His opponent obliged, and Nikomedes held up a fraction of a second to allow Kallistos’ hands to hit the ground before pouncing on him and reaching his hands around the slightly smaller man’s neck. Wrenching his arms violently as he tried to secure the front choke, Nikomedes was impressed by the other man’s slipperiness as Kallistos squirmed this way and that in an attempt to break free.
Nikomedes drove forward, trying to put pressure on Nikomedes’ neck but finding it impossible to do so as long as Kallistos kept his hips back. Then a thought occurred to him, and he turned Kallistos’ feet toward the fence—the nearest section of which just so happened to be very near to the Hold Mistress’s bench—and nearly carried the other man the remaining distance before slamming his back into one of the fence posts.
Trapped between Nikomedes’ vice-like grip and the fence post, Kallistos continued to fight valiantly but he was simply no match for Nikomedes in the raw strength department. The difference between them in pure strength was likely not nearly as great as the difference between Kallistos and the average warrior of Argos, but it proved decisive as Nikomedes flexed his arms around his opponent’s neck.
“Three fifty,” Nazoraios declared, a trace of amusement in his voice as Kallistos’ body began to go limp.
Nikomedes arched his back emphatically, torquing Kallistos’ head over at an unnatural angle for several seconds until the other man’s body went completely limp. Nazoraios stepped over and reached through the fence to check Kallistos for responsiveness, and when he found none he held up a halting hand.
“Nikomedes is the victor,” he declared, “at three hundred eighty two beats of the drum!”
Nikomedes made eye contact with Land Bride Adonia Akantha Zosime and held her gaze for a long moment before dropping Kallistos’ limp body to the ground and walking over to stand directly before the Hold Mistress’s bench.
Once there, he dropped to a knee and lowered his eyes to the ground, as was tradition following a sanctioned honor duel in the Hold Mistress’s presence.
“Do you attest that this matter will now rest, Guardsman Nikomedes?” the Hold Mistress asked just as Nykator drew a breath to usurp her privilege.
“I do, Hold Mistress,” Nikomedes affirmed sincerely. “Honor has been satisfied and tradition upheld.”
“Very well,” Hold Mistress Zosime said approvingly before turning to lead her party back toward the Inner Keep which housed the Great Hall, along with every living member of Argos’ Zosime line.
Soon thereafter, Nikomedes collected his equipment and made his way to the freshly-cooked bull which Kallistos had promised to share following the tournament. After all, Nikomedes saw no reason to pass up a perfectly good meal just because of dishonorable conduct on the part of the bull’s owner.
And he suddenly found himself with an unexpectedly strong appetite.
Chapter XVIII: Covert Meetings
Six months later, Nikomedes found himself in the barracks where he was performing his daily exercises. Kephus’ loyal men had slowly begun to distance themselves from him, which Nikomedes assumed was part of the plan to ingratiate himself to Nykator—a plan which had gone as well as he could have predicted.
During those six months he had fought in another pair of tournaments, though he had not been invited to Kallistos’ team a second time. This told Nikomedes as much about Kallistos’ character as any action a man could take, proving that he was spiteful and self-centered in the extreme. Neither characteristic’s revelation would come as any great surprise to those who were even passingly familiar with Kallistos, but they were important data points for Nikomedes to file away.
Nikomedes had only advanced past the first round in one of those tournaments by soundly defeating Kallistos’ team with a smaller, five man unit. Unfortunately, that tournament also saw Nikomedes suffer defeat when he drew each of Kapaneus’ teammates in rapid succession during the individual duels round. None of them had been overly concerned with defeating him, but each had dealt significant enough damage to his legs that he knew he would not last against Kapaneus should he advance. So he had bowed out of the final match rather than give his rival the satisfaction of carving a wholly undeserved notch on his belt with Nikomedes’ name on it.
Aside from the tournaments, Nikomedes had been invited to attend every public audience in the Great Hall and he had attended each of those audiences without fail. He had even been invited to stand at Nykator’s side—along with Kapaneus and Kallistos—during military meetings, which he understood was as much a display of recognition toward Nikomedes’ abilities as it was meant to light a metaphorical fire under the other two lieutenants.
Just as he was finishing his final set of upper body workouts for the day, the door to the training room opened and in stepped the Land Bride, Adonia Akantha Zosime, herself.
“My Lady,” Nikomedes said, drying his face and long, blonde hair with a rag before wrapping a simple-looking but high-quality robe around his body—a robe which had been yet another gift from Hypatios Nykator in his incessant stream of such favors which had clearly been intended to sway Nikomedes from his current post as a guardsman. However, Nikomedes had repeatedly refused such overtures—politely, of course—since accepting would run contrary to everything he was, as well as everything he needed Nykator to think that he was.
“Guardsman,” she replied, and Nikomedes saw a pair of figures standing behind her. One was a large warrior with black hair and a dozen major scars scattered across his face and neck. Nikomedes knew him as Persus, the personal guard of Lady Adonia, though Nikomedes had never spoken with the man. The other figure was a woman of average height and stature, but something in her eyes—and the way she moved her balance back and forth across her hips—suggested she was no simple lady in waiting as her clothing and accoutrements suggested.
“To what do I owe this honor, Lady Adonia?” Nikomedes asked after fastening the robe’s waist-belt and saluting her as was befitting a woman of her station.
Her icy blue eyes narrowed briefly before she sighed in what seemed to be genuine exasperation before replying in what seemed to be a pre-rehearsed stream of official speech, “I have come to deliver a token of appreciation on behalf of our Hold Mistress. Your steadfast, continued service to the Hold’s guard force is an example which does the Hold nearly as much good as the valorous deeds done while you have stood at your post.”
Nikomedes wanted to smile at her obvious irritation at having been given such a menial task, but he kept his features neutral and nodded slowly as he carefully considered her words. She had pointedly mentioned his loyalty to the citadel’s guard force as a reason for her personal delivery of whatever favor the Hold Mistress had chosen to bestow upon him. But her tone while speaking of his ‘valorous deeds’ had been far from genuinely appreciative.
In fact, she had sounded decidedly unimpressed by his record of accomplishments to date. It was this realization that made Nikomedes’ own eyes narrow as he composed his reply, which he knew would need to be worded carefully.
He clasped his hands and bowed the proper depth—approximately midway between an upright posture and a ninety degree bend at the waist—holding the pose for several seconds before returning to an upright posture and saying with genuine feeling, “I only regret that I have not already done more for the Hold during my time serving under Kastor Kephus’ command.”
She snorted loudly, prompting him to nearly do a double-take at her strong features. She eyed him suspiciously and said, “For every truly honorable man who speaks as you do, there are a hundred who merely use such words for their own gain—and then forget they have spoken them as soon as doing so suits their purpose.”
“I would ask how I might prove the honesty of my words to you, Lady Akantha,” Nikomedes said, clasping his hands once again and lacing his voice with the hint of a challenge.
Silence hung between them for several seconds before she replied coldly, “Do not think me a fool, Guardsman Nikomedes. For my entire life I have been
surrounded by your ilk—and your betters,” she added, her words sending a wave of bitter anger coursing through his body which he managed to keep from affecting his posture or expression, “and each of them has thought me a prize to be taken, stuffed, and mounted as a testament to his supposed greatness—like some sort of vulgar hunting trophy.” She looked down at him as he remained in his bowing posture, “I am not the object of some hunt, Nikomedes. But even if I was,” she added venomously, “you would find that hunt more dangerous than anything which preceded it!”
He straightened to a stiff, upright posture and eyed her as Persus leaned forward almost imperceptibly. Nikomedes ignored the other man, focusing solely on the Land Bride as he slowly ground his teeth. It only took him a few seconds of battling an anger-induced haze to realize her true meaning—or, at least, what he thought was her true meaning.
But after discerning that meaning, he was genuinely uncertain how to proceed. On the one hand, she had indeed come down from the keep to meet with him personally and suggested in no uncertain terms that he was indeed one of the competitors she considered to be ‘in the hunt,’ so to speak. On the other hand, she had made her desire for supremacy in any potential engagements perfectly clear with the remainder of her wording. Nikomedes knew this was some kind of test—even if the Land Bride herself did not fully realize it, which was unlikely—and he was indeed caught in a difficult bind.
A Protector was supposed to be strong enough to stand against any enemies which might threaten his Hold Mistress’ holdings, but tradition also demanded that he submit to her will in many—if not most—affairs where the two held opposing views. History was replete with accounts of Protectors straying too far from this particularly fine line between strong leadership and humble deference, and each of those accounts told of a particularly bloody end for the Protector described within.
“You are neither a trophy nor a prize, Lady Adonia” Nikomedes said after forcibly unclenching his jaw. “You are, however, worthy of pursuit. If you demand that I cease that pursuit, you must do so three times before I will acquiesce. If you do so,” he added, seeing an expression come across her face which was both contemptuous and genuinely interested, “I will depart your lands forever—unless my future Hold Mistress instructs me to move against you.”
She snorted derisively, “You think too highly of yourself, Nikomedes. You have not even commanded your own patrol unit and you already dream of marching against my holdings at the side of my enemy?!”
“I dream only of standing at your side, Lady Adonia,” Nikomedes countered fiercely, meaning every word as he spoke it, “so that I might crush your enemies, see them driven before us, and hear their lamentations.” It appeared he had caught her off-guard with the sentiment and tone of his chosen words—words which he had long hoped to deliver during such an exchange as the one he now found himself in—and it took her several seconds to school her surprised look into its more usual, icy mask.
“Bold words,” she sniffed, “but as yet that is all they are—and they are still the inferior of those which Kallistos regales me with on a monthly basis.” She paused, regarding him coldly for several seconds before adding, “And thus far I have not seen that you are equal to Kapaneus in terms of valor. A Protector must be proficient at both battle and politics while being expert in at least one; thus far,” she shook her head steadily, never breaking their deadlocked eyes as she did so, “I have not seen that you measure up to either of them at their strengths, while each of them is acceptably proficient in both areas.”
Nikomedes felt hot fury welling up within himself, but he fought it down—realizing as he did so that his nails had dug into his palms after his fists had clenched of their own accord—and nodded. “Three times, Lady Adonia,” he said, holding up three fingers of his hand. “And they can come no more than one each month.”
She sniffed haughtily, her features filled with that look of entitled authority which he had come to despise as a boy following his father’s supposed failure as a Guardian within Eukaria’s Hold. “Lea,” she said, prompting the lady in waiting with the curly red hair to step forward, and only after she had done so did Nikomedes realize she was bearing the Spirewood spear he had taken from the bandit leader, Kyrillos. “On behalf of the Hold Mistress—and on her direct orders,” Lady Adonia said as an officious, pre-rehearsed tone once again suffused her words, “I am here to present this spear to you. May you use it as you continue to defend the Hold from her enemies.”
Nikomedes eyed the long, powerful weapon for several seconds before returning his gaze to the Land Bride. “I would gladly return the spear to the Great Hall, where it may serve as warning to those who might betray the Hold,” he said, deciding to make a slightly risky move as he added, “if Lady Adonia would share a meal with me.”
The Land Bride sniffed again as her eyes narrowed. “My time—even a single meal’s worth—is far more valuable than any spear,” she said acidly.
Nikomedes nodded, having expected the reply but glad he had made the attempt anyway. He reached out and accepted the spear from the red-haired handmaiden, holding it out deferentially before saying, “I am twice honored, then, for having received the bounty of such a weapon in addition to the even more valuable gift of your time, Lady Adonia.”
Nikomedes heard Persus snort as the other man’s lips briefly twisted into an amused smirk, but a sharp glance from the Land Bride caused his expression to flatten immediately.
“If you must address me,” she said after glaring at her bodyguard for several seconds, “then call me ‘Lady Akantha,’ Guardsman Nikomedes, and not Adonia.” She turned to leave the training room, pausing at the door as she reaching it and turning to add, “And you may consider this my first request that you cease your pursuit.”
With that, the trio left the training room and Nikomedes stood alone with the Spirewood spear gripped tightly by hands, the knuckles of which were white with anger.
Two days later, Nikomedes was returning from a duty shift within the citadel when he spotted a scrap of rag hanging form a particular building’s corner.
Kastor Kephus had told him during their last meeting, which had come the night of his tournament, that they could no longer be seen meeting in public. If Nykator suspected the two were working together, it would be a small matter for him to eject Nikomedes from his company and that would make pursuing the Land Bride even more difficult than it already was.
But Kephus had also told him to look at this particular building every day before sunset, and that if he saw this piece of sooty cloth then he was to meet Kephus inside the building itself at midnight of that day.
Nikomedes moved past the scrap of cloth as though he had not seen it, making his way back to the barracks with the Spirewood spear in his hands as he made ready for the meeting with mounting anticipation.
There was only one reason why Kephus would summon him, and that was so that he could retrieve the Dark Sword of Power he had told Nikomedes of at the outset of their alliance.
At midnight he entered the building, which was an inn that was cheap in every sense of the word while also being well off the main streets of the citadel. These qualities made it unlikely for their meeting to be observed by Nykator’s men, but even so he was still less than confident that they would be safe from prying eyes while within the building.
Nikomedes sat at the table where Kephus had indicated he should wait, and ordered a mug of the house blend. It was mild—likely owing to being more diluted than the brewer intended—which was the only reason Nikomedes ordered it. He only rarely imbibed alcohol, simply because the risks outweighed the rewards in his mind, but this night he knew it would appear suspicious if he sat alone at a table without a drink.
Not long after his drink arrived, a serving boy approached the table and said, “I have something for you, Guardsman Nikomedes.”
The boy slid a small key with a loop of string running through it across the table surreptitiously, and Nikomedes covered it with his han
d as he asked, “Who gave you this?”
“The guard commander,” the boy replied, “Kastor Kephus. He awaits in the barrel room; take the hall toward the lavatory and use that key on the first door to your left.”
Nikomedes nodded while sliding the key into his vambrace. “Thank you,” he said, offering the boy a small coin for his trouble before dismissing him. He waited a few minutes before doing as the boy had suggested, and found that the key did indeed fit the first door on the left.
He opened the door, checking to ensure he was not followed while he did so, and slipped inside after seeing the room beyond was lit by a handful of lanterns.
Inside was Kastor Kephus, who also wore his armor, and the guard commander gestured for Nikomedes to move to the rear of the room. On the other side of the far wall was a pig pen, judging by the sounds and smells emanating from the area, and when they reached it Kephus turned and nodded approvingly.
“You’ve played your part well, Nikomedes,” he said with unconcealed appreciation as he spoke in a lowered voice which was nearly drowned by the grunting pigs on the other side of the thin wall. “I would have liked to wait a few more months before sending you off, but events are now in motion and I find my hand forced by our enemies.”
“What events?” Nikomedes asked warily, having suspected nothing of the sort during his dealings with Nykator and his men.
“Nykator seeks to supplant me from my post as guard commander,” he explained sourly, “and he might have enough clout to do it, too, despite the Hold Mistress’s wishes.”
“He has no authority over you,” Nikomedes said suspiciously, “separation exists between the Protector’s forces and those of the citadel guard specifically to prevent tyrannical abuses by a sitting Protector.”
“He has no direct authority over my office,” Kephus corrected grimly, “but a man with as large a shadow as Hypatios Nykator rarely finds it necessary to influence such relatively minor events directly.”
The Forge of Men Page 30