“This will not be settled by a duel between us, Kratos,” Ektor said with a piteous shake of his head, “that particular sun has already set.”
Kratos snorted derisively, but nodded as he said, “Oh, aye, we both know how that would play out—which is why I won’t even bother offering. No,” he said, turning to Nikomedes, “the duel would be between you and my second here.”
Ektor’s eyes narrowed in quiet contemplation and Nikomedes found himself fully understanding why Kratos had only marched a ragtag group of his fortress’s weakest warriors. He had never intended to wage actual war on this broken patch of frost-covered ground; he had planned on Nikomedes fighting Ektor from the moment they had left Blue Fang Pass.
“Go on,” Ektor said, eliciting a look of muted surprise from the face of Hephaestion, his standard bearer.
“It will go like this,” Kratos explained, “I brought ten score of men with me, and they’re Black Arrows, every one of them.” Nikomedes kept his features stiff and unreadable as Ektor’s eyes flicked back and forth between Kratos and him. Kratos had only brought two dozen true Black Arrows, but apparently this particular lie was integral to the one-eyed warlord’s plan so Nikomedes made no attempt to correct him. “Two hundred skins, along with the heads they were draped over, would be quite the prize for you to take back to your Hold Mistress, wouldn’t you say?”
“I can take those by force,” Ektor retorted. “I outnumber you six to one, Kratos, and my men are all blooded North Plainsmen.”
Kratos paused as though in contemplation before shrugging, “Fine. I’ll allow your second to bind my hands and ankles, after which time he’ll keep a spear to my neck while the two of you settle this thing…honorably,” he smirked contemptuously as he chewed on the last word. “If you win, you can take my head. But if he wins,” Kratos tilted his head toward Nikomedes, “I get that sword you love so much.”
Ektor stiffened, but he was clearly intrigued by the proposal.
“Here,” Kratos added as the far-too-finely-dressed warlord standing across from him mulled the offer over, “I’ll even throw in Glacier Splitter.”
Ektor’s eyes went wide for a moment before he regained his composure. “I had heard rumors of your cousin’s fate, but I am surprised to find that he fell at your hand.”
Kratos seemed to ignore the comment as he hefted Glacier Splitter before himself, seeming to test its weight as he did so. “This is the hammer that carved Blue Fang Pass from the White Wall,” he said, referring to the name given to the string of unbroken mountains where the fortress was located. “It would make a fine prize for any man bold enough to take as a present for the would-be queen that holds his leash.”
Ektor was now clearly considering the offer quite seriously as he turned and gave Nikomedes an appraising look—the kind of look one might give to a potential livestock acquisition—and eventually nodded, “You have a deal.”
The finely-dressed warlord held his jeweled sword out for Hephaestion to accept, and the boy—who could not have been more than fourteen, and was significantly smaller than average—accepted it as Ektor began to unfasten the various bits and pieces of his overly complicated frippery.
Nikomedes turned and followed Kratos as the one-eyed warrior silently moved fifty paces from the others. He turned and pulled a dagger from his belt, which he held out hilt-first, causing Nikomedes to give him a curious look.
“Drop everything else,” Kratos commanded, “including your sword and shield.”
Nikomedes’ jaw clenched tight as he turned and gave a pointed look in Ektor’s direction. “You would have me fight him with a knife while he carries both sword and shield?”
“I’ve already seen what you can do with a sword and shield,” Kratos said, clearly bemused by Nikomedes’ reluctance. “I want to see how you do out of your element.”
Nikomedes was genuinely offended by how little Kratos appeared to value his life. But he quickly remembered that Kratos had, at least ostensibly, wagered his own life on Nikomedes’ victory. That particular realization confused him, but he pushed such thoughts from his mind—he had a fight to prepare for.
“What can you tell me of him?” Nikomedes asked as he dropped his sword and shield to the rocky ground at his feet. He also unslung the javelin sling from across his shoulders and set it down carefully before accepting the dagger from Kratos’ outstretched hand.
“He’s big, ugly, full of himself, and |I’d wager the one stone I’ve got left between my legs that the fresh-looking lad Ektor brought with him handles more than just his standard pole—if you catch my meaning,” Kratos replied, folding his arms across his chest and snickering when Nikomedes shot him a dark look.
Nikomedes tested the weight of the dagger and found that it was a serviceable, if unremarkable weapon which was slightly too heavy toward the pommel. He spun it over in his right hand before switching it off to his left and doing the same. A series of swipes and stabbing motions taught him everything he would be able to learn about the only weapon he would carry into the fight.
He would have never agreed to duel the man if he’d had any choice in the matter, but he was little better than Kratos’ slave for the foreseeable future. He had agreed to fight for the one-eyed heretic in order to spare the lives of his men, but not a day had gone by that he did not wonder if it had been the wrong choice.
A man of his world was defined by his actions, unlike a woman who was defined by what she held. In accepting the outcome of the duel between Nikomedes and Kratos, those men he had fought alongside had accepted a brand of shame they would never be able to erase. He had made the decision to save the lives of those men on the field where Felix had died, and he had thought it to be the right one at the time he had made it, but he was growing increasingly doubtful with each passing day.
Life is more than simply drawing the next breath, Niko, he heard his father’s voice say in his head, and it was that phantom sound which broke him from his reverie.
“Ready?” Kratos asked.
“Yes,” Nikomedes replied, turning and following the one-eyed warlord back to the small clearing where they had met Ektor and his standard bearer.
Ektor had stripped off his various pieces of wardrobe, but even his Stone Rhino armor—which was renowned the world over for its trademark, grey-with-blue-pebbles appearance—had been stylized with small feathers and other ornaments. As Nikomedes looked closer at those ornaments, he saw that several of them appeared to be teeth and knucklebones—human teeth and knucklebones.
“Bind him,” Ektor commanded Hephaestion, and Kratos stood before the understandably timid youth for several seconds, looking down on him from his head-and-a-half height advantage before bending his knee and placing his wrists before himself.
Hephaestion drew a short breath before binding him as Kratos had agreed, and when he was finished doing so the young boy moved to Kratos’ back and placed the tip of his spear against the one-eyed warrior’s neck.
“Get on with it,” Kratos growled, clearly disliking his current position.
“On your knees at last, Kratos,” Ektor said with a predatory smile, “right where you belong.” The dandy warlord turned to Nikomedes and said, “You know, you don’t have to die here, boy. You could kill that brute over there for me, and I’d consider the matter closed. Of course, if you wanted to join me,” he said, his eyes moving up and down Nikomedes’ body, “I might have a position or two available.”
Nikomedes gripped the dagger in his right hand and lowered himself into a fighting crouch before padding softly to his right—which happened to be in the opposite direction from where Kratos now knelt—and watching the other man’s movements with a clinical eye.
Ektor sighed, “Such a waste.” He hefted his sword and shield, clanged them three times in the customary fashion to signal the beginning of a duel, and moved toward Nikomedes in a fighting crouch of his own.
Nikomedes knew that his dagger limited his options severely, and he would need to stick to counterattacking at lea
st initially. Ektor moved forward, apparently favoring his left leg as though it had an old wound which had never fully healed, and lunged with a short, probing attack aimed at Nikomedes’ midsection.
Nikomedes saw the attack coming before Ektor even launched it. The warlord’s hips had betrayed his intentions, while his arms had moved violently forward in what was clearly a feint. He turned the sword easily aside by intercepting it with the dagger without even moving his feet.
Ektor drew his sword back to a ready position and shifted his grip on his round shield. He shuffle-stepped, prompting Nikomedes to mirror the footwork in order to maintain the distance between them, and then Ektor repeated the far-too-obvious ploy. After four such feints the warlord drove his shield toward Nikomedes’ midsection.
Nikomedes stepped forward and spun his body around the shield, prompting the warlord to shift his weight and lash out with a kick aimed at Nikomedes’ right leg.
Nikomedes normally would have intercepted the kick with his knee, but the warlord’s grieves were covered in hooked barbs which would have likely entangled the two of them when they dug into Nikomedes’ leather armor.
So Nikomedes danced back and out of the way just before a swipe of the warlord’s sword whistled through the air where he had stood just a moment earlier.
“You’re quick,” Ektor grunted before pressing an all-out attack, stabbing low and following up with a short shield bash. Nikomedes met the shield with his shoulder in the middle of the warlord’s charge, knowing that doing so would keep Ektor’s sword out of counterattacking position for a brief moment. He brought his dagger over the top of the shield during that window, aiming for Ektor’s clavicle, but the warlord was too crafty and he disengaged before Nikomedes’ attack was even in mid-swing.
Nikomedes paused in mid-motion before rocking back on his feet and adjusting his balance in preparation for the next exchange as Ektor once again squared with him.
“Too young,” Ektor said heavily, “too inexperienced…what a waste.”
The warlord thrust the tip of his sword toward Nikomedes’ chest, raising his shield up to protect his head and shoulder from a counterattack like the one Nikomedes had just attempted, forcing the younger warrior to backpedal on the balls of his feet.
Ektor followed the thrust with a short, downward chop which he easily transitioned into an upward swipe that saw his body spin completely around as he allowed the beautiful weapon’s momentum to carry it around in a circular arc which saw a second, nearly identical attack follow the first.
Nikomedes continued backing away, noting as he did so that Ektor was varying the angle of the blade’s path in a seemingly random fashion, likely designed to keep Nikomedes off-balance.
After the third pirouette, Ektor reversed his momentum by stomping his foot to the ground and jamming his sword under his own arm and behind his back as he very nearly skewered Nikomedes, who had been moving to escape the violent maelstrom of steel.
He only avoided the clever attack by swaying sideways and jamming the overly heavy pommel of his dagger down against the flat of Ektor’s blade, knocking it off-target just enough that it only touched his armor as the warlord drew it back into a ready position while doing likewise with his shield.
Ektor was far from the fastest warriors Nikomedes had ever sparred with, but he was surprisingly nimble for a man of his size while wearing such formidable armor. Felix had been significantly more explosive, even if only for short bursts, and both Nikomedes’ father and his brother had been significantly faster and more agile than Felix had been.
With that in mind, Nikomedes was confident he could anticipate Ektor’s timing after seeing his varied attacks thus far. He was now ready to put an end to the fight—all he needed was a sliver of an opening, and he knew it would be enough.
“Last chance, boy,” Ektor growled between deep, measured breaths. “Join me…or die.”
“You talk too much,” Nikomedes retorted, finding that his own breathing was significantly less labored than the other man’s.
Ektor’s features contorted as he snarled viciously, and Nikomedes seized the initiative with a flurry of precise, coordinated attacks directed at Ektor’s arms.
He had never actually fought against anyone who wore Stone Rhino armor, but he had heard that it was essentially impervious to all but the largest, finest weapons. That armor now covered his foe’s head, torso and legs, but his arms were covered in banded leather—where a precisely located strike from his dagger would prove decisive, if not outright fatal.
Ektor interdicted the shield into the dagger’s path, but Nikomedes varied his attacks high and low, wide and straight, while mixing in the occasional kick. He even found the openings for a few punches, which he aimed squarely at the warlord’s exposed face, but Ektor managed to control his retreat well enough that none of Nikomedes’ attacks landed.
Then, however, Nikomedes saw his opening while spinning around a counterattacking stab from Ektor’s sword. Without even thinking about doing it, he stabbed his dagger down between a pair of the metal strips which covered his foe’s arms, causing a thrill of excitement to course through him as he drew the blade out and danced out of the expected counterattack’s path as Ektor savagely swiped his sword at him.
But Nikomedes’ elation was short-lived, because just as he danced out of the warlord’s range he realized that his dagger had struck something hard—something metal—beneath the banded leather facade.
Nikomedes realized his adversary had all but told him to attack his arms by wearing the banded leather over them, and it was that realization which ignited a fire deep within his being that he had not felt for a long time.
Sneering contemptuously, Ektor hawked up a wad of thick, white phlegm and snickered. “They always fall for that,” he growled before launching a new attack of his own—an attack which was all Nikomedes could deal with, and then some.
The dandy seemed to have gained a step in the last few seconds, and it was all Nikomedes could do to keep his savage, precise assault from biting deeply into his flesh.
But Ektor did manage to score a handful of hits as he drove forward, alternating between sword and shield in a perfectly choreographed dance of death which Nikomedes grew increasingly certain was Ektor’s best series of moves.
Every warrior has sets of maneuvers he practices, but some are more effective than others, and it was clear from seeing how Ektor committed to every single motion that this sequence had taken more than a few lives over his life.
His sword ran across Nikomedes’ thigh after he barely managed to keep it from literally hamstringing him by twisting his leg at the last possible moment. But he ate a shield bash to the face for having done so, momentarily robbing him of his vision as the world exploded into stars of every shape, size, and color.
As he blindly moved away from the murderous warlord, he heard the distinctive whistling of Ektor’s bejeweled sword spitting the air mere inches from his head, and one of them even managed to nick his neck on the left side just above his armor.
Just as his vision returned, he saw the warlord’s boot slam down onto the ground between them and a spray of frozen dirt flew into Nikomedes’ face. Had it been summer, that dirt would not have been clumped together by the frost, but since it was early winter he felt the stinging of tiny frost pebbles against his face instead of the cloud of blinding dust it might have been.
Still, one of those frost pebbles found its way into his left eye, which he clamped shut and did his best to ignore the severe, piercing pain he felt when doing so.
Growling in what seemed to be frustration, Ektor pressed forward and very nearly skewered Nikomedes through the chest. Nikomedes barely managed to lean out of the way in time, nearly falling onto his back as he arched like a dancer might do before dropping and rolling away from the follow-up attacks.
Ektor’s sword slammed into the ground two inches from Nikomedes’ free hand, just as Nikomedes felt something between his fingers which he gripped and hurled at
Ektor’s face.
It turned out to be a handful of actual pebbles which he had gripped, rather than false ones made of dirt and frozen water like those which Ektor had kicked into his face. Nikomedes saw the warlord cease his advance as he brought his shield up a moment too late to intercept the pebbles, and he dove for the warlord’s still-outstretched sword arm in the hope of wresting the weapon away from the older, more seasoned warrior.
Ektor seemed surprised by the move, but he smashed the edge of his shield into Nikomedes’ head in an attempt to break his vice-like, two-handed grip on the wrist of his sword arm.
Nikomedes’ head swam with a powerful wave of vertigo when Ektor’s shield caught him behind the ear, but he kept his hands clamped on the warlord’s wrist and performed a similar maneuver to the one he had tried against Felix.
Rolling forward and slightly sideways, Nikomedes flipped his legs in a counterclockwise motion which saw his entire body twist around Ektor’s sword arm.
It was a move the older warrior had clearly not anticipated, and in the ensuing scramble Ektor dropped his shield and tried desperately to break Nikomedes’ grip on his sword arm.
But Nikomedes’ vision had cleared, and he knew that if he simply did as his father and brother had taught him to do, he would wrest control of the blade from his foe.
He felt a series of short punches land against his back as he snaked his right around Ektor’s sword arm, but he paid the blows no heed. He had nearly applied sufficient pressure to Ektor’s wrist, using yet another joint lock his father had taught him, when those punches abruptly ceased.
Nikomedes turned his head briefly, and barely managed to jerk it to the side before a pair of fangs buried themselves in his cheek.
Releasing his grip on the warlord’s arm instinctively, Nikomedes found that the small, multi-colored snake—a viper of some kind—had landed on his chest and was already coiling in preparation for another attack. His reflexes were quick enough that he brushed the deadly serpent off his armor before scrambling away just in time to avoid the jeweled blade of Ektor as it clanged off a rock—a rock on which Nikomedes’ shoulder had been a moment earlier.
The Forge of Men Page 11