The Shattered Mask s-3

by Richard Lee Byers

  "I wouldn't be surprised if the Quippers I've already killed thought that very same thing," Shamur replied. "Give me back my broadsword, and I'll do my best to make our contest as interesting as possible."

  Avos sneered. "If you truly were a Quipper, you should remember that in a duel like this, he who was challenged has the choice of weapons."

  In fact, Shamur hadn't known, and now she felt a twinge of apprehension. "Oh, of course," she said lightly. "What did you have in mind?"

  Til show you," he said.

  Avos snapped his fingers, gave the galltrit a final caress, then set the creature gently on the arm of his chair. As he rose and stepped down from the dais, one of his underlings hurried up with two unusual sets of weapons, each composed of a short sword and a fishing gaff, a sturdy, four-foot shaft of wood with a barbed steel hook at the end.

  Shamur had never heard of anyone fighting with such a tool. She wondered if Avos had invented this particular mode of combat, and was its sole master. That would certainly tilt the odds in his favor whenever any of his fellow Quippers dared to challenge him.

  "Look them over," Avos said, "then choose the ones you like."

  She took him at his word, hefting the weapons to check their weight and balance and finding little to choose between them. She settled on the gaff that was a hair lighter and the short sword with the narrower, sharper point. "These will do," she said.

  "Good," he said. "Now, just so we're clear: Your husband doesn't claim to be a Quipper, and even if a god reaches down and smites me, which is about the only way I can see you winning, Thamalon stays with us." "Fair enough," she said. "Let's do this." "After you, milady." He waved her toward a circle sloppily painted on the concrete floor. Judging from the rusty stains inside it, it had served as a dueling arena on a number of previous occasions.

  Shamur and Avos took their places at opposite ends of the ring. The other ruffians crowded around its border. Garris, assuming the director's role, declared, "The fight will continue until one duelist yields or is unable to continue. Fighters, come on guard.'' Shamur copied her opponent's stance, slightly crouched, with the gaff in the lead hand. "And… begin!"

  The two combatants circled, sizing one another up, looking for openings. Shamur was likewise trying to figure out how one fought with this particular set of weapons. The essential principle seemed clear enough: Use the long gaff to snare an opponent, either by hooking one of his limbs or snagging his flesh with the barbed point, then yank him close and thrust the short sword into his vitals. With his superior reach and strength, Avos could no doubt execute all the variations on the basic maneuver very well.

  Still, she could envision an effective counter. Parry her enemy's gaff with her own, then hold the parry to keep his weapon at bay while she closed the distance, bringing them both well into short sword range before he was expecting it. Caught by surprise at such close quarters, Avos would have a hard time defending against a low thrust to the belly.

  The Quipper chieftain stepped forward just far enough to flick his gaffs hook behind her shoulder. Beginning the sequence of actions she'd devised, she parried, but her weapon never made contact with that of her opponent.

  Instantly, with a quickness phenomenal in so huge a man, Avos dropped into a squat. He slipped the gaff around the calf of her lead leg and yanked it toward him. Shamur kicked frantically to free herself, and by sheer good luck more than anything else, her leg came out of the hook. The point caught in her leather boot for a second, then tore free.

  Now she was reeling and in imminent danger of toppling backward. Avos surged up out of his squat and rushed her, his short sword leveled at her breast. Some of his comrades cheered in anticipation of the death thrust.

  As well they might, for, utterly bereft of balance as she was, Shamur could neither parry, dodge, nor attempt a counterattack. She reckoned that all she could do was finish falling, and so she endeavored to do so as quickly as possible, hurling herself down to the cold, hard concrete floor.

  As she'd hoped, Avos blundered right over the top of her. She tried to hook his ankle with her gaff before he could wheel back around to face her, but she missed.

  She grinned as she scrambled back to her feet. Sometimes, for some perverse reason, it struck her funny when she cheated death by a hair, and this was one of those occasions.

  "Very good," she said to Avos, "you nearly had me. But I think I'm starting to get the hang of this game. Feint, deceive, then attack, just like in ordinary fencing."

  He sneered. "Got it figured out already, have you?" Advancing, he swung his gaff like a war club, whipping the head in a backhanded strike at her face.

  She stepped back out of distance and kept on retreating around the circle, counterattacking and riposting vigorously enough to keep him from pressing her as hard as he might have otherwise, but essentially remaining on the defensive while she waited for him to use the same high feint, drop, and hook to the leg he'd tried before. She reckoned it was only a matter of time. The combination had almost won him the fight. Eventually he was bound to try it again. She just had to stay alive until he did.

  Actually, that wasn't turning out to be an enormous problem. He was discovering the same thing she had learned while chasing Thamalon about the clearing. It was difficult to hurt an opponent who constantly gave ground. Indeed, she began to enjoy thwarting him, and grinned at the frustration in his ruddy, sweaty face and porcine eyes.

  At last he threatened her shoulder, and her instincts told her he was attempting the compound attack she wanted him to make. She parried anyway, to convince him the trick was working and to protect herself in case she was mistaken, and he dropped to one knee. His gaff swept at her leg.

  Having anticipated the attack, she hopped to one side and easily avoided it. Before he could come back to any sort of guard, she lashed her own gaff at his head.

  She meant to set the barb in his flesh, but, perhaps because of her unfamiliarity with this peculiar weapon, that didn't happen. Still, clanking against his skull, the steel hook split open his scalp.

  The spectators roared. Shamur aimed her short sword and lunged. Avos blindly swept his gaff up in a blow that, though it failed to connect solidly, brushed her back and gave him time to lurch to his feet.

  Blood streamed from the scalp wound, trickling down the ruffian's face. Shamur relished the sight of it, and his shocked expression even more so.

  "I told you I was getting the hang of it," she said.

  Avos shouted and rushed her. She retreated, waiting for the right opportunity, and, thirty seconds later, bashed him again.

  *****

  Thamalon supposed he should have been too concerned about the fundamental question of their survival to dwell on lesser matters, but once again, as at other moments during the past two days, he found himself marveling at Shamur's deportment in the face of danger.

  The Uskevren lord had done plenty of fighting during his long and turbulent life. He liked to think he had seen it through with reasonable fortitude. But while he had certainly savored his victories, and taken pleasure in fencing and jousting for sport, he had never enjoyed the actual experience of mortal combat. That chilling awareness that if his opponent proved the better warrior, or perchance merely the luckier one, his life was quite possibly going to end.

  Shamur, on the other hand, clearly did delight in it. Though she must be sore from the beating she d taken, her pleasure was manifest in her smile and the gleam in her eyes, a show of vivacity such as he had seldom seen from her in over a quarter century of marriage. Ilmater's tears, now and again she even laughed, generally immediately after a close call that would have left many people white and sick with shock.

  When he'd first learned her secret, and she'd told him she needed this sort of stimulation to be happy, he had, in his consternation and anger, assumed she was talking nonsense. Now, however, he could see that her assertion might well be true, and sensed just how profoundly she had denied her own nature when she assumed her grand-niec
e's identity.

  Perhaps her love of risk was part of what made her such a superb fighter, for that she surely was. Avos was younger, stronger, had the superior reach, and possessed the substantial advantage of having trained with the odd set of weapons, yet Shamur was beating him. Thamaion was glad that, assuming the Quippers honored their pledge, she at least was likely to leave this wretched.

  Or so he thought until he chanced to glimpse a flicker of motion from the corner of his eye.

  He turned his head to spy the galltrit flying upward toward the high ceiling. The stealthy little creature carried what appeared to be a toy crossbow in its diminutive hands.

  Thamaion suspected the quarrel was poisoned. In all likelihood, no spectator would notice the tiny missile striking its target, yet the venom would be potent enough to hamper Shamur and allow the hard-pressed Avos to overcome her, win the duel by a cheat, and still maintain the respect of his underlings.

  Thamaion would have liked to point out the gremlins obvious intent to the other Quippers, but there was no time. The rogues were focused on the duel, and by the time he managed to divert one's attention, the galltrit would already have taken its shot and fluttered away. Nor would it be efficacious to shout and warn Shamur. The way the crowd was yelling, she likely wouldn't hear him, and even if she did, the distraction might provide Avos with just the chance he needed to land a telling blow.

  Fortunately. Thamalon's guards were as interested in the duel as everyone else, too interested to watch him especially closely. Exploding into motion, he shoved one away, snatched the poniard from the other's sheath, pushed him away as well, turned, and hurled the dagger.

  The poniard wasn't well balanced for throwing, but it flew true anyway, and pierced the galltrit's breast. The bat-winged imp gave a thin, quavering cry and fell, thudding down in the combat circle.

  By that time several ruffians were moving in on Thamaion with blades in their hands and murder in their eyes. Suspecting they had at best only a murky idea of what had just occurred, the noble pointed frantically at the gray, diminutive corpse.

  "Look at the gremlin!" he roared in his most imperious tone. "Look at that little crossbow. The cursed thing was going to cheat on behalf of its master, and if I'm to be harmed for killing it to keep the fight fair, then by Тут Grimjaws, you stinking Quippers have no honor at all!"

  The ruffians hesitated, then black-bearded Donvan said, "His lordship's got a point, and besides, we want to sell him, not kill him. Put up your weapons and watch the rest of the show."

  The galltrit's body thumped down inside the dueling circle. As soon as Shamur caught sight of the little crossbow in the creature's hand, she understood what it had been up to. She grinned at Avos. "Did you signal the gremlin somehow, or did it simply know to intervene whenever you were losing a challenge?"

  An ugly muttering started through the crowd. Some of the Quippers had no doubt watched Avos slaughter their friends inside this ring. Now they had reason to doubt that he'd beaten them fairly.

  For a moment, Avos looked stricken. Aghast. Then his square, ruddy face grew redder still, and pure rage blazed in his pale blue eyes. He bellowed and charged, swinging the gaff at Shamur's face.

  She parried, and the force of his blow sent a shock down her arm. Instantly, contemptuous of any attempt she might have made to riposte, he stepped through with his back foot and drove his short sword at her chest.

  She parried with her blade and attempted a thrust of her own, but he was still surging forward, spoiling her aim, and instead of piercing his bowels, her point simply grazed along his ribs.

  Seemingly unfazed by this new wound, Avos slammed into her and sent her staggering. He tried to hook her leg and she barely managed to bat his gaff away with her own. Instantly he sprang forward and lashed the weapon at her head.

  Recovering her balance, she swayed back, and the gaff missed her nose by half an inch. Whirling the weapon over bis head, he rushed her yet again.

  She smiled, for she understood what he was doing. Since his tricks hadn't worked, he was playing the big man's game, trying to overwhelm her with sheer might and relentless aggression. It was a strategy that had won many a fight for many a strapping fellow like himself, but it was incompatible with a strong defense. If a fighter possessed the skill to withstand his onslaught for long enough-and Shamur reckoned that she did-Avos would inevitably leave himself wide open for a riposte or stop cut.

  She gave ground, parrying, gritting her teeth at the appalling power in the strokes that stung her fingers and once or twice nearly bashed her weapons from her hands. Until finally Avos blundered forward with a poorly aimed attack, so poorly aimed, in fact, that she was confident he would be unable to correct and strike her if she simply sidestepped. As he plunged past her, she swept her gaff low, hooked his ankle, and pulled.

  Avos crashed face down on the floor. His foot flailed free of the hook, and he tried to scramble up. Shamur swung the gaff high and slammed it down on top of his head, splitting his scalp anew. Losing his grip on his weapons, he slumped. Dropping the gaff, she sprang on top of him, wrenched him onto his back, and poised her short sword at his throat.

  The spectators howled. Avos gazed up at her with astonishment and fear in his eyes. "I yield," he said. Shamur chuckled. "I figured you probably would." "So you can back off now. You're free to go." "Those were the terms before the galltrit tried to cheat for you. I think it's appropriate that we amend them. Lord Uskevren and I are both leaving."

  Avos scowled. "No." She was surprised that he'd stick at releasing Thamalon with her blade at his neck, but perhaps he felt impelled to try to salvage a bit of his pride, or at least a scrap of his underlings' respect "He stays."

  Shamur raised her sword to threaten his eyes. "Tell your friends to let him go right now, or by Mask, mine is the last face you will ever see. Nor will I stop cutting after that."

  "You hurt me, the other Quippers will hurt him." "But you'll still be hurt. Don't play that game with me, Avos, you won't like the way it turns out. You should realize by now that I'm not the sort of woman who shrinks at the sight of blood, not even her husband's."

  "All right," Avos growled, "let the nobleman go." Shamur held her breath, for she was by no means certain that the rogues would let such a lucrative prize slip through their fingers merely to save their defeated and discredited chieftain. But perhaps some of them still held Avos in some esteem. Others surely didn't, but maybe they also felt that Shamur had fought valiantly enough to earn her husband's liberation as well as her own. Or perhaps no one wanted to be the first to advocate allowing Avos's mutilation, for fear that nobody else would agree with him. Whatever the reason, after a moment, Thamalon's guards stepped away from him, and none of the other toughs objected.

  "Good," Shamur said. "Now, someone fetch the weapons, money, and jewels you took from us."

  Donvan collected the articles and handed them over to Thamalon.

  "Now get out of here," Avos said.

  "Call me a cynic," Shamur replied, "but I can't help wondering whether you'd still consent to our departure if my blade were no longer tickling you. So here's how it will be. You're going to walk us out of the Scab, with our sword points at your back every step of the way. Now stand up very slowly."

  Thamalon sauntered to her side. "Nicely done," he said.

  She smiled. "It would all have been for naught if you hadn't killed the galltrit."

  "I believe we still require a name."

  "You're right. I nearly forgot." She prodded Avos in the kidney with her sword. "Enlighten us."

  "I don't know who the wizard in the moon mask is," the ruffian answered grudgingly, "but the nobleman who paid me to supply men to aid the spellcaster is Ossian Talendar."

  Chapter 18

  lhazienne plucked her towel from its peg and wiped the perspiration from her face. Beside her, Talbot poured water from a jug and, throwing back his head, glugged it down. A stray drop escaped the corner of his mouth and trickled down his unsha
ven chin.

  Though stiff and sore from their exertions the night before, the two of them had nonetheless felt a common urge to go to the mansion's training hall this morning. Perhaps they'd wanted to work the kinks out, or hone their skills for battles yet to come. Tazi suspected that Tal at least had hoped some hard fencing would distract him from his guilt.

  However, judging from his somber expression, it didn't seem to have worked, and when he spoke, he proved that it hadn't. "I still don't understand why it happened."

  Tazi sighed. "Yes, you do, you just don't want to let it go."

  "How can I? I feel badly enough about Jander, but Master Selwick was alive when we fled out the back of the tiring house. I never would have abandoned him if I'd known the other wizard would hold off chasing us long enough to kill him!"

  "The enemy wizard was flying, and I saw a couple of our men bounce crossbow bolts off him to no effect. Even if we had lingered, we couldn't have saved Brom."

  "Still-"

  "Enough!" she cried. "Haven't you ever listened to Father's stories? Battles are unpredictable, and people die in them. That's just the way it is."

  "Well, none of our friends died in mine," Tamlin said.

  Startled, Thazienne pivoted to see her foppish brother standing in the doorway. He was as exquisitely dressed as usual in a red and purple ensemble, but to her surprise, he was still carrying the woodcutter's axe from yesterday, now slung across his back. Evidently he'd prevailed upon one of the servants to fashion some sort of scabbard for it.

  Tal glowered at him. "What's that remark supposed to mean?"

  "Just that when I was attacked, I wasn't expecting trouble," Tamlin replied. "I only had three comrades to stand beside me, not a company of guards, and none of us were slain. I led everyone to safety. It's a pity my brother the master swordsman can't say the same."