Kingdom Of Royth rb-9

by Джеффри Лорд

  Blade kept silent. This was another decisive, almost dictatorial woman. She was like Cayla in that way; he hoped it was only in that way. Then, swiftly, in the same soft voice, she demolished his previous hopes that here at least were no plots.

  She knew of her husband’s plans to betray Royth to the pirates. He did not completely trust her, but on the other hand, he was too vain to pass up the chance of having someone to boast to. He would kill her in a moment if he suspected betrayal, but so far he suspected nothing.

  Why was she betraying his plans? King Pelthros was a widower and childless. Now that Grand Duke Khystros was dead, there was no heir the King really trusted. He might well contemplate re-marrying a younger woman, who could bear him children, particularly if that woman had rendered some signal service to the Kingdom.

  «Such as revealing Indhios’ plans?»

  «Indeed.»

  «Causing Indhios’ prompt execution, and leaving you a young widow.»

  «Exactly.»

  «But-«She took his «but» for disapproval, and snapped:

  «I have no love for Indhios. There is nothing between us but our two children. And how much trouble it was to get him to my bed often enough for those, I could take ten nights telling you. He married me for my dowry, then repaid my father for his generosity by levying such taxes on his lands that he is now ground down to the level of his own peasants. Indhios’ lusts are for power and gold, not the clean lusts of men for women.»

  That was the Countess’ grand design. As for Blade’s specific part in it, she needed a man with a martial reputation and a position at Court that enabled him to move about freely. She needed a combined spy and bravo, and if he were also a fit and proper bedmate, so much the better. Before Blade had any time to wonder how he, an imprisoned pirate Captain, was going to attain such a position at Court, she swept on to the next detail of her plan.

  «A most ancient law of the Kingdom of Royth declares that any man, whatever his blood or birth, who comes before the Court and challenges the King’s Champion may meet him in equal combat to the death. If victorious, he shall then swear oath of fealty to the King and become in his turn King’s Champion. Centuries ago, the King’s Champion had many duties that often called upon his martial prowess, so it was needful to select only the best fighters to serve the Kings so. But now, the King’s Champion is more for show than for service, like a suit of gilded armor set with jewels. But he still stands high at Court, has access to the King, and may move about freely.» Blade nodded. He could see what was coming.

  «I have heard much of your prowess with weapons and would be much astonished if you could not spit Baron Maltravos, the Champion of the moment, like a cook spitting a goose. Then you will be King’s Champion, to watch over King Pelthros-and those about him. You shall seek out those details of his schemes which Indhios will not reveal even to me when boasting in his cups. You shall bring them to me, and then when the time is ripe we shall lay all we have both learned before Pelthros and bring Indhios’ schemes crashing about his head. Pelthros is a slow man to reach a decision, preferring too much his crafts to the business of a king. But the royal house of Royth has yet to breed an utter fool. Pelthros will see what is thrust in front of his nose.»

  «Will Indhios let me challenge and fight the Champion?»

  «Pelthros will enforce the ancient law if you can safely make your way into the Court. Indhios can do nothing then. But he will kill you if he can reach you before you reach the Court. He knows of your plans to carry on Khystros’ work.»

  That was no great surprise to Blade. It was certainly the most reasonable explanation of his confinement in the dungeon. «How did Indhios find out?»

  «Alixa.»

  Blade sat up violently, but Larina pressed a hand to his chest. «No, it is not what you think. She did not betray you. Indhios took her under his ‘protection.’ Then he gave her wine mixed with herbs that make a person unable to lie. She answered his questions because she had no will to do otherwise.»

  It seemed to Blade that the countess was indifferent to his relationship with Alixa, but then why should she be jealous? She was aiming far higher. She could find use for Blade as a bed partner, to be sure, but her plans would not be affected by this one way or another.

  Again, Blade faced making a major decision in a few seconds. And again, he decided to acquiesce. If there was a better way out of the dungeons of Royth than through the countess’ plans, he had not heard of it. Nor would it be wise to wait around in hope that one might turn up. If Indhios was on his trail, he was in deadly danger while locked in the citadel. The same guards that had been bribed to let the countess through to release him might also be bribed to let Indhios or one of his assassins through to kill him. And there were other useful things that could come from joining the countess.

  «What about my crew?»

  «You wish to protect them from the King’s justice?»

  Blade’s voice would have risen to a shout if he had let it. «Damn you, they are my men! They forswore their oaths to the Brotherhood of Neral to follow me here, and more than half their shipmates are drowned or dead on the road because of me. If you won’t help me take them out of their dungeon, then at least let me go back to mine!»

  Larina drew back and raised herself on one elbow to look at him. «You are a strange man, Blahyd. Almost like one of the ancient heroes. They too would die rather than betray their followers. Yes, I think you will draw much attention as King’s Champion if you speak then as you speak now.»

  Blade would not be turned from his subject by fuzzily worded flattery. «My crew’s pardon. Or find somebody else to help you climb over your husband’s body to the throne of Royth!» For a moment, he wondered if he had gone too far. She might now suspect that he would be too independent to be a good ally and take him at his word.

  Then she nodded. «I will let certain people know that your crew genuinely wishes to be admitted to pardon. That will at least put off their trial and execution, which otherwise Indhios would not delay. But you can do the most for them yourself by becoming the new King’s Champion. When you stand forth above Baron Maltravos’ body, King Pelthros will grant almost any request you may ask of him. Only-you must win!»

  Then she turned to him, and her skilled hands and lips began their work once more. Before his arousal put an end to his thinking; it occurred to Blade that there were now no less than five different plots all focusing on the Kingdom of Royth. There was Indhios’ scheme. There was that of the Council of Captains and the Neralers generally. There was Cayla’s monstrous notion of a revival of the Serpent Cult. There was the ambitious and ruthless little countess. Each of these four would cheerfully sell any or all of the others to the devil to get them out of the way. And there was his own comparatively simple plan, to save Royth from the pirates. But was this decadent and ancient land worth the effort? And even if it was worth the effort, would he live long enough to carry his efforts through?

  CHAPTER 15

  Blade was uncomfortably aware that winter would not last forever, so he became increasingly impatient as he endured day after day of luxurious imprisonment in Larina’s red-hung tower chamber. It was not until the eleventh day after his release from the dungeon that the countess appeared with two servants. They were apparently deaf mutes, and they brought a complete suit of Court attire, as well as Blade’s own battered but familiar weapons.

  She also brought him unwelcome news that made him even happier that the time to make his move had come. «My husband is determined to keep control of Alixa. Tonight he will petition the King to make her his ward. If this is granted, he will find it easy to kill her. Or he may merely plunder her fortune and turn the girl herself over to the pirates for their amusement when they have taken the Kingdom.» That probably meant Alixa would end up in Cayla’s hands, Blade knew. So he was aggressively ready for fast and bloody action when the countess led him up the steps of the palace and through the high-arched entry hall into the Grand Court Chamber. The pal
ace was a sprawling jumble of buildings of all eras and styles jammed together cheek-by-jowl, the whole ensemble coated with a fine patina of moss and age. It was at once magnificent and shabby. The air inside hung heavy in Blade’s nostrils with the odors of mold and dampness and ancient filth lurking in remote corners.

  «Remember,» she whispered in his ear before drifting away to join her husband in the line of notables flanking the throne, «no outbursts, whatever Indhios does. And no signals to Alixa. The count can still have you slain at any moment before you step forward and issue the challenge. So when you do do that, do it quickly, so that the law may be invoked before Indhios can react.»

  Blade nodded and adjusted the scarf that concealed most of his face. He wore it because, as the countess had told the bewigged Chamberlain, it hid a healing battle wound which yet made his face a thing too unsightly for the eyes of gentlefolk. He would discard it of course when he issued his challenge. But for now it kept him concealed from prying eyes among the five hundred or so gorgeously dressed men and women that drifted about the vast domed chamber. Like the palace, their finery often seemed out of phase with itself and reeking of age.

  The ceiling rose so high that the vaulting was almost lost in shadow, and the massive block of green marble that supported the twin thrones seemed shrunken and diminished. It was a room that seemed designed as a meeting place of elderly giants. There was no way for it to seem appropriate for the stout, gray-haired man in the fur-trimmed dark blue robe who suddenly stepped out of a shadowed doorway to quietly walk up onto the dais and sit down on the right-hand throne. It took the Chamberlain’s bark and the clatter as the soldiers came to attention to make Blade realize that here at last was King Pelthros.

  There was a great rustling of rich fabrics as the five hundred men and women suddenly froze in midstep and went down on one knee, heads turned toward the King. Pelthros spread his arms wide, and as the company rose, nodded to his Herald.

  Blade, waiting with ever increasing impatience and watching the countess for her signal, saw one trivial person after another announced by the Herald, amble up, and present their even more trivial items of business. Most of them mumbled or stammered so that Blade could barely make out every third word. He doubted that he was missing a great deal.

  But when he saw Indhios lead Alixa forward, pale and trembling and looking small beside the enormous swollen bulk of the count, his hand quietly drifted toward his sword hilt. It took a great deal of self-control for him to stand quietly and listen to Indhios presenting his petition and almost more than he had when he saw Pelthros nod and Indhios lead Alixa away and give her into the guard of one of his henchmen.

  The girl had just vanished, and Blade had just turned his eyes back to the throne, when a flicker of motion caught his attention. He turned, saw the countess raising her white-gloved hand to her ear and patting the rich curls just behind it into position. He grinned savagely. It was time.

  Blade loomed half a head over most of the men as he strode forward, the plain, battle-worn sword gleaming at his side a vivid contrast to the jeweled weapons of the courtiers. He kept straight on through the crowd until he was less than twenty feet from the throne, bowed, and with a theatrical sweep of one powerful arm tore away the red scarf.

  Pelthros’ eyes opened, and as Blade rose and turned, a general gasp arose from the crowd, accompanied by a rasp of drawn swords. The guards came to attention, but yet made no move to step between him and the King. Pelthros cleared his throat, keeping (Blade noticed) a firm grip on the hilt of his own sword, and said, «So Captain Blahyd, the pirate of Neral, has somehow contrived to come to our Court. What brings you before us?»

  «Your Majesty, I claim a right according to the ancient law of your mighty Kingdom. To fight in equal battle against your Champion, and if victorious, to swear fealty to you and stand in his place until another come and prove himself superior in the same way.» Blade had rehearsed getting his request out in a brief but formal speech over and over again. It was just as well, because Indhios lumbered forward wasting no time in spluttering indignantly, his voice rising to a roar.

  «Your Majesty!» he bellowed. «This man is the leader of a band of Neraler pirates of the worst sort. They were shipwrecked on the coast of Grand Ayesh, which Your Majesty had most graciously given into my-«

  «Silence!» thundered Pelthros, rising from the throne and to Blade’s surprise easily out-bellowing his Chancellor. «The law says that if a man steps forward and offers challenge to the King’s Champion, that challenge must be accepted. It is indeed an ancient law of this Realm, as the Captain says, nor shall it be abridged while we sit upon the throne of Royth.» Blade had to admit that in spite of all that he had heard against the man, Pelthros could at least act like a king when necessary. In fact, Indhios was backing away like a bear backing away from a hunter.

  The silence the King had demanded had fallen like a foot of snow over the gathering, chilling and stifling conversation. All eyes were on Blade now, until the King raised his voice again and called, «Herald, summon the King’s Champion!»

  But Baron Maltravos was already pushing his way forward through the crowd of notables flanking the thrones. Blade took the chance to size up the man as he strode out into the clear space in front of the throne and bowed with a graceful arrogance that was almost contemptuous of both the King and the whole Court. Shorter than Blade by half a head, but with long arms and legs supporting a squat, broad torso, there was something apelike about him. But there was no apish deviltry in the gray eyes staring out of a face half swallowed up in bristling beard, only a cold sizing up of Blade in return. Blade’s trained judgment made its assessment and passed him its opinion: this was a dangerous man. He would be fast, he would have great endurance, and he would have against him only Blade’s great size and his own over-confidence. The baron’s words confirmed the judgment:

  «Well, Your Majesty, do we need to waste your gracious time and that of your loyal subjects any further? I see that the Neraler wretch comes armed. I say, let me kill him now, and have done with it.» And he whipped from their scabbards a broadsword and a shortsword and made both of them blur and whistle in the air.

  «I will fight as the baron wishes,» said Blade. «But might I ask for a shield?» The King nodded and beckoned to one of the guards, who ran forward and handed Blade his own shield, a circle of leather over wood about two and a half feet across, with a bronze rim and a bronze boss at the center. Blade hefted it a few times to judge its weight and carefully flexed his muscles to loosen them. The baron watched with an open sneer twisting his faced visible even through the beard.

  The Herald raised his hand, trumpets blared from the alcoves, and the crowd of courtiers and their ladies gave back hastily, leaving free a circle some thirty feet in diameter in front of the throne. That, Blade recalled, was exactly the same size as the arena in which Cayla had slaughtered Dynera. But instead of ropes tied to oars, this arena was marked off by a ring of royal guards, glowering impartially outward at the courtiers and inward at the two fighters standing in the middle.

  The audience was silent. Blade could not read their expressions clearly enough to guess if they were going to prove partisan, and if so, for whom. Nor was it important. A cheering section will not revive a corpse.

  Blade had never fought before against the formal two-swords style that Maltravos was apparently planning to use, except in the Medieval Club at Oxford. But that little experience had taught him that it was deadly for a man with the speed and coordination to use it. A weapon in either hand gave the fighter an extra offensive punch, and if he chose to use both for defense, he could raise an almost unbreakable wall of steel between him and the opponent.

  The baron moved forward, shortsword held out in the guard position and broadsword raised for an overhand stroke. Blade moved in himself, saw the broadsword whirl toward his head, jerked his shield up in time to catch the stroke, then pulled it down as the shortsword stabbed toward his groin. He braced his feet apart, s
wung his own sword, and saw the baron whip both of his weapons up into an X-pattern that caught Blade’s descending stroke neatly in the upper fork of the X. Blade nearly had his sword wrenched out of his hand as the baron sidestepped, disengaged, and came in again.

  In a matter of the few seconds it took for half a dozen more exchanges of blows, Blade realized he was going to have to fight for his life and worry about victory later, if at all. The baron’s broadsword whistled over his head and past his ear by hair-thin margins or crashed deafeningly against the top and edge of his shield. The shortsword flickered like a striking snake toward belly, groin, and thigh. His own slashes clanged off the baron’s guard, and his own thrusts were always beaten down by one of the baron’s whistling strokes. The man was every bit as fast as he was, Blade realized. And unlike Oshawal, he might have equal or greater endurance.

  Back and forth across the circle they sprang in a continuous fury of exchanges, broken only by momentary pauses when by mutual if unspoken consent they drew apart to wipe their faces free of the sweat now flooding down their bodies and darkening their tunics and breeches. Then they would return to the battle.

  Blade was conscious of mutterings and murmurings among the crowd now, as people noted the fine points of each fighter’s techniques or gasped at some particularly hairbreadth escape-usually one of his. The baron might as well have been a machine, for all the strain he was showing. Blade, however, was becoming conscious of rasping breath and rubbery legs and arms as his prison-weakened frame began to rebel against the burden falling on it. But he at least could see in his opponent’s eyes the dying of the former arrogant confidence and the beginning of-not fear, but at least strain and uncertainty. The baron began to use strokes designed to kill, not merely to show off his prowess in handling his swords.

  A moment came, twenty minutes (though feeling more like twenty years) into the fight. The baron sprang out of a resting guard, feinting with the broadsword and thrusting with the shortsword in the same split second. Blade half-crouched, feeling the wind of the broadsword above his head-and feeling the point of the shortsword wedge itself for a moment in one of the gashes that scarred the surface of his shield. In the extra fraction of a second the baron needed to jerk his shortsword free and begin to back away, Blade drove his own sword forward in a lightning thrust and saw the point rake along Maltravos’ left forearm and sink deep into his bicep. The blood welled up fast.