Tooth and Blade

by Shad Callister

  Telros nodded toward Damicos without meeting his eyes, and the captain stepped forward to the edge of the ring of sand. He carried his helmet and kept one hand on his hilt.

  “I am Dalcon Damicos, captain of the Tooth and Blade free company. Here to fight in Lord Telros’ name and vanquish his enemies at a single stroke.”

  Chiss Felca’s helmet remained in place. “And I am Chiss Felca, captain and commander of—”

  “I know who you are, cutthroat,” Damicos interrupted loudly. “You are the accomplice who backed Lord Iscabos in his betrayal of generals Lakon and Jaimesh. You are a foul and debased wolf, and I will kill you now for the good of Ostora and Kerath. I will do it in memory of Lord Jaimesh and his captain, Pelekarr, who would do the same were he here.”

  No one spoke as Damicos set his helmet firmly in place over his head, stepped into the ring, and reached out for his spear. Leon handed the eight-foot shaft to him, with its ten-inch bronze leaf-blade tip.

  He held the weapon high. “Today we fight with spears. Whatever kind you know best, and bring a sword at your side for an alternate.”

  He watched carefully to gauge the other man’s reaction, but it was hard to see past the cheek guards of the Black Mane helmet and get a reading on his opponent. Still Felca said nothing, only turning to a few of his supporters that stood by and choosing out a cavalry lance from among those they offered. He already had a bronze saber at his belt.

  Which was exactly what Damicos had hoped for. The lances were actually a bit longer than his infantry spear, which would make Felca feel more confident in the added reach. But they were also thinner in the shaft and the blade, and Damicos knew a technique or two for snapping the things off at the tip if he could grapple one and apply directional pressure. He’d done just that against Pelekarr once, in fact, when they were sparring outside Dura. The outraged, crestfallen look on his cavalry friend’s face had made him laugh at the time. Now it had reminded him that a horseman off his horse was like a bird without wings, and he would turn that to his advantage.

  Felca marched angrily onto the sand at his side of the ring. He still wasn’t saying anything, apparently too incensed at Damicos’ accusations to trust his voice to a cool reply. He stamped at the sand, getting a feel for how far he could trust the soft surface if he were to lunge. Then he pointed his lance at Damicos’ face.

  “Begin.”

  The two men circled slowly, like lions eyeing wounded prey that was still dangerous. All around them held still, surprised at how suddenly the combat had begun and eagerly awaiting the first attack.

  Damicos gripped his spear at the bottom quarter of its haft, keeping a lighter touch on his forward hand than his back. That would allow him to slide the weapon forward, suddenly extending to its full length, while keeping the ability to draw it back quickly.

  Felca held his at the balance point, trying to reassure himself of its power and use in parrying as well as thrusting. He stared hard at Damicos, watching his feet and the tip of the infantry captain’s spear.

  Neither man was in a hurry to engage, as much as the adrenaline of the moment electrified them. The first to move would, if he missed, likely overextend and grant the opponent a chance to push his weapon away and seize the initiative. And unless he landed a direct blow to the unarmored portion of the other’s body, the thrust wouldn’t end the fight.

  Each had training and experience in placing a bronze tip on target. Each knew that a stab to the breastplate would merely be turned aside, and that only striking the vulnerable points would move the fight in their favor. Under an upraised arm, at the thigh or into the groin, or—ideally—straight into the throat. That was the hardest of all, but an instant fight-ender.

  As Felca’s lance waved this way and that with the movements of his body, he raised its tip a few inches too high, and Damicos struck. Punching out with his spear-blade before his legs even moved, he leaned forward and got the point dangerously near his opponent’s face before Chiss even reacted.

  But react the cavalryman did, twisting just enough that Damicos’ tip glanced off the collar of the breastplate and failed to draw blood. Damicos recovered instantly, not having committed fully to the light assault, and danced back before Chiss could put forth a counter-blow.

  A cheer went up from some of those around the dueling men, and Felca stepped back. Damicos pushed forward, but now the cavalryman’s tip was back in line and there was danger of letting him in too close with the long lance.

  They circled again. Chiss feinted, then lunged. Damicos danced backward, then counterattacked, but the horseman was already backing away.

  Damicos sidestepped, hopped inward, and thrust out with his spear again. Felca got away to the side, but was off-center and too close to get his tip into Damicos in retaliation. The infantryman moved away and readied himself for another effort. If he could brush the man’s spear away and then block, he could get in close enough to attempt a break.

  Someone shouted something at him, one of his own men. He knew the voice. It was Fieron, the shaggy-haired hoplite who had brought news of the duel in the first place.

  “Captain! A stone, just here—beware!”

  Damicos risked a glance behind him to where the young soldier was pointing. There was indeed a jagged black tip of rock poking out of the sand where his sandal had brushed away its covering.

  There was angry muttering among the men, a murmur of dismay and suspicion at how such a thing could have been overlooked as the fighting ring was prepared. But Damicos had not a second to spare for such thoughts: there was a prowling panther in front of him looking for an opening to stab him through.

  Chiss took advantage of the obstacle that he now knew Damicos was trying to avoid, goading him nearer to it, and forcing him to alter his footing so as to avoid it. The infantry captain lashed out twice, but Felca was keeping his distance, trusting to the slightly superior reach of his lance.

  Then, as he circled, Damicos’ foot brushed against something hard in the trampled sand, something which did not move. He couldn’t look down, but he got away from the spot. And in his peripheral vision he confirmed that another dark bit of rock lay barely hidden under the sand. Two dangerous snags to be avoided as he carefully managed his footwork within the ring.

  Chiss feinted and lunged, feinted and lunged. Each time Damicos easily dodged, then counter-attacked, but neither man landed any blows. Then Chiss feinted—and feinted again—and then whipped his lance sideways at Damicos’ head.

  He ducked and brought his spear back for a quick thrust even as Chiss was swinging his lance back the other way again. He connected with the other man’s armor two inches too high to get him under the belly, and Chiss hit him in the side of the helmet.

  Neither blow was damaging, but both were now off-balance. Damicos decided to abort the exchange, and twisted sideways to put distance between he and the cavalryman. The placement of their weapons wasn’t right for an attempt at anything further.

  As he leaped away, his foot dashed against a hard impediment and he nearly fell to the earth. It took a series of frantic acrobatic moves to keep out of the range of Felca’s lance. A roar of laughter went up from the men at Vocke’s side of the ring.

  Felca tauntingly kicked a small spray of sand at Damicos.

  “That’s a third stone hidden on my side of the ring,” Damicos shouted, breathing heavily. “What say you, men? Is this fair? I haven’t seen him tripping over any.”

  Angry accusations on both sides descended into scattered arguments. Damicos noticed Telros pointing at Vocke across the ring, and some of his men had nearly drawn their swords.

  “I didn’t put them there,” Chiss called. “I couldn’t have. But if you wish to find excuses for your weakness, I’m sure you’ll find no shortage.”

  “You’re a cheat, Felca,” Damicos spat. “We already knew that much.”

  “Our man circled across that side of the ring twice already!” Vocke’s men shouted. “You’re groping for a way out. Con
tinue the fight!”

  Felca had indeed approached Telros’ side of the ring during the fight. But of course he wouldn’t stay there to do any fighting—not with his enemies at his back waiting just beyond the ring. A man would always rather fight with his friends at his back, facing the enemy side.

  But now Damicos had to question whether all those at his back were in fact friends.

  He’d never liked or trusted Telros very far and now it was all beginning to seem too easy: the quick acceptance of Vocke’s challenge, the selection of a mercenary captain for his champion, and an early arrival at the place of combat. Damicos had been a fool not to inspect the ring himself before stepping inside it.

  Perhaps Telros was playing more than one angle in this conflict. Perhaps Telros didn’t want him to win the duel.

  Chiss Felca brought his lance up and turned it in his grip for an overhand stab. Damicos stepped forward into it, letting the man get perilously close—and then turned at the last second. The tip came down close enough to cut at his shoulder and draw blood. But without flinching, and Damicos batted it with his arm straight into the ground. The lance tip buried in the sand, he locked his own spearshaft against it and pushed hard with the weight of his body.

  The lance broke with a resounding snap, spraying shards of wood across the ring. Chiss backed up, eyes widening in shock.

  Damicos whirled his own spear up and around to aim it at the blackguard’s heart. He would pin the man like the vile insect he was, and then see to Telros. He was really angry now, and gave full course to the hot blood pouring through him.

  But the cavalryman still held a broken length of wood shaft in his hands, and as Damicos rushed him he brought it up just in time to smash the infantry captain’s spear skyward. It was done out of panicked reflex more than skill, but Damicos found himself at close range with his spear aimed upward instead of sticking into his target.

  He pivoted and beat at the cavalryman with the butt of his spear, and Chiss did likewise. Vocke’s champion unfortunately now had a slight advantage, with the shorter and therefore more maneuverable quarterstaff—which was all their polearms amounted to at that range.

  The two of them dropped their polearms simultaneously and out came the swords.

  The roar around them was deafening. Men were raising fists in the air, bellowing encouragement or derision, and someone even threw sand at Damicos. His helmet kept most of it from his eyes.

  Chiss’s saber sliced through the air at him, making a whistling noise as it cut a lock of hair near his neck. He got his bronze swordtip into the man’s thigh, drawing blood but not slowing him down at all. It was a whirl of golden blades, hammering fists, and grappling legs as the men strove against each other with only a foot or two between them.

  On the sandy rise beyond the battlefield, Loku woke his two silent companions. They had slept through the day, unmoving, exhausted from their part in the raising of the red worms. Dark magic took its toll on the human body, and Loku had only two of the acolytes he relied on with him.

  He stared across the sand at the armored men gathered by the sea in a great circle, with the setting sun glinting off crest and blade.

  “What do they there?” one of the acolytes rasped. “Will they fight again?”

  “They fight now, but only two of them,” Loku replied, voice shaking with suppressed rage and fear. He knew what this could mean. “It is a trial by combat, a struggle for supremacy of one man over another. Unless there is great treachery, they will abide by the outcome of this fight and make peace after it is finished.”

  His companions were silent. They knew as well as he: no more open battle meant no more blood spilled. And they were so close, so near to awaking the ancient horrors Loku besought with his black incantations.

  “Perhaps this final death, that of the loser in this duel…” began one of the acolytes.

  “No. No! It is not enough, it is not enough!” Loku exploded, barely keeping his voice low enough to avoid traveling over the open ground. “The morzoth will not look at the water, they fear the sea. The worm killings in the seaside town counted for little, and one man’s blood to resolve the fatuous honor dispute of these nobles will count for nothing. It is the downfall of all I have hoped for here!”

  “We must go closer,” the other acolyte said, lifting himself off the ground with his arms and stretching like a hound. “If we can fan this flame into a renewed battle across the land, the dark gods may yet come.”

  “If not, it will not be sufficient to earn their favor,” Loku warned. “And you know what that means for us. Let us go. But do not be seen.”

  CHAPTER 30: BACK INTO THE FOREST

  Pelekarr and his fellow soldiers roused themselves early, while only a few of the White River people were about the camp. Others watched from their huts, still wary, but the captain saw no sign of the elderly shaman woman.

  A girl hurried to offer dried meat and prickly green fruits for a morning meal. The captain expressed his thanks via hand gestures, and though the villagers seemed uncomfortable at the absence of their translator and her older counterpart, no one caused a stir as the cavalrymen walked out of the village and joined their comrades in the meadow.

  Pelekarr spotted Perian as the men formed up into a column, standing ill at ease in her over-sized armor. But he ignored her and focused on issuing commands to the sergeants, making a show of strength and order for the barbarians watching from the edge of the White River village.

  Some of the villagers were milling among the huts now, apparently in a state of disarray without a leader to communicate with the departing Kerathi troops. Three of their warriors waited with weapons in hand in case there was trouble, but they did not leave the safety of their village.

  Finally the captain faced the tribesmen and raised a hand in farewell. “Move out!” he called to the men behind him, and the sergeants echoed the order.

  The line of horsemen began to advance toward the trees in what Pelekarr assumed was a southwesterly direction, judging by the early glow of sunlight coming from behind the village. He continued to watch and wave at the villagers in a friendly manner.

  Several of their warriors followed for half a mile into the trees, but they kept their distance and Pelekarr hoped they wouldn’t notice a certain conspicuous trooper stumbling along in center-column on foot, her lance-tip waving back and forth with terrible decorum.

  When they came to a part of the forest where the trees thinned and more open patches allowed freer movement of the horses, Pelekarr called for quick march and the barbarian warriors returned toward their camp. He was glad to leave the denizens of the forest behind, all but the one he’d brought away with him.

  Once they were well away from the White River territory, Pelekarr rode back and found Perian among the ranks of Deltan’s men. She was sweating and miserable, her armor clearly chafing, but she smiled proudly at Pelekarr.

  “I told you they wouldn’t suspect.”

  “Thank the gods. The old woman did not show herself, as you said.”

  “Of course she did not,” Perian replied. “I saw to that last night.”

  The captain narrowed his eyes. “The tea she was drinking?”

  Perian nodded.

  Pelekarr helped her shuck the breastplate and greaves Keltos had given her, and handed them back to their rightful owner. Then he pulled her up behind him and let her drink from his waterskin. She wiped some of the dirt from her face and pointed the way forward. By her word, they were one league from the edge of the forest.

  “Have you ridden before?” he asked her.

  “No. But domesticated animals like these should not be hard for me to master.”

  “You might be surprised,” Pelekarr replied. “My mount is trained for war. Do not approach it when I am not with you. We’ll find you a suitable mare later. For now, you may ride with me or walk, as you will. I need your keen senses at the front of the column with me to find our quarry.”

  “Quarry?”

&nbs
p; “Yes. We are going on the hunt again, now that we have a skilled tracker and guide among us.”

  Pelekarr explained the nature of their paid mission against the apes, and how they had been interrupted in their fight by the arrival of the giant beasts that tore horse and rider limb from limb. Perian nodded as if she knew well what kind of terror the forest had brought forth to face the company, but she listened quietly. She pointed the way forward as they went, and with her guidance they made excellent time, avoiding the gullies and rock outcroppings that had barred their way the night before.

  They reached the end of the forest well before midday. The men, seeing the open country through the trees, set up a ragged cheer and redoubled their pace, and when they stumbled out of the forest at last, every trooper whooped. For a long moment the captain let them exult in the wind, the sunlight, the open air.

  They had exited the forest north of Greenfield; it took Perian and the captain a moment to ascertain their location. By circling around some farmer’s fields, they joined a cart track leading south. An hour later, Greenfield was in sight, but Pelekarr suddenly called a halt.

  “Sergeants, rest the men for a bit.” He took off his helmet and ran a hand through his tangled mane. His jaw was dark with stubble and he wanted nothing more than to soak in a bathhouse for a day, if there were any to be found on the frontier. But he had a chance now to redeem his company, and he meant to take it.

  He turned his horse toward the men and addressed them. “I know you’re longing to head back to town and the comforts of Tibion’s cookery,” he said. “But we’re not leaving. Not yet. We’re going back into the forest, and we’re going to finish the fight we began there.”

  There was an audible murmur of discontent among the ranks. Perhaps he’d been too abrupt, Pelekarr thought. The sergeants hissed at the grumblers to be silent.

  “Will we at least stop in Greenfield, sir?” Caspar asked.

  “No. No need to let the Baroness’ people see us in this state, with half our number missing in action. When we come this way again, it will be with victory held in our hands.”