“You’re generous, Albrit. But I’m accustomed to this sword, and with it, I’ll face you at the traditional time. You and one of your followers against me and one of mine.”
“The setting of the moon, then,” Albrit said. “On this very evening.” He stuck out his hand. “I will shake your hand one last time as a friend.”
“I hope our friendship will be renewed,” Khara said, taking his hand.
As he left, the others stirred. Renzo spoke quickly, with an urgency I’d never heard before. “I can sneak into his tent and use a file to weaken his sword so—”
Khara put a hand on his arm, silencing him. “No, my friend. I will not cheat my way to the leadership of the Donatis.”
“Doesn’t Albrit know you carry the Light of Nedarra?” I asked in a whisper.
“Of the Donati clan, only my father and mother know,” Khara said.
Renzo gripped Khara by the shoulders. “Khara.” For once, there was no humor in his tone. “He will kill you. And with you will die all our hopes.”
“I do not need a reminder of how serious this is,” Khara said. She looked him in the eyes and smiled. “But don’t despair. I have a plan.”
39
Khara’s Surprise
The battle, we learned, was to take place in the trees on two separate platforms, one nearly as long and wide as the baron’s, the other much smaller, no larger than the bed of a wagon. Both platforms were built high above the ground so that a fall would bring almost certain death. The smaller platform was separated from the larger one by a space a strong warrior could leap across.
Spectators—far more than I’d imagined the Donati clan could muster—filled the trees on all sides. Branches sagged and even large trunks swayed with the weight of expectant bodies.
A rope walkway led from the baron’s area to the larger of the two fighting platforms. My friends and I, sick with dread (with the possible exception of Khara herself), stood in a helpless, frustrated gaggle on the baron’s platform.
Renzo had spent the evening begging—and probably stealing—weapons, on the assumption that he would be Khara’s second.
For my part, I assumed Khara would name Gambler. There were few human warriors who could stand against a felivet. Many a swordsman believed himself to be quick, but no human has the speed to match a felivet.
Khara ignored us. She sat at a small makeshift table, bent over scraps of paper on which she was penning notes. I imagined these to be her last will and testament, or perhaps farewells to her family and to us, her companions. But I was quickly proved wrong when she summoned messengers, lean men and women, skilled at evasion, with the fastest of horses. Khara sent them off with whispered commands.
Only then did she rise, stretch, force a shaky smile, and say, “Well, I suppose it’s about time.”
Khara borrowed the shield from Renzo, the one from the Subdur natites’ realm. “I will now name my second,” she said, “who will fight beside me.”
Both Renzo and Gambler stepped forward.
“If I name you, Gambler, any victory will be yours and not mine, and the Donatis will deem it a cheat.”
“Maybe,” Gambler growled, “but you would perhaps survive.”
“And good thief Renzo, you are brave and resourceful. You fight well . . . but you fight well for a thief. You aren’t yet a warrior.”
“But what are you thinking of?” Renzo cried.
“I am thinking,” Khara said with a smile, “of asking my fine friend Tobble to fight beside me.”
A yelp, not unlike the noise you might make if someone stepped on your toes, came from Tobble. It was followed by a squeaky “Me?”
“Yes. You. Will you join me and share my fate?”
I expected Tobble to state the obvious: that he was the smallest of us, the weakest, the least like a warrior. But when he spoke, it was not to offer excuses. Once again, I realized I should never underestimate my dear wobbyk friend.
“I w-w-will j-join you,” Tobble said. “It would be a g-great honor.”
From our place on the baron’s platform, we had a clear view of the larger fighting space, and a somewhat more obscured view of the smaller platform.
As Khara and Tobble crossed the rope walkway, I felt Maxyn’s hand reach for mine. I squeezed back. My whole body was trembling. How, I wondered, must Khara be feeling?
Above the fighting platforms hung thick ropes that could be used to swing into or away from an opponent. Torches in the trees and around the edges of the platform cast a shadowy, flickering light. There were no railings.
Albrit appeared, walking confidently across the rope bridge to the larger platform. He was stripped to the waist, revealing thick muscles and blade-scarred skin. He wore leather trousers and high boots.
“I’m nervous for your friend Khara,” Maxyn said. “I’m no judge of humans, but this one looks very strong.”
I couldn’t speak. My throat was tight as a fist.
Behind Albrit came his second, an even larger man. He stood a whole head taller than Albrit, who in turn stood a head taller than Khara.
A jester, a scrawny fellow in colorful rags, slid down one of the ropes and landed in the middle of the platform, performing a comic somersault as his feet touched the planks. This drew appreciative laughter.
In a loud, whining voice he said, “We come to witness a challenge! Kharassande of the Donatis, daughter and sole heir, asserts her right to rule in her father’s stead.”
The onlookers in the trees murmured and muttered. I was heartened to hear a few shouts of support for Khara.
“Challenging her is Albrit of the clan Donati, but of the family Di Tarzo. His second is his cousin. You know him, you love him: Mountain Morgoono!”
Mountain Morgoono, which I assumed was some sort of nickname, was obviously a crowd favorite. I noticed that the cheers for Albrit had ranged from enthusiastic to perfunctory. But Mountain was liked by all.
“And now, please welcome Kharassande Donati and her second, Tobble the wobbyk!”
Khara stepped nervously across the rope bridge. I’d never before seen her so affected by fear. It was as if her feet were refusing to move. Behind her came Tobble, nimble enough, but with his tail braid sticking straight back, clearly trembling.
Khara earned cheers, but cautious ones. Tobble, on the other hand, set off gales of laughter and some shouted insults.
“Khara brought her pet cat!”
“Be careful, little one, that Mountain Morgoono doesn’t eat you!”
They reached the platform and stood in one corner, opposite Albrit and Mountain. Khara and Tobble together were not half the weight of Mountain alone. To make matters even more dire, both Albrit and Mountain carried heavy swords and had knives in their boots. Mountain also had a knobby mace hanging from his belt.
Tobble had a small knife Khara had given him. For her part, Khara had only her shabby-looking sword in its sheath. She was dressed more lightly than I’d ever seen, in a simple cotton shift over leggings. Her feet were bare.
“Call this off, Kharassande,” Albrit shouted. “I have no desire to kill you. Withdraw your claim and serve me!”
“I fear death,” Khara said, and she definitely sounded like she meant it. “I fear death, but I will not submit.”
Her eyes were wide, her shoulders hunched, her hands visibly trembling. It was painful to see, and hard to believe that this was the fearless fighter I’d seen in battle so many times.
Hard to believe, I realized with a gasp, because it wasn’t true.
Khara was acting.
The seeming clumsiness, the way her choice of outfit accentuated her small size, the tremble in her voice: it was all planned.
“I could deal with them both!” Gambler raged by my side. “Why did she not make me her second?”
“Because then the victory would not be hers, but yours, Gambler,” Renzo reminded him.
“Victory?” Gambler gave his hoarse, coughing version of a laugh. “I hope only that she—and
Tobble, of course—will survive. There is no possibility of victory.”
Renzo shrugged. “You’re almost certainly right,” he said. “But only almost.”
At that moment Mountain started in, hounding Tobble. “Am I to fight an overgrown rat? You’re scrawnier than the plucked chicken I ate for dinner!”
This ritual abuse was expected, I realized, but Tobble did not find it amusing. I could see the anger building in him, and a tiny tendril of hope began to grow within me.
No creature is sillier, weaker, less threatening than a wobbyk. Unless.
Unless the wobbyk in question is enraged.
“Come, rat thing, you can nest in my pocket and I’ll keep you as a pet and feed you treats!” Mountain guffawed, and the whole audience, above, around, and below us, laughed heartily.
“That was a mistake,” I said.
Without a word of warning, Mountain charged right at Tobble, his teeth bared, his hair flowing, one massive hand reaching, the other wielding a dagger.
And that was an even bigger mistake.
40
Treetop Battle
Mountain Morgoono shook the platform with each massive footfall. There were already sounds of pity coming from some of the audience, and one voice cried out, “Don’t hurt the little fellow!”
“I’ll make it quick. You’ll barely have time to know you’re dying,” Mountain said, laughing heartily as Tobble backed across the platform. He teetered on the edge, and I thought he might leap off in sheer terror.
I was already calculating a glide path for rescue when my thoughts were interrupted by a high-pitched scream.
With a babble of enraged and incomprehensible speech, Tobble ran straight at Mountain, leapt, and grabbed onto his belt. He scampered up the great man’s body as if he were a real mountain and Tobble was in a great hurry to reach the summit.
Mountain cursed and swatted, slapping himself in an effort to grab the swift wobbyk. But Tobble was already atop Mountain’s head, legs wrapped around his neck, riding him like a child on his father’s back.
And then Tobble went berserk.
Even Albrit froze, watching the insanity as Mountain staggered and roared. Tobble yanked out Mountain’s hair in tufts, tore one of his nostrils, and bit a sizable chunk out of his right ear.
After that, Tobble went after Mountain’s eyes, poking and prodding enough to leave his adversary squinting and dripping tears. Mountain, temporarily blinded, was like a great bear, plowing this way and that. He veered wildly, heading for the edge of the platform. Tobble gripped the sides of Mountain’s mouth with his paws, as if he were reining in a horse, in an effort to stop him from falling to his probable death.
Mountain stumbled backward just inches from the edge. Tobble scrabbled down, grabbed Mountain’s ankles, and held on tightly.
Like a toppled tree, Mountain dropped. The impact on the platform nearly knocked Khara off her feet.
Tobble drew his knife and held it near the man’s throat. His voice reedy and shrill with excitement, he yelled, “Yield! Yield or die!”
Not twenty seconds had passed from the moment when Mountain Morgoono had charged against Tobble to the moment when the flustered, humiliated man cried, “I yield!”
A shocked and sobered Albrit faced Khara.
Under the rules, Tobble was free to help Khara, and it was clear to me that Albrit feared the outcome. But Khara held up one hand and said, “I will fight alone.”
I suspect that statement, spoken with calm and confidence, may have worried Albrit even more than the prospect of having Tobble chewing off his ears.
“Come then,” Albrit said. “I fear you not! You are but a small girl!”
He was reassuring himself. He was also lying about not fearing Khara. He hadn’t lied before. Now he wasn’t so sure.
And his apprehension was about to get much worse.
Khara strode toward him, her bare feet showing none of the awkwardness she’d feigned. She stopped near the center of the platform, widened her stance, straightened her pose, and drew her sword.
“Come, Albrit, and face me. Face me . . . and the Light of Nedarra!”
The shabby sword had vanished, and in its place was a razor-sharp blade. Its jeweled hilt glowed with an unnatural light.
The audience cried out in shock, amazement, and a sort of bloodthirsty anticipation. What had seemed likely to be a one-sided slaughter now looked like a real contest.
A murmur began and was repeated, growing louder with each repetition.
“The Light of Nedarra!”
“The sword!”
“I thought it lost!”
“The Light of Nedarra has returned!”
Albrit shook his head, as if to throw off his own doubts, but he had little time to think, for now it was Khara who attacked. Silent on bare feet, with the swiftness and agility of youth, she snatched one of the hanging ropes and swung toward Albrit.
Albrit dodged right, but as Khara passed, she managed to slice a red line in Albrit’s shoulder.
She dropped from the rope at the end of its arc, spun, and faced Albrit, who charged, his own sword swinging horizontally with such force that it could have cut Khara in two.
Khara ducked under the swing and came up too near Albrit for him to make another attempt. Instead of thrusting her sword into Albrit’s heart, she reached, took hold of his dagger, drew it from its scabbard, and flung it away, over the side of the platform.
“No!” Renzo cried. “She’s not fighting to kill!”
“Foolish girl!” Gambler murmured.
Albrit backed away fast, and Khara, overbalanced, tumbled toward him. He brought his sword around with startling speed, but Khara flung herself forward through his legs. She rolled, stood, and ran to the edge, grabbing a rope and swinging to the smaller platform.
Albrit had a choice. He could either come after her, to his disadvantage, or refuse to attack and look like a coward. With such a choice, a brave warrior had but one option. When Khara let her rope swing back, Albrit took hold of it with one hand. He backed up to get room, ran, and swung, with a terrible war cry, toward Khara, sword extended to pierce her.
Too slow. Too ponderous.
Khara sidestepped easily and swung her sword high. It sliced through the rope and Albrit fell. His chest slammed the lip of the platform, legs dangling over the edge. He had to let loose his sword in order to claw at the wood as he tried to regain his footing.
Khara stood over him, looking down. With the side of her foot, she pushed against his right hand as he clawed, and all at once Albrit was hanging above the forest floor by one hand.
“Go on, kill me!” Albrit said in a ragged voice.
Khara had the warrior completely at her mercy. I held my breath, simultaneously longing for and fearing the sudden downthrust of her sword that would drive through his neck and into his heart.
“No, I will not kill you,” Khara said. “Not unless you leave me no choice.”
“Kill me and be done with it,” he snarled. “Isn’t my humiliation already complete? Will you make a mockery of me?”
“No,” Khara said. “I would never mock so courageous and able a warrior. I have other uses for you, Albrit.”
“Uses?” He was a strong man, but his fingers were white with strain, and the muscles of his arms and shoulders trembled.
“Yes,” Khara said. “I have need of great warriors. I have need of a general.”
41
A Three-Part Plan
Dairnes have few heroes of the sort humans seem to revere: strong, willful, sometimes even violent people. But we do have one, the Great Gerel. The Great Gerel was reputed to be twice the size of any other dairne and ten times as strong, able to wrestle even a giant swamp bear to defeat. When dairnes did something especially brave, they’d be complimented as “another Gerel.”
Khara and Tobble’s conquest of Albrit and Mountain Morgoono was, in the eyes of the Donatis, impossible. It was as if I had beaten the Great Gerel.
&nb
sp; And yet it had happened.
There was simply no conceivable way that a girl and a wobbyk could defeat two big, powerful, experienced warriors.
And yet.
As I strolled along the leaf-strewn floor of the forest with Khara, I was very aware of Donatis whispering, pointing, and staring at Khara as if she were herself a creature from myth.
“You are quite the hero,” I said.
“Yes.” Only Khara could acknowledge her rise to hero status while sounding neither impressed nor pleased.
“What do we do now?” I asked.
Khara walked silently for a while, head down. Then she sighed, glanced around to make sure no one was within hearing, and said, “My plan has three parts. Part one: Albrit has sworn allegiance to me, and he will keep his word. He will send out riders—and head out himself—to rally our people from all over Donati lands.”
“You’re sure he won’t betray you?”
“If I’d had any doubts about his honor, I’d have let him fall.”
She delivered this bit of ruthlessness without apparent qualms, and once again I was reminded that there were hidden depths to the girl I’d once considered my captor.
“Part two?” I prompted.
“Part two is that I go to the Corplis and propose peace between our two peoples. And a union against our common foes.”
“Will they join you?”
Khara shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Luca’s father is an honorable man. If I go to him under a flag of truce, he will hear me out. I can ask for no more.”
“Do the Corplis have enough warriors to make a difference?”
“Yes. We Donatis will rally four, maybe five thousand soldiers, though I use the term ‘soldier’ very loosely. Most are farmers or herders or tradesmen. The Corplis can match that number.”
“Ten thousand sounds like a great many,” I said. “But we’ve heard that the Murdano’s army is five times that and growing.”
“Other families of the west will join us if the Corplis do. We may hope to assemble fifteen thousand armed men.”
Endling #2 Page 17