Missing eye or no, Toribor was ready for him and warded off the assault easily—but he still made no riposte, no attack of his own. After a few seconds of clashing steel, Arlian stepped back.
All the light came from the same direction, from the inn; it wasn’t bright enough to blind anyone who looked directly at the lanterns, though, so the old sun-in-the-eye trick was no real use. Getting in front of the light might make it harder for his one-eyed foe to see what he was doing, however, so Arlian moved in that direction.
Toribor didn’t cooperate; he moved back and to the side, keeping Arlian and the light at an angle.
Arlian considered that. If Toribor kept that up he could be maneuvered pretty much wherever Arlian wanted him; all Arlian had to do was decide where that would be. He looked at Toribor’s tilted face, at how he was concentrating on Arlian, staring at him, and he thought he knew.
Toribor had adjusted to his missing eye, but he wasn’t comfortable with the darkness; he had probably spent almost his entire waking life in daylight or firelight, and he could not close one eye to keep it adapted for darkness, while the other adjusted to light, as Arlian could. Arlian had both his eyes, and had spent seven years in the mines, with limited supplies of lamp oil; darkness did not trouble him, and he knew a dozen tricks to compensate for low light.
If Toribor would not allow Arlian to block the light, perhaps Arlian could still drive him away from the light entirely. He charged, and in a flurry of steel Toribor retreated.
They were moving away from the inn—and from the observers. As their blades slashed and clanged Toribor said urgently, “Listen, Obsidian—Arlian, Lanair, whatever your name is. You don’t know what you’re doing!”
“Really?” Arlian laughed. “I thought I was trying to kill you.”
“Beyond that!” Toribor said angrily, as he knocked aside another blow and stabbed his swordbreaker blindly at Arlian’s midsection.
“I’m trying to kill Enziet, too,” Arlian said, as his own swordbreaker blocked the thrust. “Is that what you mean?”
“Yes, blast you!” Toribor said, breaking free. “You can’t kill him! You mustn’t!”
“Because he’s the Duke’s chief adviser and the real ruler of Manfort?” Arlian asked, as he waved his sword threateningly. “Because the whole city will be plunged into chaos by his death?” He laughed again. “I think not. The city will survive without him, as it would without any man.” He lunged.
Toribor parried and sidestepped and made a tidy riposte, which Arlian turned scarcely an inch from his own sleeve. For a moment the two fought without words, the clash of steel and the mutter of the now-distant crowd the only sound.
“It’s not that,” Toribor said, as the two men separated and he caught his breath. “You’re right, that’s nothing; the Duke could have a hundred advisers anytime he called for them, and the Dragon Society has a dozen members who might rival Enziet’s abilities. But my lord, none of them know—if Enziet dies, the dragons will return.”
Arlian had been preparing a fresh attack, but he paused, astonished. “What?” he demanded.
Toribor attacked, and Arlian turned it and countered; it had not been a particularly skillful attack, and that, more than anything else, convinced him that Toribor was serious. Had he meant his outrageous claim as a mere distraction he would have followed it with his best, not a halfhearted overhand lunge.
“It’s true,” Toribor said. “Or at least Enziet swears it is, and showed me evidence. Have you never wondered why the dragons gave up their hegemony seven hundred years ago, when all the fighting to that point only demonstrated that we could not harm them?”
“Of course I’ve wondered,” Arlian said, with a quick little feint.
“It was a bargain they made,” Toribor said, barely even bothering to parry. “Humans learned a great secret, and threatened to reveal it, and use it, if the dragons did not depart.”
“What secret?” Arlian said, listening.
“I don’t know,” Toribor admitted. “But Enziet does—and he says he’s the last man alive who does. When he dies, the pact will be worthless, the secret will be lost, and the dragons will be free to return!”
“And you believe him?” Arlian made a thrust at Toribor’s side; he dodged.
“Yes, I do,” Toribor said. “He swore to me, by all the gods and by the dragons themselves, that he and he alone knows the secret that drove the dragons into their caverns.”
Arlian considered that.
It might even be true, he supposed; Enziet was perfectly capable of lying and breaking his word, Arlian was certain of that, but all the same, it might be true. Enziet was one of the oldest living beings in the world—perhaps the oldest, save the dragons themselves—and had certainly been around when the dragons still ruled. If there were such a secret, Enziet might well be its sole holder.
But what could such a secret be? And would the dragons truly return when it was lost?
Could the dragons actually return?
And if they did, could a way be found to kill them? Might that perhaps even provide a route to vengeance for Arlian’s family and neighbors? If the dragons came to him, rather than if he went searching through endless caverns for them, he might actually accomplish his goal.
That assumed, of course, that he could find a way to kill dragons.
Perhaps that was the secret Enziet held, and perhaps he could be convinced to give it up before he died.
“I swore to kill him,” Arlian said. “He murdered my friends, looted my home, and sold me into slavery.”
“He’s done all that and more,” Toribor agreed, “but he keeps the dragons away. Isn’t that more important than vengeance, or justice?”
“He swore to share his secrets with the Society,” Arlian said.
“He broke his oath; he admits it. But he had sworn to the dragons themselves not to reveal it.”
Their duel had slowed as they spoke; now they still stood with weapons ready, but the fight had become a conversation. Arlian risked a quick glance back at the inn.
No one had followed them; the audience still huddled under the lanterns, safe in the light, watching from afar.
“Why hasn’t he told anyone else, then?” Arlian asked. “Why take the risk? What if he were killed by thieves, or in a fall from his horse? He’d let the dragons return?”
“I never said Enziet isn’t a selfish bastard,” Toribor said.
“He deserves to die,” Arlian growled.
“He probably does,” Toribor agreed. “But we can’t afford his death, I tell you!”
“So what do you propose I do about it?”
“Just … just leave him alone, that’s all. And me. I don’t want to die; I don’t even want to kill you. If you’ll swear not to kill Enziet, I’ll let you escape into the darkness, and I won’t pursue.”
“I can’t swear that,” Arlian said. “I will not break my vow, nor forgo my vengeance. Enziet poisoned the woman I love, and she died in the bed beside me, and he will pay for that, dragons or no!” He launched a ferocious attack, catching Toribor off guard—but not so off guard he didn’t manage to parry at the last instant as he retreated before Arlian’s assault.
“You’d rather plunge all humanity back into slavery?” Toribor shouted as he backed away.
“Yes!” Arlian shouted back. “If that’s what it takes! I’ve been a slave, and I survived! We drove the dragons away once, and we can do it again, with or without Enziet!”
“You’re insane!” Toribor yelped.
“I’ll promise you this much, Lord Belly,” Arlian said as he lunged again. “I’ll try to learn Enziet’s secret before I kill him. I’ll try. And if there is a secret, and I learn it, I’ll use it.”
Toribor did not answer. They were well away from the inn now, and Arlian had begun to force Toribor back into the utter darkness of a side street; he was too busy trying to see Arlian’s moves in the dark to speak any more.
Arlian, on the other hand, could still see quite
well enough to suit him. He had dug and hauled ore in no more light than this any number of times. A sword was nothing like a pick, but both could be used well enough in the dark if one knew how.
He lunged, turned, and jabbed low with his sword-breaker; Toribor started back, and Arlian brought his sword across and down.
It was a glancing blow, but he heard fabric tear and heard Toribor gasp in pain, and Arlian knew he had drawn first blood, cutting a gash in his opponent’s leg.
“Blast you!” Toribor said, as he made a wild swing; Arlian ducked under it easily, and took the opportunity to strike again, this time plunging his sword deep into Toribor’s thigh.
As he snapped back into position and withdrew the blade Arlian heard the hiss of indrawn breath. “Listen, Obsidian,” Toribor said, “listen to Enziet when you find him! It’s more important than your dead friends, or my life—listen to him!”
Arlian paused, and stepped back. Toribor seemed to be conceding the duel; Arlian had not expected that.
And he seemed more concerned with Enziet’s life than his own; Arlian had certainly not expected that! He moved his sword into a guard position, considering.
Toribor staggered forward, attempting an attack, but his injured leg buckled under him, and he fell sideways in the dirt.
In an instant Arlian had stepped forward and kicked the sword from his hand. He stood over the defenseless Toribor, his own blade at his vanquished foe’s throat.
There he hesitated.
“Do you want to live?” he asked.
“Of course I do, you bloody-handed fool!” Toribor said, through gritted teeth—his wound was obviously painful.
It wasn’t fatal, though—Toribor had the heart of the dragon, and if he didn’t bleed to death here and now he could recover and heal.
“You’re serious about Enziet and the dragons, then?”
“Yes!” Toribor gasped; he had abandoned any pretense and was clutching at his leg with both hands, trying to stanch the flow of blood.
“Then you listen to me, Lord Toribor,” Arlian said. “You have a choice. You can swear to take your men and go back to Manfort and trouble me no more until I return there, and I’ll let you live—though it’s not over between us, any more than it is between Lord Nail and myself. You both must still make amends for your crimes in Westguard; I’m just delaying the day of reckoning.
“That’s one option. The other is that you refuse this oath, in which case I’ll kill you here and now, regardless of the dishonor in slaying a defenseless foe. You saw what I did to Lord Drisheen; you know I can be ruthless.” An afterthought struck him. “Oh, and in either case, I want Drisheen’s horse and harness. I’ll buy it, or just take it, as you please.”
“I’ll swear,” Toribor said, his voice weakening, “if you’ll swear an oath in return.”
“I’m not going to let Enziet go,” Arlian said.
“Just … swear you’ll listen to him, and consider carefully, before you decide whether or not to kill him,” Toribor said.
“If he gives me the chance, I’ll do it,” Arlian said. “I’ll swear to listen, if it’s not at the risk of my own life.”
Toribor nodded. “Then I swear, by the dead gods,” he said. “I’ll take my men back to Manfort, and you can go on after Enziet, or wherever you please, unhindered.
“And Cricket and Brook stay with me.”
Toribor nodded. Then he held up a hand. “I’ve sworn, and I will keep my word,” he said, “but three of Enziet’s men are on their way to Stonebreak. I have no way to recall them.”
Arlian frowned, then shrugged. “A fair warning, and honorable of you to give it,” he said. Then he backed away, out of the alley and into the street, where he turned back toward the inn and bellowed, “You there! Bring bandages! Lord Toribor is bleeding like a fountain!”
57
Stonebreak
Arlian was wearing an entirely new face, courtesy of a fresh glamour of Shibiel’s making, when he walked into the inn at Stonebreak. He therefore did not worry about being recognized as he took a seat at an adjoining table just behind the three soldiers from Manfort.
He had known they were here by the horses in the stable; no one else in this miserable little town would have had such fine mounts. Arlian had been riding Drisheen’s mare hard for days, leaving the wagon and his companions far behind, trying to catch up to these three; obviously the soldiers had not been dawdling themselves.
What puzzled Arlian slightly was the presence of four fine northern horses in the stable, not counting his own; Toribor had been specific about saying he had only sent three men ahead. Arlian shrugged it aside; he supposed they had brought an extra mount, or perhaps a pack horse.
Certainly, there were only three men in the Duke’s livery at the table. One of them was Stonehand—Arlian had suspected as much when he failed to spot his old enemy in Cork Tree after the duel. The other two soldiers he could not recall ever having seen before.
Arlian beckoned to the innkeeper for an ale as he listened, trying to overhear, unnoticed, what the three were saying as they ate.
“I’d heard that the winds blow away tracks in the Desolation in just minutes,” one man said, “and that’s if the ground isn’t too rocky to show tracks in the first place. We’ll probably never find him up there.”
“Well, if we lose the trail, we’ll turn back,” Stonehand said. He drank deeply from his tankard.
“We could just wait here,” the third man said.
“Or go back to Cork Tree and tell the lords we missed him,” the first said.
“We were sent to find Lord Enziet and warn him that Lanair is on his trail,” Stonehand said, thumping his emptied tankard to the table. “We knew he was in the Desolation. We need to at least take a look at the top of the cliffs. He can’t have gone far yet.”
The innkeeper set a mug before Arlian, who accepted it with a nod; the innkeeper frowned, and Arlian fished a half-ducat from his pocket. Clearly, his credit was not good here—but then, he wasn’t dressed as a lord, but as a merchant, and that at a time when no caravan was in town.
He had missed part of the conversation at the other table; now, as he drank, he heard the third soldier saying, “… see the point of it. We know Lanair doubled back, he’s probably either long dead, or running back to Manfort with his tail between his legs.”
“Maybe we should wait here a day or two, in case they sent a messenger to call us back,” the first soldier suggested.
“No. We’re going up that ravine tomorrow,” Stonehand said, brooking no argument. “We are going up to the Desolation, and once we reach it we are going to see whether we can find Lord Enziet’s trail.”
The other two grumbled, but did not make any further protests.
Arlian drank his ale and studied them, thinking.
They did not know exactly where Enziet had gone; if he simply stayed out of their way they would presumably lose the trail and turn back. Arlian well remembered how barren the Desolation was; did these three even know which route Enziet had taken, east, west, or center? Did they know how the routes were marked?
The Low Road was an actual road for at least part of its length, with markers along the way; perhaps they would follow that, thinking it was Enziet’s route, all the way to the Borderlands.
Arlian was fairly sure Enziet would have taken the unmarked Eastern Road.
If these three turned back, or if they took the Low Road, then Arlian could simply let them go on about their business, while he followed Enziet—though he would probably have his own problems in locating Lord Dragon. He would need the magicians’ help.
And the magicians were in the wagon, somewhere to the north, and if these three turned back they would meet the wagon on the road, and how would that turn out? Arlian frowned.
Did these three know that “Lord Lanair” was associated with the wagon and its occupants?
Whether they did or not, they might well ask to search the wagon, and if they did they would find Brook
and Cricket, who they would recognize—even if Thirif and Shibiel had cast yet another glamour, it would not disguise the lack of feet. That might be hidden, if the women were careful, but still …
There were only three of them, and Black would probably be a match for any of them. If the women and magicians could handle the other two …
But they probably couldn’t, if it came to an actual fight. Cricket had that sword Arlian had given her, but how could she use it, even if she knew how, crippled as she was?
And Thirif and Shibiel were running short of magic. They couldn’t prepare more in the Lands of Man, where magic was thin and weak, and they didn’t know sorcery.
Rime knew a little sorcery, but no sorcery Arlian knew of would be much help.
And besides, Stonehand owed a debt, one ten years old, that Arlian did not want to leave unpaid when he had the man so close at hand.
He couldn’t fight all three by himself, though. He knew he was a good swordsman, but he wasn’t that good. That was probably exactly why Lord Toribor had sent three men, instead of the one Lord Drisheen had spoken of—just in case Arlian managed to come after them.
And he had nothing against the other two. Oh, they might well be murderers a dozen times over, they might beat their women and torture kittens, but Arlian didn’t know it. They might just as well be good sons, faithful husbands, and loving fathers who had taken up the guardsman’s trade for lack of a better alternative. His only grudge was against Stonehand.
Perhaps he could make the other two see that. After all, did they know the entire story of just why “Lord Lanair” was pursuing Lord Enziet? Surely they did not—Enziet was a secretive man. In fact, this entire expedition was the result of his desire to keep too many secrets. He certainly wouldn’t have told the entire party just who their enemy really was.
Shamble had not appeared to know that Lord Lanair was the boy who Lord Dragon had sold into slavery ten years before. Why, then, would Stonehand, or these others?
And Arlian was wearing a new face, courtesy of Shibiel’s glamour.
He stood, suddenly inspired, and tapped Stonehand on the shoulder.
Dragon Weather Page 52