by Джеффри Лорд
The courtyard was already packed with people by the time the two guards led him downstairs. All the free men and women of the People of the Blue Eye were there, as were the slaves who were sitting on the ground outside their tents under a guard of fighters with drawn swords. Even a sizable contingent of fighters from other gangs had appeared. They had to sit or stand on top of the wall in order to get any kind of view over the heads of the mob in the courtyard. All of them were wearing white armbands, indicating some sort of truce arrangement.
Blade was surprised at first that Krog would permit the other gangs to observe a death-duel that could easily give the impression of disunity and weakness among the people. Then he realized that this was a gesture of defiance on Krog’s part. «I despise you so much,» he seemed to be saying to the other gangs, «that I can afford to risk losing my war master in a duel, even though my war against you is close at hand. You are so weak and contemptible that I don’t need to worry about any of the ordinary precautions when I prepare to fight you.» Blade doubted that Krog actually was that arrogant inside, or at least hoped he wasn’t. Otherwise Blade would be serving a madman if he won today. But he also appreciated the gesture.
A murmur broken by a few cheers rose behind Blade, and he turned to see Drebin emerging from the darkness of the building. The bandage was gone from around the man’s arm, and only a pinkish line of scar tissue marked the dirty but well-muscled arm. Two attendants followed behind Drebin, one carrying his sword in an oiled-cloth scabbard and the other carrying three spears in a leather shoulder sling. Drebin himself wore only a very short kilt, with a knife on the belt, and leather wrist braces. As he stepped out into the courtyard, he postured and posed for a moment, rising first on one leg, then on the other. This drew a few more cheers. Apparently Drebin’s unarmed combat skill was something well known to the audience.
There was a thirty-foot square marked out with white paint on the ground up against one of the walls. Drebin’s attendants led him through the crowd to one side of it while Blade’s guards led him to the other. Then the guards handed Blade the same weapons Drebin was carrying-knife, sword, and the three slung spears. Blade hefted spears and sword, testing their balance. There would be problems in using throwing spears in an arena closely hemmed in on three sides by a dense crowd. The People of the Blue Eye might not worry, but he would.
Then for a third time the murmuring broke out. This time there were a great many cheers, most of them sounding genuine and unforced, as Krog and Halda stepped out of the building. The crowd made a path for them as they strode toward the arena, looking neither to the right or left, radiating confidence that their mere presence would clear a path for them. Halda wore her usual display of steel, and today even Krog was armed with a light sword. Blade was sure that in Krog’s hands one sword would be more than enough.
At the edge of the arena Krog stopped and looked from Blade to Drebin and back again, drew his sword, and raised it over his head. «The People of the Blue Eye are here met to see the duel between the War Master Drebin and the fighter Blade. The duel shall continue until one or the other be dead. The weapons of nature as well as of human working may be used. I shall be judge. Shall this be so, O people?»
«It shall be so!» came back in a roar from nearly a thousand throats. Even the slaves and onlookers from other gangs joined in to swell the uproar. Blade sensed a blood-lust in the crowd, a blood lust that was already stirring them at the prospect of seeing a duel to the death. Except for Drebin’s supporters they would probably not care in the least who won. If they showed any partisanship at all, it would most likely be for the one who offered them the best show. That might be a key to getting the crowd on his side, Blade thought. He made up his mind to give them the best show possible without risking his own neck in the process.
Drebin’s mind was apparently working along much the same lines. He was prancing about like a stallion during the mating season, kicking up gravel with his bare feet, shooting his arms and legs out in straight swift strokes, and leaping half his own height into the air. The crowd was eating it up, cheering almost continuously. Blade stood silent, watching Drebin make an ass of himself, giving away clues to his speed, and wasting energy. Blade was not going to play the showman game in such a silly way. He would save his fireworks for the actual fight.
Eventually Drebin’s cavorting was ended by a silent glare from Krog. The war master stood silent, watching Blade. Blade noted that his opponent showed no sign of hard breathing. Then Krog stepped forward into the middle of the arena, raised his voice, and called out to both fighters, «Are you ready?» They nodded. Krog stepped backward to the edge of the arena and raised his sword again. «When I drop my sword, the fight shall begin.»
Blade stood flat-footed and outwardly unalert, but he was watching Drebin, like a cat watching a mouse. It would be a fine, showy trick for the war master to attempt a swift, clean kill in the first few seconds of the fight, like a fool’s mate in chess. He would have to watch for this. Drebin showed no signs of tension either, but his eyes never left Blade.
Krog raised his sword until the point was aimed straight up at the gray sky and held it there. The murmurings in the crowd died away, and a silence filled the courtyard, hanging like something visible in the muggy air. Then with a snap of Krog’s wiry arms, the sword came down.
Drebin moved forward but not in a senseless bull’s rush this time. He had seen that Blade was too strong an opponent to make that safe. He came in at a slow sidling crouch, sword held low, well in front of him, a spear raised and held back of the other hand-he was ready for a quick throw. From the way Drebin held his sword, Blade realized that the war master knew how to thrust as well as slash-another trick that would not surprise the man, then. But would he be wise to all the tricks Blade might use? Time to find out.
Blade stalked forward in a crouch that was a mirror-image of Drebin’s, his weapons held in identical positions. As he moved forward into the arena, Drebin began sidling to the right. He was trying to maneuver Blade around into a position where Blade could not throw his spear without risk of hitting the crowd if he missed. He himself would have nothing but bare wall to hit if he missed Blade.
Blade closed in, slowly at first. Then just as Drebin was about to throw, he covered the last six feet in a rush. In a criss-cross pattern his sword whipped up and smashed into Drebin’s poised spear, knocking up the point and nearly smashing it out of his hand. At the same time Blade jabbed sharply downward with his spear at Drebin’s sword arm. The man jerked his arm aside, dropping his guard long enough for Blade to aim a spear thrust at his neck. There was not room enough to bring the point up effectively, but the heavy spear shaft smacked hard into the side of Drebin’s neck. Blade saw the man wince. Then he sprang clear. Drebin was too fast and strong to make it safe to stay at close quarters until he had taken a lot more punishment than a bruised neck.
Now it was Drebin’s turn to attack, his weapons reversed. His spear jutted low and well out in front of him to thrust home like the ram of a galley. His sword hovered menacingly over his other shoulder, ready to slash downward. Could Drebin switch a stroke with the blade-heavy Maker sword from a slash to a thrust in mid-flight?
Blade tightened his own defense and watched Drebin move the spear point, weaving a pattern in the air ahead of him. Blade ignored its gyrations and shifted position only enough to keep the war master from drawing an easy bead on him. Then with a whistle of air the sword flashed back and snapped forward with the full stretch of Drebin’s arm, coming down in a stroke intended as a single spectacular blow to split Blade down the middle like a log of wood. With a lightning jerk of wrist and shoulder Blade swung his spear forward and sideways to intercept the slash, but not to meet a thrust. The thrust never developed. The sword came straight down on the spear shaft with a clang like a hammer on an anvil. Although the jar nearly numbed Blade’s hand, he held onto the spear. At the same time he struck down Drebin’s spear and rode in over it with the point of his sword, sla
shing the left side of the war master’s kilt open without touching the skin. Drebin’s breath hissed between his teeth as he inhaled sharply, and his face was grim as he backed hastily away. Blade noted that Drebin was prone to over-commit himself to a single line of attack.
So things went on-and on and on and on. Time seemed to stretch from minutes into half-hours, from half-hours into hours, and from hours into an endless, formless time. It seemed unnatural to Blade that twilight was not moving in upon the city, although he knew that it could hardly be more than three-quarters of an hour since he and Drebin had squared off against each other. Both were pouring with sweat in the humid air, and both were breathing hard. But neither showed signs of weakening, and neither had any visible wound.
Blade knew that he and Drebin were evenly matched. If he could not force some change in the pattern of the fight, it might really go on for hours until both were too exhausted to continue. Or perhaps only one of them — and Blade was not completely certain that he would be the one left on his feet. Drebin seemed as tireless as a machine.
Drebin must have reached the same conclusion at much the same time. His spear suddenly rose and flashed forward at Blade. It was aimed low so that if it missed, it would not go sailing into the crowd. Blade was not surprised; he sprang aside with no more than a grazed calf. But as he came down, he was off balance, and Drebin leaped forward and launched a spring kick at Blade’s groin.
It almost connected. The hard-soled foot driven by the muscular leg with the whole weight of Drebin’s powerful body jarred into Blade’s hip bone only a few inches to the right of its target. Blade’s efforts to regain his balance were shattered. But he still had his sword and spear. He swung inward with both of them. Again the distance was too close to bring the spearhead into play, but again the heavy metal shaft cracked into Drebin, this time just above the left shin. The sword came down and took a visible chunk out of the man’s calf. Blood-the first in the fight-oozed out and mixed with the war master’s glaze of sweat. Drebin backed clear, but now he was favoring his left leg and looking down at it.
Blade followed up his newly gained advantage in speed and went over to a continuous attack. Thrust and slash followed in eye-blurring succession. All his speed and strength went into each blow. He was not sparing his strength for the long haul any more. It was time to move in and finish while Drebin was slowed physically and upset psychologically. Most of the war master’s victories had been gained without taking even a scratch. The weakened leg would be doing almost as much damage to his morale as to his fighting style.
But Drebin’s defense held. As his blows clanged and crashed against Drebin’s parries, Blade became aware of another sound in the background-the muttering of thunder, becoming rapidly louder. The sticky heat of the day was about to break in a thunderstorm. In a few more minutes he and Drebin would be fighting it out in a pouring rain.
The war master was definitely on the defensive now. But though his leg made him less mobile, his iron arms still kept that defense solid enough to avoid any more wounds. Blade knew that it would be impossible to suck Drebin out of his defensive stance by any ruse as simpleminded as the one he had used on the Wakers when rescuing Erlik.
Suddenly Drebin gathered both legs under him and leaped a full yard backward, dropping his sword as he did so. Before even Blade’s hair-trigger reflexes could react, his opponent had clamped both hands on his spear shaft in a quarterstaff grip. Then the war master sprang forward again, the spear whirling blurringly ahead of him like the propeller of an airplane. There was another anvil clang as it came down on Blade’s thrusting sword, beating it down until its point nearly sank into the ground. Then the spear whipped up and over and came down, the butt end crashing across Blade’s left shoulder.
Blade wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard the crack of bone as the spear butt came down. He certainly felt his left arm go limp and numb. He let go of his spear. Drebin was trying a rush job now; he might be careless. But could Blade take advantage of that with an arm and shoulder out?
His muscles reacting almost independently, Blade threw himself backward. He raised the sword point high as he came down on his back, rolled and then snapped his sword arm outward to the right. Drebin instantly shifted his grip on the spear for a thrust and raised it high to ram the point down into Blade’s stomach. Blade was still rolling back, almost into a half somersault, as the point snapped downward. In the split-second while the point was in mid-air, he rolled back again, both legs fully extended. Both feet slammed full force into Drebin’s stomach, simultaneously twisting his upper body frantically to the left so that the descending spear point only gashed his side and then grated into the pebbly earth of the courtyard.
Drebin doubled up and sagged forward. As his head sank down, Blade lurched upright into a half crouch and brought the sword around in a slash at the man’s neck. It was a clumsy slash, a feeble one, a poorly directed one. But it was the end of Drebin. Blade felt the crunch of bone as the sword chopped into the spine. The war master jerked like a gaffed fish, gave a gargling scream, fell forward onto his face, and lay still. Any more sounds he might have made were drowned by a cataclysmic roar of thunder directly overhead. Seconds later came pattering drops and then a deluge that pounded down the open courtyard like a waterfall.
Whatever their reaction to Blade’s victory, the whole crowd-free people, slaves, visitors, and all-was much too busy with a mad scramble for shelter to do or say much about it. The fighters swung their spears like riot clubs, driving the slaves into their tents. The visitors plunged down from the walls and dashed away to seek shelter in other nearby buildings. The People of the Blue Eye stampeded for the door of the tower. Blade threw a quick glance over his shoulder toward the gate, but there were a dozen fighters already standing in front of it. Besides, how would he find Narlena and snatch her out of this mob scene? He let himself be swept through the door and up two flights of stairs before the torrent of people began to break up as they scattered to their own living chambers.
He leaned against the wall, lungs heaving as they tried to claw in a little air. Then he gently probed his swollen left shoulder, trying to restore a little life and feeling into it. He could see through a window down into the rain-lashed courtyard, now deserted except for the last few slaves scampering into their tents and the guards on post. Drebin’s body still lay where it had fallen in the middle of the arena.
Blade’s shoulder had just reached the point where he could move it without gasping at the pain, when he became aware of someone standing beside him. He turned slowly and saw Halda standing there. The look in her eyes as she ran them over his body was even more unmistakable than before. She gave off the air of a she-wolf in heat who has just seen the old leader of the pack fall and presses close to the new leader, trying to wake a response in him.
She wore only her usual brief kilt, and her small, neat, bare breasts were almost brushing against Blade’s side. But she did not awaken the response she wanted. For a moment Blade’s right hand tightened into a fist to hammer her to the floor. Then reason took over and his fingers unclenched. He could not sign Narlena’s death warrant by rejecting Halda. A satisfied Halda meant a safe Narlena, for the time being at least. And he had to be careful to gain time if he couldn’t gain anything else.
So he did not resist when Halda pressed herself against him, lips burrowing into the side of his neck, and fingers running up and down over his bare chest. Then they moved urgently up under his kilt, and arousal came. Halda’s eyes lit up, and she led him off down the hall toward her chamber. He was wearily confident that he could do as well by Halda as he needed to do.
Chapter Thirteen
Halda seemed to find Blade more exciting with the blood and sweat from the duel still on his body than she would have otherwise. She was almost insatiable in her demands. But before Blade had exhausted his carefully rationed energies, she had had enough. She was still snuggled close against Blade when she fell asleep.
He looked down at
her, and found her more vulnerable and defenseless than ever before. For a moment he could not help feeling a little sorry for her. She was obviously from a different mold than her father, and there must be regrettably little sympathy between them. Krog would be left to bear the burden of his dreams alone. Halda had to seek out what consolation and companionship she could manage in the company of robust barbarians such as the late, unlamented Drebin. If she was warped, it was not surprising.
Blade did not go on feeling sorry for Halda for more than a few brief minutes. He reminded himself that Halda wanted Narlena dead. Halda hated the Dreamer girl already and would hate her even more if she thought her to be a threat to the total possession of Blade. Blade doubted that Krog was much inclined to kill Narlena. He might be too humane, and certainly he would be too aware of Narlena’s value as a hostage for Blade’s good behavior to indulge his daughter’s jealousy this way. Nor did Blade think Halda would go against her father’s wishes and kill Narlena or have her killed on her own initiative.
But there was always the danger of Halda’s convincing her father that Blade was plotting against him and that Narlena should be killed or at least tortured to punish Blade. Halda was quite capable of conjuring up such a story out of thin air. More important, Krog was almost certainly capable of believing it. The man had not lived and ruled as long as he had among the Wakers without developing a sharp nose for disloyalty and a strong and ruthless hand to crush it when it appeared. No, if Narlena was to be saved, Blade would not only have to go on satisfying Halda but to go on giving every sign of loyalty to Krog in his new position as war master to the People of the Blue Eye.