need only give the word, and you are slain.”
“And you are bereft of honor,” Mattich said, raising the pole in a great flourish. “Have you robbed the Devyn and the Agador of all honor? Do you deny the ancient rights?”
The folk around us muttered. I could not tell whether they acclaimed Mattich or supported Eryk. I was aware of nocked bows angled in my direction, and drawn swords, and knew that in an instant we might all be slain.
I said, “Are you afraid, Eryk? You claim command of two clans, but you’d not fight me? Shall you order your men to loose their shafts and slay me in my saddle? That would be easy—and devoid of honor!” I leaned down to face him closer. “I challenge you to single combat, Eryk! Fight me for command of the Devyn.”
Eryk licked his fat lips. “Our father banished you. You’ve no right to claim combat.”
I said, raising my voice, “Are you afraid? Does a coward lead our father’s clan? Do the Devyn and the Agador follow a weakling who’ll not pick up a sword?”
Eryk looked to Rytha, whose eyes were hooded and furious, offering him no escape. I swung from my saddle and passed my chestnut’s reins to Mattich. I stepped a little way forward and raised my arms, turning around as I shouted at all the camp.
“Kill me now, eh? Tell your archers to loose their shafts; tell your warriors to come on and slay me. Gain your sad dreams, and give the Highlands to Talan. And live without honor, all men knowing that.”
I thought I might die then, but I saw a man lower his bow, and another sheathe his blade, and I heard a great whisper of agreement. And saw Eryk chew his mustache and close his eyes as if he prayed.
And then heard him say, no honest choice left him: “So be it. But you’re armored.”
“I’ll give you time to kit yourself,” I said. “Or take off mine.”
Rytha spat, clutching at her husband’s arm. “Slay him now,” she urged. “Tell them!”
Eryk shook his head. “I can’t. I have to fight him.” He stared at me, and I saw him envisage his fate in his own eyes. Surely his was lit in mine. “I’ve no other choice. I must …” He took Rytha’s hand. “Help me gird up, eh?”
I watched them go into their magnificent pavilion and I felt sorry for my brother. I intended to slay him, but I felt sorry for him. I did not know whether our father had made him what he was, or Rytha, or himself. But I knew that I was going to kill him—or he me—and I felt a dreadful sorrow at that. I looked at Shara and saw compassion in her eyes, but no release, no alternative. I drew my sword and waited.
Eryk emerged clad in armor. He wore a deep helmet and a breastplate, his arms and legs kitted with greaves and vambraces. He carried a buckler and a long sword, a wide knife and a small ax belted to his plump waist. Through the eyeholes of his helm he looked to me very angry, as if I had upset all his plans.
A circle cleared around us. I slung my buckler on my left arm and raised my sword. Eryk drew his dagger and clutched it behind his shield, which had always been a trick of his.
Mattich cried, “This combat shall decide who commands the Devyn. By all the ancient rights, the victor leads. Do you agree?”
There was a loud murmur of acceptance, and before its echoes were faded my brother swung his blade against me.
I took his blow on my shield and cut at his legs. For so fat a man he danced back quickly, directing a cut at my head. I ducked under his attack and struck at his belly. He turned his buckler and took the blow, swinging his own sword at my chest. I parried with my shield and cut again.
He turned my blow and sought to close with me. I knew that he’d try to use that knife, and so I held him off, buckler crashing against buckler, swords swinging and probing. He began to pant and I began to laugh—a soldier’s trick, that he should have recognized, but he only panted as if his splendid armor weighted him down and he sought only to slay me. He saw that he’d not get close enough to knife my ribs and began to swipe his blade at me in great scything arcs. And so it went, blow for blow, swords crashing on shields, parrying and riposting, sparks flying from our blades. Eryk began to sweat. I saw the glistening droplets fall from his face, and I pressed harder. My head ached and I could feel my wounds stretching. I feared they’d begin to bleed and weaken me. And Eryk was a harder enemy than I’d anticipated, for he was driven by ambition and desire, and he fought better than I’d believed he could.
But then I cut him, where his greaves ended and the joining of his armor allowed me a deep wound. I took his counterblow on my buckler and pressed in hard, and turned him so that he was exposed. And sliced my blade across his leg. He cried out, as bright blood spurted over his pretty armor, and staggered back—which allowed me another blow that sent him stumbling as my blade rang off his helm.
I felt a madness come on me then, as if the drawing of his blood summoned up all my resentment and granted me an unnatural strength. I rained blows against him until his buckler hung from a weakened arm. I struck against his head and smashe
d his sword aside and put my point into his throat, and turned the blade as I felt it grate against his neck. I saw a great spurt of crimson erupt, and darted back to avoid its fountain.
Eryk fell down then, blood coming from his mouth and the wound in his throat. And I kicked his shield aside and planted my blade in his belly, and drove it deep and turned it, so that he squealed and twisted like an insect pinned on a needle.
I watched him die and felt a terrible sadness, and a great triumph, and raised my sword and shouted, “Who commands the Devyn now?”
And heard Rytha scream, “Not you!”
She came at me with a drawn dagger, naked bloodlust in her eyes. It was pure instinct to put up my shield, but I could not bring myself to use my sword. I backed away. I felt a curious, cynical amusement. Had I come so far, slain my own brother, only to die at the hands of a spurned woman? I deflected her blows, hiding behind my buckler, and she screeched, “Fight me like a man, Gailard! Or are you afraid?”
I heard Mattich bellow, “A fair combat! Eryk was slain in fair fight and now Gailard commands the Devyn!”
There was a murmur of agreement that got louder, like a wind gathering strength, until it was a roar of assent. I continued to fend off the enraged woman even as I heard individual voices shouting.
“Yes! Gailard leads the Devyn now.”
“Gailard is clan chief!”
“Long live our chieftain!”
I thought that did I not strike Rytha down, I might not live long enough to enjoy my new-won position. And that did I strike her, even only to wound, I should likely forfeit the allegiance of the Agador. And I needed both clans to follow Ellyn; I was caught in a quandary. I backed around the circle of onlookers, Rytha’s blade clashing against my shield. I heard laughter, and some few voices I took to belong to the Agador saying such things as, “He can’t fight a woman.”
Then Ellyn sprang down from her horse and slammed her buckler against Rytha’s back even as she thrust forward a foot to entangle the older woman and send Rytha sprawling on her face. She waited until Rytha turned, that plumpened face red with outrage, and set her swordpoint against the thickened neck.
“I could kill you now.” Her voice was harsh and cold, and deliberately loud, that all should hear. “But there would be no honor in that. So I offer you a challenge.” She paused, her sword still at Rytha’s throat, and glared around. “I do not properly understand how you Highlanders do these things, but I am Ellyn of Chaldor, and the blood of my mother, who was Dur, and that of my father, Andur of Chaldor, flows in my veins, and I challenge you to fight me.”
There came a great shouting at this, so loud I think only Rytha and I heard Ellyn’s next words, which were calm and chill as ice on a winterbound stream: “And save you slay me, I shall kill you.” I saw Rytha blanch then, and try to wriggle away, but Ellyn’s sword held her down as all around us the babble grew.
There was little precedent for this, save what Eryk and Rytha had established. Women did not lead clans; women might fight, but not in single combat. But Rytha had attacked me, in defiance of the ancient ways, and the clans were confused.
I backed away, sheathing my blade. Shara caught my eye and shrugged; Mattich appeared startled, as if he could understand this no better than any other. Rob stared about, his hand on his sword’s hilt, unsure whether to fight or run.
Ellyn said, “Well?” and took her point from Rytha’s throat.
Rytha climbed to her feet. She was panting and flush-faced. Her eyes reminded me of a rabid dog I’d once seen cornered. She wiped a hand across her mouth, her nostrils flaring, her teeth set in a vicious snarl.
“You, girl? With whose aid? I lead the Agador now, and”—she turned, her furious eyes darting around the circle—“I say that the Agador slay you.”
I raised my buckler to protect Ellyn, but there was no need. Shara’s voice rose over the dying tumult. “And what then of the Agador’s honor?”
Mattich’s deep tones joined her. “Aye! Gailard slew Eryk in fair fight, and now leads the Devyn. Who disputes that?”
The only response was a massed shout of: “None!”
“And so, by ancient right, he commands Eryk’s wife—who gave the Agador to her husband! So who commands the Agador now?”
There were different answers. Most acclaimed me, others Rytha, some called that Ellyn contest the claim. I looked at Rytha and thought that she and Eryk had turned clan law on its head, and now reaped the outcome of their ambition.
Ellyn said again, “Well?”
And Rytha said, sealing her fate, “You’re armored.”
Ellyn laughed and sheathed her sword. “You can put on armor, or I can take mine off—-your choice.”
The muttering began again, growing louder, and mostly what I heard was agreement: “Yes! Let them fight.”
Then Rytha said, “I’m not so mannish as you, girl. I’m not used to armor—but I’ll face you as a clanswoman, with a knife.”
Ellyn said, “So be it,” and turned away. “Shall you help me, Gailard?”
I glanced at Rytha. She eyed her fallen knife and clearly contemplated plunging the blade into Ellyn’s back. I thought that ambition had driven her mad, and held my buckler betwixt her and Ellyn. But then both Mattich and Shara intervened, moving to stand between us as I helped Ellyn unlace her battle kit.
“Can you do this?” I whispered. “You’ll fight with knives.”
“You’ve taught me well, no?” She shrugged out of her breastplate.
“But you’ve never killed anyone.” I helped her strip off her greaves as she unlatched her vambraces.
“I think,” she said with disturbing calm, “that I can slay this creature with great pleasure.”
Stripped of her armor, she drew her knife and faced Rytha. There was a smile on her lips and a dreadful coldness in her eyes.
“So, do we set to it?”
Rytha spat and ducked her head. I watched them both; they bent their knees and extended their blades. I had taught Ellyn somewhat of knife-fighting, of such close-quarters combat, but Rytha was a clanswoman, and had fought this way before. And I cursed myself as I saw her advantage: she wore the plaid—that she might tug from her shoulder and use to entrap Ellyn’s blade, or to cosset her left arm against Ellyn’s cuts, whilst Ellyn wore only a shirt and breeches. And Rytha was a grown woman, Ellyn only a girl—as tall, but slighter, lacking Rytha’s weight, and perhaps her strength. But it was too late to argue such matters as they circled and snarled and came together.
I felt Shara’s hand close on my arm, and heard Mattich grunt, as the blades flashed and crashed in the warm sunlight.
I saw Ellyn’s knife cut Rytha’s plaid, and Rytha’s dart at Ellyn’s belly in a slashing cut. Ellyn sprang back, belly sucked in so that the probing blade missed by a whisker. Her own slashed at Rytha’s face, and had the woman not been so quick, she’d have lost her upper lip. But, like Eryk, she was fast for all her gained weight—and took her face away even as she sought to hack at Ellyn’s underarm. Ellyn was no slower; she made me proud as she avoided the cut and came under it to carve a fraying line across Rytha’s skirt. There was no blood shed—not yet—but Rytha gasped and lurched back, clearly surprised by Ellyn’s skill.
They feinted awhile longer, testing one another, and then Rytha danced forward with her colors swirling at Ellyn’s face. And Ellyn raised an arm to deflect the obscuring plaid and drove her blade at Rytha’s armpit. It would have been a crippling blow had it landed, but Rytha laughed and swung her arm around so that the long swath of cloth wrapped around Ellyn’s head, blinding her, and drove her knife at Ellyn’s ribs. I heard myself gasp as Ellyn fell away, tumbling clear of the swung cloth, a thin line of darkness that I knew was blood showing on her shirt. She let herself fall—as I’d shown her—and rolled, coming to her feet before Rytha had chance to stick her or cut her further.
Rytha almost fell over in her eagerness to end the fight, and as she regained her balance, Ellyn brought her blade across i
n a wide swing that slashed her opponent’s shirt from breast to breast.
Rytha screamed as her shirt fell open to expose two large and bloodied breasts. Ellyn turned her arm and slashed again, and Rytha squealed like a pig at gelding and staggered back. Ellyn came on remorseless, stepping on the trailing plaid so that it was tugged from Rytha’s hand and all the Agador woman could do was retreat in pained panic from the dancing steel.
Rytha blocked more cuts, desperately, sparks flying from the blades, and moved back around the unretreating circle. Neither the Devyn or the Agador allowed her exit, and Ellyn granted her no respite. The blades clattered and flashed and sparked, and through my pride in how well I had taught Ellyn, I felt a horrid distaste. I could not bring myself to harm a woman, but it seemed I had created a woman who could, without compunction. I wondered if that was male pride, or perhaps fear, and watched in trepidation and anticipation of the future.
Which came soon enough, and gave me answers.
Rytha pretended a fall that should have brought Ellyn onto her blade. But Ellyn stood clear and allowed Rytha to regain her feet—almost, had she not brought her blade across the older woman’s face as Rytha darted a stab at her belly. Rytha screamed again as her cheeks and nose were scored, curtaining her jaw with crimson, and lunged forward, seeking to plant her blade in Ellyn’s thigh.
Ellyn pivoted clear, letting the knife go past her as she kicked Rytha’s legs away and sliced her knife down the Agador woman’s back. I saw a long line of crimson slashed down Rytha’s spine, and the tattered remnants of her shirt fall away, so that she rose naked from the waist up. I felt sorry for her, and grateful to Ellyn that she ended it quickly.
She hacked Rytha once more across the face, and then as the woman sought to close and put a blade into her gut, stepped sideways and tripped Rytha again and brought up her blade so that it pierced Rytha’s mouth.