The Swordsman's Oath

by Juliet E. McKenna

  “More water.” Sezarre passed me a beaker and I drank obediently. The sun was striking up from the sandy surface of the practice floor like the blast from a roasting hearth, even though we were sitting in the shade of the bath-house.

  “There, that is good.” Grival gave the sword blade one last wipe with an oiled rag and laid his whetstone aside. I should say it was; I could have shaved with the edge he had put on it had that been allowed.

  “Thank you.” I hadn’t been looking for Grival to turn up, expecting he would be staying close to Mahli and little Nai, but he had appeared without ceremony and taken it upon himself to check all my weapons and armor. He placed the sword next to my mail-shirt; I wasn’t about to put that on until the very last moment possible.

  “This man, he is older than you by some years. The heat, the armor, losing much sweat, all of this will tire him the sooner,” remarked Grival thoughtfully. “You could use that to your advantage.”

  “If this was a fair fight, then yes, I would look to draw him out, keep him moving until he tired.” I scowled at the circle marked on the white sand in charcoal. “But I still think he will find a way to use magic. Can you appeal to Shek Kul for me, ask him to forbid the chanting?”

  “I will denounce him myself and ask it as a boon.” Sezarre nodded. “You look to finish him as soon as possible?”

  “How stiff is your leg? You need to be able to move against a mace.” Grival wiped moisture from his own brow. “A blade may glance off a hauberk but that mace will leave a bruise wherever it lands. That could hamper you if he lands too many blows.”

  “I’ll be looking to cut him as early as I can,” I said grimly. “He’s going to bleed freely with the exertion and the heat. I want him to weaken quickly; with luck that’ll stop his magic as well.”

  Sezarre and Grival nodded as one, their faces grim at the thought of enchantment polluting this fight. “Try not to shed his blood outside the circle,” warned Grival solemnly. “You are here to protect the domain as well as assert the truth.”

  I wondered exactly what he meant by that and looked up at the sky again; the sun didn’t appear to have moved any further on. “Have either of you ever fought like this, as a test of truth?”

  Sezarre shook his head. “It is very rare. I can understand why Laio did not expect such an outcome.”

  I grimaced a little at his implied rebuke, only too aware that he and Gar must have heard all my dealings with Laio the previous night. To my relief everyone was continuing to treat me just as they always had, and anyway I was too preoccupied with this forthcoming fight to feel particularly self-conscious.

  “I saw such a test in the domain of Lys Izat,” Grival looked up from wrapping his sword-cleaning kit in its cotton bag. “It was to resolve an accusation of murder, but that was three years ago.”

  “Why do you think Shek Kul chose to do this?” I was curious to know what they thought.

  “It will send a message through all the domains,” stated Sezarre with considerable satisfaction. “That magic will not be tolerated, in any form.”

  “If these enchanters are looking to worm their way into our lands, I don’t suppose Kaeska is the only fool they had seduced,” Grival added. “Her fate will give any others who are tempted pause for thought.” I liked the certainty in his tone, his confidence that Kaeska’s doom was already sealed. I wondered if he was right—were other Elietimm trying to suborn those with influence among the Aldabreshi and, if so, just what was their plan? I tucked the question away, one more to address after I had met this present challenge.

  “Do you fight like this on the mainland at all, one to one? Have you experience that will help you?” Sezarre’s hesitant question surprised me, given how much effort he and Grival always put in to reminding me I was supposedly an Islander now, all past life as surely lost as the morning mists off the mountain.

  I leaned back against the wall of the bath-house and shut my eyes for a moment, trying to summon up a memory of the fresh frosts of a Toremal winter amidst the heavy and humid heat of the Archipelago. “We fight one man against another as a test of skill sometimes, when all the Great Lords gather to make treaties with each other.” That was going to be about as much explanation as Grival and Sezarre would understand of the Convocation of Princes at Winter Solstice. “Each Lord puts forward his best men and a contest decides the finest.” Aiten had won the last time we’d both attended and carried off a heavy purse, soon lightened by our celebrations. Esquire Camarl, Messire’s nephew, had asked me privately if I had wanted to compete this time and understood instantly when I told him I hadn’t the heart for it.

  I opened my eyes abruptly. This wasn’t the time to be dwelling on memories of home, though I made a mental note to watch for the bastard striking at my head. Such strokes were banned in the formal contests I was used to and I didn’t want to be caught unawares, lulled into expecting the same rules to apply.

  “You have killed before?” Grival was clearly expecting that I had.

  “Yes, when I have had to.” My unemotional reply won satisfied nods from them both.

  The signal horn sounded and we all started. I rose to my feet and began some stretching exercises, determined to meet this challenge with every possible preparation. People began filing into the practice ground, the early arrivals taking the best spots under the broad-leafed trees. Some eager youngsters decided to forsake shade in the hopes of a better view and climbed on to the roof of the bath-house, sharing pockets of nuts and waterskins. As I looked round I realized most of the free Islanders were here; another occasion when the main gates would be standing open, thronged with people, while I had no chance of slipping out unnoticed. I discarded the irrelevance as Sezarre and Grival began to armor me, focusing my mind entirely on the contest to come.

  A rise in the level of sound all around alerted us to the arrival of Shek Kul and his wives. Three chairs had been set below a broad canopy on the far side of the practice ground and Gar and Laio took their seats composedly, tucking their silk skirts around their ankles. Each was dressed in a modest, everyday dress, scant makeup and limited jewels. Laio raised her hand in a half-wave and I nodded to her, noting her calm face and posture. For all her abandoned passion last night, her manner to me this morning had been the same as it ever was, something I had to admit came as a relief.

  Shek Kul was standing in the center of the charcoal circle, robed in much the same style as the women, a slave at his elbow carrying a carved and pierced gourd. The Warlord released a lizard from it, all eyes on the scaly creature as it darted this way and that before finally dashing for the cover of a bush laden with blossoms. A murmur of approval ran around the crowd and I was pleased to see Grival and Sezarre nodding and smiling at me. Whatever the nonsense signified, it seemed to be working in my favor.

  The crowd then lost interest in the bush and parted to admit Kaeska and the Ice Islander. Kaeska wore a similar dress to Laio and Gar but had a long and quite dense veil covering her face, secured with an ornate arrangement of hairpins. I looked across the killing ground to see Laio and Gar exchange a questioning look and a shrug of incomprehension.

  “Why has she covered her face?” I asked Grival as he laced my hauberk tight to my hips. “Is that usual?” I hauled my belt in another notch and then loosened it again, finding it constricted my breathing too much.

  Grival looked puzzled. “No, not as I understand the rite.” He shrugged. “May be she is worried that something in her looks will give her away.”

  As good as his word, Sezarre had crossed the circle to speak to Shek Kul. The Warlord inclined his head and nodded with a serious expression; his gaze followed Sezarre’s hand, outstretched toward the Elietimm. Shek Kul summoned the priest with an imperious wave of his hand and spoke to him sternly, emphasizing his words with a series of sharp gestures. The Elietimm bowed his head in acquiescence, nodding humbly, too readily for my peace of mind, given enchantment had to be part of his strategy somehow. Moving slowly to the place marked f
or me inside the dark circle, I wondered what the bastard was going to try first as I flexed my fingers inside my close-fitting gloves.

  His face gave me no hint, barely visible beneath a helm that reached down to his neck and curved around to guard his cheeks. I studied his armor; laced mail plates protected his shoulders and gut over what looked to be a boiled leather base. With the padding I could see under it, he was going to be sweating like a dray horse, but then so was I, so that would balance the runes. My beard was already soaked with perspiration, but I ignored the unpleasant sensation. This was no time to give way to petty distractions. A flexible leather cuirass covered the priest’s thighs above steel greaves. As always, that left his knees the most vulnerable point. All in all, I had more protection from my mail and helm, especially with the studded leather leggings Grival had produced from somewhere, but I was carrying much more weight and in this heat, with the water we would be sweating away, that was going to count if the fight went on too long. More than ever, I decided to finish this as fast as I could, settling my helm firmly on my head and sliding the nasal bar down to lock it in position.

  With us both in position, Shek Kul took his place between Gar and Laio, Kaeska seated to one side on a low stool, head bowed beneath her veil. I drew a deep breath and focused on the Elietimm to the exclusion of all else, as the Warlord clapped his hands together, the abrupt sound echoing back from the surrounding buildings. For a long moment neither of us moved; then the Elietimm took a cautious pace sideways and the fight was begun.

  I moved slowly, sword at the ready, assessing what I was facing. He was using a long mace, a foot soldier’s weapon, the flanged metal head with a collar of spikes on a haft of black wood reinforced with strips of steel. No chance of simply hacking through that, then. I wasn’t used to seeing such a complex guard on a mace though; it almost enveloped his hand and gave his knuckles unassailable protection. I noted the poniard at his belt as well and resolved to spare what attention I could for his off hand, also protected by a heavy plated gauntlet, which would at least make drawing that dagger a clumsy task.

  We continued to circle, just out of each other’s reach, feet scuffing up the sand, sweat already beading our faces. I wanted to go for his knees but wasn’t about to risk lowering my stance and catching that mace on the side of my head, helm or no helm. He made a move, a darting step toward me and I took a rapid pace backward, sword at the ready. He didn’t follow it up, instead shaking his head at me with a mocking smile. Let him grin; I wasn’t some first-season recruit about to let any taunt distract me. I’d spit in his face, if I got the chance; see how he liked that. Lost temper kills more men than lost swords—I reminded myself of the sergeant-at-arms’ words back home.

  I stopped the circling and swayed from side to side, trans-ferring my weight from one foot to the other, assessing his balance and stance. A backhanded downward sweep nearly reached him, but he caught my blade with the head of his mace, circling it up and around, trying to catch the blade in the sword-breaking spikes as I fought equally hard to free it up. I pulled the blade loose and the priest leaped backward just in time to escape a blow to the gap between shoulder and helm that would have taken his head off if I’d landed it. The bastard caught my blade again, putting all his effort into denying me another stroke until I ripped the sword free. Taking a pace backward myself, I looked for the next opportunity. Against another sword I’d have aimed to trade a flurry of blows, sending the killing stroke through any hesitation in the response. This was clearly not going to be an option here, not against a mace used like this; I was starting to think the Ice Islander was looking to draw the fight out until the heat and the weight of my armor started to slow me down. I could tell already that my reactions were just that little bit faster than his, my blows just that little bit harder, my feet just that little bit lighter in the dry sand. I reminded myself not to grow overconfident.

  I lunged, he parried, I got my sword back fast for a round, high swing, he swept it aside and as my blade slid down the mace’s shaft, I leaned into it, shoving him backward, nearly taking him off his feet. I followed up my advantage, hitting him with rapid strokes that he could only defend against, giving him no chance to tie up my blade again. A feint deceived him and I got a full-bodied blow in on his side, the finely honed blade gouging into the black leather, the weight of the stroke punishing his ribs sorely. As he retreated around the circle, I looked for a chance at his knees, sending him jumping backward with a low sweep before dodging back myself to avoid his riposte.

  That was when I first felt it: a scratching; a tapping; insistent fingers running along the edges of the doors to my mind. I set my jaw and went for the bastard, sending fast, short feints to either side until his guard faltered and I thrust for his guts. He turned sideways just in time as my step took me forward; we stood there, helmets almost touching, hands trapped between our bodies and I saw his lips were motionless inside his concealing cheek guards. No words from him were raising whatever demon had escaped Poldrion’s vigilance to pick away at my consciousness. As I thought this, the gnawing sensation redoubled.

  I threw the Elietimm away from me but he came back with renewed vigor. Now I had no time to spare to wonder who was working this cursed enchantment as I dodged and shifted, fighting to turn every defensive move into a chance to regain the initiative. All the while the feeling of being undermined, that my defenses were crumbling, grew stronger and stronger. In a burst of desperation I unleashed a storm of blows on him, sacrificing my own protection in an all-out assault, taking a few bruising blows myself but managing to leave some telling cuts on the priest’s arms and legs. I withdrew, satisfied, careful to avoid the treacherous patches of blood-stained sand, happy to let the Elietimm go back on the defensive now he had bleeding injuries to drain his strength.

  A ripping noise tore through my head. Cold talons dug themselves into my mind and clenched themselves, sending my senses reeling. The hot sunlight faded before my eyes, and I could feel nothing beneath my feet. The sounds of the crowd died to nothing as I gasped and stumbled, knees as weak as water, head swimming. Some instinct pulled me away from a mace stroke that would have sent my brains rattling in my skull, but I could only watch the bastard prepare for his next stroke, unable to move as the black iron flanges came hammering in toward my blurring eyes, wrestling as I was with the grasping hatred that was clawing at my wits.

  My sword met the stroke, turning it fluently aside. My feet followed up the move, spreading my weight, light and balanced, as my hands launched a series of piercing thrusts. I could only look on in astonishment, locked in a frantic struggle for possession of my own mind, as some other intelligence took over my body and defended it against everything the Ice Islander could do. I was dimly aware of a long, shadowy hand overlaying my own work-hardened fingers as they wrapped around the sword hilt, the great blue stone of a signet ring catching the sunlight. My mind was stumbling a step or two behind my body, struggling as I was with the clutching hands of the magic trying to drag me down into the blackness. Someone else’s emotions were running through my veins, stiffening my sinews, guiding my every move. I could feel an eagerness, a resolution, a youthful energy and above all an implacable hatred of the Elietimm and all his kind, but somehow I was isolated from it, as if I were lost in a fever dream.

  The priest went down, stumbling on a sticky patch of sand, weakened by the punishment he had taken. I watched from some distant corner of my mind as the long hands sent blow after hammering blow down on the Elietimm’s back, head and shoulders as he rolled, this way and that, feet kicking, mace flailing, trying to evade the razor-sharp blade as it gouged into his armor, his skin and the raw red flesh beneath, his blood running freely. A voice that was not my own came from my lips, Tormalin words ringing with an archaic cadence I had only ever heard in poetry and law courts.

  “Go back to your master and tell him this land is ours. We will hold what we have won from the wilderness to the last man!”

  The priest looke
d up in startled horror, his face paling beneath the mask of blood and sweat. He gabbled an incantation and was suddenly no longer there, leaving only a welter of blood-stained sand before my eyes.

  The place erupted with noise, but all I could hear was the frantic shouting inside my head.

  “What is this? Who are you? Where am I?”

  I sank to my knees, ripping off my helm, my gauntlets, clutching my head as I summoned every measure of strength I possessed to force that panic-stricken presence out of my mind. With a suddenness that left me gasping, it was gone, leaving my skull echoing with a hollow silence in the midst of the deafening uproar. I looked at my hands; they were my own again, no shadows blurring them, but I saw that I bore a pale mark and a dent in the flesh around the long finger of my sword hand. Anyone would say that I habitually wore a broad ring with one central stone, now somehow lost.

  “Ry-shad, where are you hurt?” I looked up to see the captain of the guard peering at me with wide-eyed concern.

  “I’m bruised but I’ll be fine.” I turned my head to try and find Grival and Sezarre, wondering why they had not been first to my side. I was more than satisfied with what I saw. Grival had Kaeska face down in the dirt, kneeling on her thighs as he tied her hands securely behind her back. Sezarre was using that cursed veil of hers to gag her securely, pulling her head up at a cruel angle with a hand twisted hard in her hair. The bitch, the whoring, murderous bitch; that poisonous enchantment had to have been her work. No wonder she’d been veiled. Too bad her tame sorcerer had fled his fate, leaving her condemned before all the Islanders to suffer who only knew what fate.

  “Ryshad!” Shek Kul’s abrupt summons silenced the assembled Islanders so thoroughly I could hear the heedless chirping of the birds in a distant tree. Getting to my feet, stumbling slightly as my knees still seemed to be looking for someone else to give their instructions, I crossed the bloody sand to stand before him.