The Bronze Axe

by Jeffrey Lord

  Redbeard lowered his arms and faced Blade. Blade tensed, then made himself relax as he tried to fashion a battle plan. Savate! The word slipped into his mind from nowhere. Foot boxing. He had once been proficient in it.

  And yet Redbeard did not move toward him. He made a signal and a cupbearer came forward.

  Redbeard grinned at Blade. "One last thing, Prince of London. It is a tradition with us. We must drink the death toast."

  The cupbearer tipped wine into the cup and handed it to Blade. Blade stared at it. It was contrived of a skull, white as alabaster and chased with gold runes. The teeth were still intact, large and white and perfect, and they grinned at Blade as he drank.

  The cupbearer filled the skull again and took it to Redbeard. The massive man held it on high, laughing, an honest mirth that filled the great hall and started echoes.

  "This belonged to Thoth," said Redbeard. He drank and flung the skull at the servant.

  "The last man to challenge me."

  Chapter Twelve

  Redbeard advanced on Blade, his great arms spread wide. Blade retreated slowly, feinting with his head and body, knowing that at all costs he must avoid that deadly embrace. He did not doubt that, once Redbeard had him enfolded in those arms, the man could crush him to death.

  Blade had never before played the role of David. In his former life his size and strength had given him an advantage; now the roles were reversed and he was David to this Goliath called Redbeard.

  Redbeard, tired of playing about, rushed at Blade and swung a sledgehammer fist. Blade ducked under the blow, feeling a rush of air, and countered with a smashing right hand to the bigger man's belly. The impact nearly broke his wrist. It was like hitting a cast iron washboard.

  Blade slipped deftly away from the tables where Redbeard had nearly cornered him. Redbeard grinned and followed patiently, taunting Blade.

  "What is this, Prince of London? You will not stand and fight? Yet it was you who picked this quarrel."

  Blade did not answer. He was busy trying to remember and he was going to need every bit of wind he could get. He knew one other thing he must defeat this giant quickly or not at all. Here was a man who would not tire, as even Horsa had tired at last. Here was an enemy who could fight all night and all day. Guile, cunning, superior technique; in all these, plus speed, lay Blade's only chance. As he ran swiftly backward he saw the skull cup on a nearby table. He did not want to furnish a mate to it.

  Redbeard leaped in again, pounding with both hands. One blow caught Blade on the shoulder and spun him a dozen feet. The watching raiders came to their feet in unison, screaming for the kill. Redbeard lunged after Blade, trying to grapple. Blade recovered balance just in time and stood his ground for a moment, shooting a left and right hand into the grinning bearded face. Memory and reflex served him well Blade had not consciously planned the blows and they were a perfect combination. Jarring left and a murderous right cross. Both landed squarely on Redbeard's chin.

  Pain shivered up to Blade's shoulders. Redbeard, scowling now, annoyed with such insect bites, came on.

  Blade leaped into the air, turned half to his right and kicked the giant in the face. A savate kick that came somewhere out of memory. His heel cut the flesh around Redbeard's right eye and a little blood trickled.

  Redbeard laughed. "Thunor take me! He fights like a maid kicking and striking puny blows. How is this, Prince? I know you to be a warrior, for I have seen it, but you do not fight like one now. Come, Prince! Best have it over. Lock arms with me like a man and let us see who is stronger."

  Blade leaped again, turned, and kicked the man in the stomach. Futile. Blade went back to his fists and landed another left and several stunning rights. Redbeard stood rooted like a tree, his hands on his hips, his face bleeding into the beard, and took the blows laughing.

  Blade was already beginning to feel arm weary he had fought much of late and he had a churning in his stomach that was worse. Panic. He could not do this thing.

  The task was impossible. This was not a mortal flesh and blood creature he faced Getorix was an automaton with bronze for flesh and iron for muscles.

  Redbeard leaped in with a speed that surprised Blade and caught him off balance. The great arms, greasy with sweat now, twined around Blade's waist and began to lock behind him.

  "Aha," cried Redbeard. "Now we shall hear how your bones crack." The little blue eyes glinted cold at Blade over the flaming hair.

  Blade nearly died then. It was more reflex than conscious effort that saved him. Reflex and fear. Pure clammy fear and the cunning lower brain that Lord Leighton's computer had not touched.

  Blade arched backward, at the same time clawing at Redbeard's eyes and kneeing him in the groin. It was not enough. The arms closed steadily around him and Blade felt a rib go.

  Blade seized one of the beribboned plaits and tugged at it with all his might, wrenching at the beard with every ounce of strength he possessed. He pulled it out of that contorted face, so close to his own, by the bloody roots.

  Redbeard let out a bellow of pain and rage. For an instant his hold loosened and Blade slipped out of that terrible vise.

  He flaunted the plait, half of the man's treasured beard, at his opponent, and spoke for the first time since the fight had started.

  "Here are your pretty ribbons. Come and take them back!"

  Redbeard charged like a berserk bull, his pride and vanity outraged, his only thought to crush and maul this upstart stranger into a pulp.

  Blade moved to one side, tripped the charging man, and whipped him in the face with his own beard. The red hair, tightly coiled and plaited, a good three feet long, was as flexible as a serpent in his hand. A new memory flashed into Blade's consciousness and he knew how he was going to kill Redbeard.

  But quickly. It must be fast! He was weary, his chest heaving and legs trembling, while Redbeard scarcely breathed hard except for rage and chagrin.

  When Blade tripped him and Redbeard went sprawling to his knees Blade had a flash of pure inspiration. The more demented with rage his opponent, the better Blade's chances.

  With a look of utter contempt Blade kicked the big man squarely in the rear. A roar went up from the tables. Men were seeing what had not been dreamed of the fabulous Getorix kicked like any common slave.

  Redbeard, hurt only in his pride and that damaged beyond repair clambered to his feet, like a felled tree rising again, and charged back at Blade. He was insane with rage and lust to kill, his huge face swollen purple, his eyes rolling and showing the whites. He came at Blade like a battering ram.

  Blade sideslipped and flicked the plait of hair into Redbeard's eyes. He make a karate axe of his right hand and chopped viciously at the man's neck as he stormed past. Nothing. Redbeard shook off the blow, wheeled and came bellowing back at Blade. Blade tripped him again and this time Redbeard fell in a long sprawl, so heavily that the hall shook on its foundations. Redbeard's massive head slammed into a large wine tub that stood nearby and for a moment he lay stunned.

  It was a chance that might not come again. Blade leaped.

  He was on Redbeard's back, with the plait of beard around the man's throat and twisted into a thugee cord. Redbeard, choking now, came rearing up and Blade rode him like a horse, clinging with his knees and locked legs while he used both hands to twist the plait deeper and deeper into that thick neck. Redbeard, using his hands to claw away the thing that was throttling him, could not dislodge Blade. He fought to pull the now deeply embedded hair cord from his flesh. He shook and pranced and leaped and still Blade rode him. Redbeard's mouth opened wide, his tongue lolled out, and still he clawed at the plait of har. Blade, using his last bit of strength, pulled it tighter.

  His face was turning black now. Redbeard fell crashing to his knees, pawing at the strangling cord of hair, his head swaying in agony as he fought for one gasp of precious air. He remained on his knees, rocking back and forth, refusing to die, the death vibrations of his great body fully transmitted to the des
perately clinging Blade.

  When it was too late Redbeard used his brain. He stopped trying to wrench away the noose and his huge hands fumbled behind him for some portion of Blade that was vulnerable. His hands found Blade's ankles, one in each hand, and with a final tremendous effort the man tried to tear Blade into two pieces. Blade, convulsed with pain, fought back by tensing his muscles, resisting the unnatural strain with every bit of his own waning strength. His hands, ever twisting the hair noose deeper into Redbeard's neck, were numb and long beyond pain or feeling of any sort.

  It was over. The great carcass slumped, the hands fell away from Blade, as a final tremor ran through the man Getorix, called Redbeard. He slumped out at full length near the wine tub, dead.

  Richard Blade, near dead himself, left the plait coiled around the throat and staggered to his feet. Every nerve and muscle screamed for rest, for the merciful oblivion of sleep. Or death? Blade, in those frenetic last moments, was not quite sure who had won, who lived and who had died. He knew only an enormous longing to close his eyes and have done with it.

  Yet the matter must be carried out to a fitting and proper conclusion. As his senses filtered back he began to understand, through the roaring in his head, that he was now king of the Sea Raiders. Redbeard was dead! He, Blade, now ruled.

  He swayed over the huge corpse. Silence had fallen over the vast hall.

  Blade raised a hand and in a voice that was surprisingly strong he was amazed himself said: "I rule now. I make Jarl my First Captain. You will obey him as you would me."

  Blade looked down at the corpse of Redbeard, still not quite believing that he had killed such a man.

  "Let this man be given a proper burial, as befits such a warrior. Jarl will see to it. As for all of you, who now serve me, get on with your feasting. As soon as the body has been taken to a place of honor. I "

  Blade never saw his attacker. The man, who had been sitting at a table near the wine tub, leaped at him with a high scream of hate and mourning. A long dirk flashed in the smoky light and Blade felt exquisite white agony as the metal ripped his flesh. He staggered away, blood streaming from his back, and cast frantically around for a weapon as the man came at him again.

  Blade stumbled into a table and fell half across it. He turned, trying again to face his attacker, blood drenching him, as Jarl leaped into action.

  Blade saw what followed through a curtain of pain and blood. Jarl, a long sword in his hand, shouting in anger, sprang at the man who had daggered Blade. The sword came around in a level, glistening circle and bit into flesh with a loud chunk.

  Blade's attacker, headless, stood for an instant and spurted blood from the dying trunk high into the air. The dagger, stained with Blade's blood, clung to the fingers.

  The head fell into the tub of wine and floated there, eyes staring, crimsoning the wine.

  Blade felt himself falling into sleep. Now that he could achieve oblivion, so longed for just an instant ago, he did not want it. He was suddenly afraid of it. This was not a natural sleep that stalked him, this numbness that pervaded his feet and legs and arms and was fast working toward his brain. He sought to speak and heard only a strangled cry. He was falling and felt himself caught and supported by brawny arms.

  Jarl, bloody sword still in his hand, was peering at Blade. His lips moved and Blade heard the words from a great distance. They sparked a final bitterness and rebellion in him to have come so far, to have done so much, to have defied circumstance so valiantly and to have it end here, like this.

  Jarl's voice was a muted trumpet sounding on a vagrant and fading breeze. Blade could barely hear, but what he heard told him he was dying.

  "Oleg natural son of Redbeard his dagger poisoned we know of no antidote, Lord Blade. But we will try there is a Dru, she you spoke of, and it is said, it is possible that "

  Jarl's voice was gone. His face was fading. Blade smiled up at the ring of faces and wondered why he was smiling. He was an idiot! He had always hated death and feared it in his secret soul and why should he smile now that it was here at last? What would happen to Taleen and poor Sylvo? Then everything went black.

  Chapter Thirteen

  For ten days the wind blew from the northeast, stubborn and unrelenting, and scattered the ships like autumn leaves over the Western Sea.

  Richard Blade, in waking dream and nightmare sleep, fancied himself in a cradle rocked by a giant's hand. His wound festered and the poison was insidious, seeking his life, held in check only by the bitter draughts given him by the silver-haired Dru, she who in his dream he had called Drusilla.

  Her real name was Canace. This she told him in one of his rare lucid moments, before she administered the black cool liquid, so bitter to his tongue, that brought on the drowsy inertia, the waking dream state, that sapped his will and made his great muscles so much mush.

  In the dim recesses of his brain he knew he was being drugged. He also knew the drug was combating the poison and saving his life. So, though he did not think to make the comparison, Blade at the moment was like the ship on which he lay, driven and harried, floating helpless on the tides, too weak to resist what he knew was happening to him. And such was the sly machination of the drug he did not want to resist. His mind was lulled and dormant,he welcomed his seduction as heartily as any spinster who dreads to die before experiencing the ultimate convulsion.

  It could have been on the first day aboard ship, or the fifth Blade had no track of time that he dimly sensed what she was about. She paid him frequent visits, always with the bitter potion, careful that he never lapse back into full consciousness and will power. Blade, wandering lonely and bemused in his dream forest, welcomed her coming. The bitter drink meant an end to the pain in his back, and to the terrible cramps of his belly, and the wily potion persuaded him that he was lucid.

  The cool hand on his brow. Gentle, smooth as satin fingers. The bitter drink to his lips and the cloths, wrung out in an ewer of cold water and pressed to his burning flesh. Then, for a little time, she would sit beside his rude cot and hold his hand and watch him with topaz eyes in which swam darker flecks of brown. She would toss back her white cowl, her hair a draping silver fall breaking gently on her shoulders, and Blade would marvel at her beauty and knew not, nor cared, if he was in death or life.

  Her breasts were well swathed in the white robe, but Blade remembered the dream in the fens and knew those breasts he was too weak to raise a hand to touch would be firm and cold.

  Then, from between those deep breasts, she would take the little golden medallion, worked in intaglio, of a crescent moon ensnared in a design of oak leaves. It hung from her white throat on a fine chain of gold. Her long fingers, blue nailed, toyed with the pendant and set it to swinging ever so gently to and fro while Blade watched as a cat will watch a string dangled before it.

  Always she began in the same way, with the same words, her voice as low and unctuous as rich cream pouring.

  "I am Drusilla, Lord Blade. That is my title, not my name. My name is Canace. I am also called Drusilla,leader of all the Drus in this land and in all the lands across the seas..."

  On the first day, at this juncture, Blade opened his mouth in an effort to speak. A cool, soft, perfumed hand closed it gently and he had not tried again. Did not want to speak. Wanted only to listen to that voice running on like some celestial choir, recounting his sins and forgiving them, promising him joys in future and sealing it in the end with the greatest pleasure he had ever known. Blade, stricken and inert hulk that he was, lived for the paradise that was to come. That came every day just before she left him for the long interval of night.

  On this day Blade did not know that it was the tenth and that the storm was at last abating she began in the same fashion. Her words were always the same, never varying, as though she meant to imprint them in Blade's mind forever. The golden medallion swayed before his eyes and he followed it listlessly. Somewhere, for the first time, a spark stirred in his mind and he was near to understanding what she
was doing to him. There was a word for it. A technique called

  The effort to think was too much and Blade closed his eyes. A soft blue-nailed finger opened them and she went on intoning what had become a litany between them:

  "You killed a Dru, Lord Blade. There is no proof of this, but proof is not needed when a Dru accuses. But I do not accuse, though I know you guilty. It was you who slew that aged Dru in the forest, near the sacred glade. For this your life is forfeit, after dreadful torture. None can save you, nor will any aid or shelter you, for none dare challenge the Drus.

  "This is our secret, Lord Blade. Ours, and that of Princess Taleen, but she is a child and of no importance. None will know that you are a murderer of Drus, and you need not suffer the terrible penalty, so long as we have understanding of each other."

  Blade would have closed his eyes again, but she gently stroked them open. The little medallion flickered back and forth like a golden pendulum. His pain had gone now and he floated on an euphoric sea of anticipation. Soon the words would end she would do that!

  "There has been much unrest of late. In Alb, in the late Beata's kingdom, in the lands over the Narrow sea, and now in Voth. There are some who dare, for the first time, to scoff openly at the Drus. To defy them. This is an evil thing, Lord Blade, and it will be stamped out without mercy. But for this warriors are needed, men of iron and bronze, and we Drus are not warriors. Our kingdom is of the mind, of the wondrous control of minds and of the thoughts therein.

  "I thought to use Getorix, he who was called Redbeard, as the warrior arm of the Drus. But you killed him, Lord Blade, and are a far better man in mind than he ever was. So you will take his place, Blade. You see that I do not always call you Lord there will be equality with us. I will rule the minds and you, with force, will rule the bodies. You will accept this idea and when you are again well, which will be soon, you will execute my plans as I bid you. None but ourselves will know of this, nor of our personal relationship, for you will be a true believer of Dru faith, and will do what you do out of conviction. All these things you will do, Lord Blade, and you will not question nor need to understand why you do them. All I have spoken these days will be forgotten.