The Risen Queen

by Duncan Lay

  A massive roar greeted the Norstaline approach; an equally loud reaction greeted the Berellians as they entered the bowl from the other side.

  ‘This is amazing!’ Alban breathed.

  ‘Half the nation must be here,’ Merren gasped.

  ‘It seems the High Chief wants to show his entire people which side they should be supporting,’ Alban admitted.

  ‘Good. Then they can see why they should join us,’ Martil said defiantly, although his stomach was roiling at the thought of fighting in front of so many. This was not like battle. This was to be a careful, measured fight to the death, against a man who trained for this sort of duel. He shook himself. Everyone depended onhim. He knew he had to clear his mind to fight properly, but he could not stop thinking about Karia and Merren—and his unborn son.

  ‘It is not too late to walk away,’ Merren said softly.

  ‘I would advise walking away!’ Havell declared, eyes wide at the roaring mass of Derthals that let them pass, then closed in again behind them.

  ‘I don’t think they’d let us!’ Martil tried to smile. ‘I have to do this, if we are to save Norstalos. Besides, I have never walked away from a challenge before. I am not about to start.’

  He tried to think of Wime, of Forde, of Tarik and the other men he had befriended and trained—only for them to die in his opponent’s trap at the ranger barracks.

  The anger helped, but only a little.

  They walked down to the marked-off area where Sacrax stood waiting, as did the three Berellians. The moment the two groups reached the square, Sacrax threw up his arms, and silence fell instantly across the bowl. It was an eerie feeling. One moment the assembled Derthals had been chanting, hooting and stamping their feet, the next, they were still.

  Sacrax began to speak then, his voice booming out across the bowl as Alban hurriedly, and quietly, translated for them.

  ‘The humans want our help. In return for the brave Derthal warriors fighting with them, both these humans want to give us land in the warm south. Fat land, full of game, where the leaves never fall and the bushes are never bare of fruit. But which side do we help? One side says they are the strongest. The other side has the dragons. Their champions will fight to see who tells the truth. They will fight like Derthals. Whoever wins here will have the support of the Derthals.’

  A thunderous cheer almost made the earth shake, while warriors and womenfolk alike thumped the ground with their feet.

  Sacrax let the cheering go on for what seemed like ages before dramatically dropping his arms, and the silence was instantaneous.

  He paced over to the square and pointed at the Berellian.

  ‘Your name?’ he asked.

  The Berellian stepped forwards. ‘I am Cezar, Champion to the Berellian King,’ he declared.

  Then Sacrax pointed at Martil.

  ‘Martil, Champion to the Norstaline Queen.’

  ‘Step inside the square; only one may step out.’ Sacrax pointed to his guards, who moved into position, two to each side. ‘Step out of the square and die.’

  Martil nodded. His mouth was dry, his palms wet and he felt as though he needed to piss. But he would not give the Berellian the satisfaction of knowing any of that.

  ‘Choose your spear.’

  Six warriors offered their spears to Martil; another six to Cezar.

  Martil took his time, checking the bindings on each spearhead, as well as making sure the shaft was straight. Finally he tested the edge of each spearhead. Here they were all the same—each one was sharp enough to shave with. He picked the one with the best binding, and a smooth, straight shaft, free of knots or bows. Glancing over, he could see Cezar watching him. The Berellian had chosen his spear and was now smiling. Martil noted Cezar’s every muscle was shown in sharp definition. He felt like sucking his own stomach in; he was uncomfortably aware that afternoons spent eating cakes with Karia had left a little extra flesh around his middle.

  ‘I know you can do this for me, for everyone waiting back at Norstalos,’ Merren told him confidently, but her eyes betrayed her worry.

  He tried to smile at her, and mostly succeeded.

  ‘Don’t get yourself killed,’ Havell told him sharply.

  ‘I’ll do my best, elf,’ Martil snorted.

  ‘Begin!’ Sacrax bellowed.

  Martil nodded at Jaret; tried to find something to say to Merren but could not. A pair of Derthals escorted Martil to the edge of the square, while another pair did the same for Cezar. The noise from the watching crowd was building to a crescendo and Sacrax did not attempt to speak. Instead he nodded, and the Derthals pushed Martil into the square, before resuming their positions, spears at the ready, in case he tried to get out again.

  The crowd fell silent.

  Martil tested the ground with his bare feet—it had been smoothed and packed down, and would offer good footing. The square itself was about ten paces in each direction; it had looked small from the outside but now he was inside, it seemed huge, and Cezar seemed far away.

  Martil hefted his spear. Its balance seemed all wrong, too heavy near the head. It would take a huge amount of strength to drive it home. He could appreciate why the Derthals had such massive forearms.

  ‘I know you, Martil!’ Cezar called, and Martil stared at him in surprise.

  ‘Yes, you! The Butcher of Bellic! The last one!’

  The Derthals did not understand the words, but they could sense a challenge when they heard it, and all seemed to lean forwards.

  ‘I’ve dreamed of this, being able to kill the last Butcher!’

  Martil circled cautiously towards him.

  ‘Why is that, coward and killer of children?’

  Cezar laughed at the feeble insults. ‘I killed the rest! I cut the hearts out of your friends and gave them in a box to my King! Yours is the only one that has eluded me—until now! I shall take your heart back to my King and complete my set!’

  Martil spat. ‘I’d cut your heart out, Berellian, but your foul race doesn’t have one!’

  Cezar laughed again. ‘How will you do that, Ralloran scum? Watch!’

  He signalled to his companions, and Martil saw the Berellian wizard step forwards, wave his staff around in what Martil knew from seeing Barrett at work was a pointless display of showmanship, then point it at Cezar.

  Instantly the Berellian’s skin turned a deep brown colour.

  Martil glanced over his shoulder to where Merren, Alban, Havell, Jaret and Wilsen waited, horror-stricken. They too had recognised the spell, which gave a warrior an almost invincible covering. It had saved Martil’s life back at the battle of Sendric. But he needed a mage to cast it—and both Karia and Barrett were back at the church.

  ‘I’ll get Barrett!’ Wilsen roared, and plunged into the crowd of Derthals. They resisted his progress, and he had to physically push his way past them, making slow progress. It was obvious it would be a long time before he could return with the wizard.

  ‘Didn’t think of that, did you, Ralloran? Forgot your mage, didn’t you!’

  Martil glanced across to where Sacrax stood, but the Derthal High Chief appeared unmoved. It seemed that once the challengers were inside the square, there were no rules.

  Cezar saw the look and laughed. ‘That’s right! Now I’ll cut out your heart for my King and take your ears for my own collection. I already took plenty of those from your men that I killed in Norstalos. They were hardly worth taking though, because they fought like little girls—’

  Cezar never finished the sentence, because Martil was on him, anger burning in his chest. He used it to power a massive leap and stab, trying to drive his heavy spearhead through Cezar’s magically protected skin.

  The Berellian skipped away from the charge, spear held loosely in his hand.

  Martil spun, almost on the edge of the square, and went after him. The fear was gone now, replaced by an icy anger. He was not thinking about Karia, or Merren, or trying to watch Wilsen’s slow progress through the crowd. His eyes
were on Cezar and his spear was at the ready.

  He raced at the Berellian, lunging low. The special skin might stop a death blow but if Martil could cut him, he would weaken him—and a spear point in the groin would slow any man down. But Cezar skipped backwards, sideways, and danced lightly on his toes, using his spear not to strike but to deflect Martil’s strokes.

  Martil sensed he was the stronger, which was important with this sort of weapon, although they were well matched for speed. Cezar dodged his spear thrusts relatively easily and Martil felt a touch of frustration. It was such a crude weapon; you could not disguise or change its course the way you could a sword.

  ‘Is that the best you can do?’ Cezar asked scornfully.

  The Derthals were howling, hammering, cheering and stamping at their every move but, for Martil, the world had shrunk to this square. The noise outside faded, and he could clearly hear what Cezar was saying. Not that he was taking much notice of it.

  ‘I’ll take your tongue when I’ve finished with you—Aroaril knows you use it too much,’ he told the Berellian.

  ‘You can try. But it’s my turn now,’ Cezar hissed, then darted forwards, spear at the ready.

  Martil let him advance then leaped to close the distance, spear rising up viciously. Cezar swerved to his left, to give his right arm more room, and lunged at Martil’s throat. Martil instinctively flicked his own spear up in a parry and swung his torso at the last moment; the razor-sharp spearhead slipped past his right shoulder.

  Both men let their momentum carry them past, then swung again, spears at the ready. Martil circled to his left, feeling his right shoulder beginning to burn. For the last few months he had been using the Dragon Sword, which seemed to have no weight at all. Consequently, he had lost some conditioning and, besides, you needed different muscles for thrusting spears to the ones you used for a sword.

  But Cezar did not give him a chance to relax. He stepped forwards swiftly, lunging thrust after thrust at Martil’s chest and throat.

  Rather than exhaust his arm and shoulder to deflect them, Martil stepped back and sideways, always making sure he did not get too near the edge of the square. Time and again he used his feet, a shift of his bodyweight or a swerve of the hips to avoid the deadly point. He was sweating now. His chest was starting to rasp and he spat out phlegm that was trying to clog his throat. But he knew he did not have to finish this bout; he just had to hold the Berellian off until Barrett returned.

  Cezar seemed to sense that as well, because he adjusted his grip on the shaft of his spear.

  ‘I’m going to give you a chance now, Ralloran dog,’ the Berellian said conversationally. ‘See if you are good enough, and strong enough, to break through this magical barrier. Because if you can’t, I’ll gut you.’

  ‘Like all Berellians, you talk a good fight,’ Martil panted.

  This time Cezar approached more slowly, directly, spear held at the ready. Martil watched him come forwards warily. Surely the man could not really be planning to just walk onto his spear point? How good was this magical protection?

  Cezar’s slow approach turned into a leap, and Martil met him in midair.

  Time seemed to slow; Martil saw Cezar’s spear heading for his chest and swung his body away from it, while trying to drive his own spear into his enemy’s chest. At the last moment Cezar also swung away but while Martil felt the tip of his spear gouge into Cezar, it did not strike cleanly; he felt it glance away. A moment later, Cezar’s spear tore across his ribs.

  They both landed and spun away from each other. Martil inspected his enemy first; Cezar’s wound was just a thin scratch—it seemed his toughened skin had held well. But he could feel blood trickling down his right side and, glancing down, he saw a long cut had been opened across his side—deep enough so he could see the white of a rib there. Blood was pulsing out steadily.

  ‘First blood to me,’ Cezar told him smugly.

  ‘It’s the last blow that counts,’ Martil replied.

  Again Cezar charged in, and this time, instead of meeting him, Martil slid away.

  ‘Run all you like. That wound won’t stop bleeding,’ Cezar snarled.

  Martil ignored him. Sweat was dripping into his eyes, and his legs were beginning to ache now. Surely Barrett had to be getting here soon! He glanced over his shoulder but could see nothing, just a sea of cheering Derthals. As he looked back, he saw Cezar already attacking. There was no time to dodge away this time; instead he desperately parried and tried to spin away—Cezar’s bloodied spear ripped a gash along the outside of his left thigh, while his own spear seemed to rebound from Cezar’s hip, leaving only a pinprick of a wound.

  He did not have time to check his leg; Cezar spun back to the attack, thrusting and then scything his spear as it came close to Martil. This was a new tactic and Martil could only partly block the blow. The side of the spear point was not as sharp as the tip but it was still enough to dig into the front of Martil’s shoulder until it bounced off his left collarbone.

  He ducked away and slashed his own spear in a wide arc, but Cezar blocked it easily.

  Shifting his grip on the handle, Martil started to use the spear more as an axe, swinging it around and down. Back and forth across the square they moved, the shafts of the spears meeting with a loud crack as each blow was parried by one or the other. This sort of fighting was more to Martil’s liking, and he felt his spear point slice thin cuts across Cezar’s left pectoral and thigh, although the man’s skin stubbornly resisted even the sharp spearhead. The Berellian also sensed he was having the worst of this exchange, for he changed tactics again, stepping inside Martil’s swing and deliberately letting the flint point sear into his arm, so he could drive his own spear up at Martil’s chest.

  Too late Martil recognised the change and it was only his superb reflexes that stopped the spear from opening him up from ribs to throat. Somehow he flipped his torso back and away, nearly losing his spear in the process. Even so, he felt the wide spearhead rip another wound from his ribs up to his neck; his sternum helped deflect the blow, at the price of more blood.

  His breath was coming harsh and fast now. His right shoulder was on fire from using the spear, his lungs felt as though they were like stone. His windpipe was raw, his legs beginning to tremble; his wounds stung as the salty sweat ran into them and burned as his blood seeped down to cover his torso and leg.

  He realised, with surprise, that he could lose this if Barrett did not turn up soon.

  ‘We have to get him out of there!’ Havell roared, struggling to raise a small ivory horn to his lips.

  ‘The captain’s playing with him! Give him time!’ Jaret yelled back.

  Merren tried to relax her hands; her nails were digging into her palms. ‘He needs Barrett!’

  ‘Where is Barrett?’ Alban agreed.

  ‘Why wait? You’re a priest, heal him!’ Havell gave up his fruitless battle with Jaret; leaving the horn in Jaret’s grasp, he shoved Alban towards the square.

  ‘You fool! I have to touch him to heal him! And they’re not going to let me in, or him out!’ Alban shouted.

  ‘Well, we have to do something! Where is the wizard?’ Havell moaned.

  Wilsen raced towards the church, heart pounding. It had been almost impossible to push his way through the Derthals—they might be a head smaller than him, but they were just as strong, and determined not to be moved out of the way.

  ‘Barrett! The Berellians are using magic against Martil! We need you now!’ he bellowed.

  A moment later, the door flung open and Barrett tore towards him, then overtook him as he sped towards where thousands of Derthals cheered and chanted.

  Wilsen followed, as fast as he could, praying the mage would be in time.

  Martil gripped the shaft of his spear carefully and circled away from a grinning Cezar. He thought about signalling to Jaret but could not bring himself to give up. Once Barrett was here, he would be able to defeat this Berellian easily, he told himself.

  ‘T
he great Captain Martil. Broken and bleeding. Do you know how many Berellians have prayed for this, how many would pay to see you like this?’ Cezar taunted.

  Martil could not be bothered to reply. He needed his breath. And he needed to win time for Barrett to arrive. He spat again, trying to clear his throat.

  ‘After you’re dead, I’m going to take that Queen of yours and see her screaming over an altar. And then I’ll get that little girl—’

  Martil did not let him finish the sentence, his anger got the better of his sense and he leaped again at the Berellian.

  For a moment he thought he had won, that Cezar would be impaled on the spear point—then the Berellian managed to flip his body away, much as Martil had done just before. Instead of slamming home, it skidded off Cezar’s protected chest. Cezar landed close to Martil and, as the tired Ralloran tried to bring his spear back from his massive thrust and regain his balance, Cezar slammed the butt end of his staff into Martil’s head.

  Martil’s vision went dark for a moment, and he felt himself spin away and down to thump into the ground, losing his grip on his spear as he did so.

  Barrett did not bother with trying to push past the Derthals—he used the magic to propel himself into the air in a huge leap, then actually ran over the Derthals, feet lightly touching their shoulders, floating down and across them.

  He landed by Merren, just in time to see Cezar pick up Martil’s spear and hurl it out of the square.

  ‘Where have you been!’ Havell cried, stricken. The Elfaran had been wrestling with Jaret but now the stunned man had let go of the horn. Havell sounded the horn—the noise was almost lost within the crowd, and he knew it would be too late, anyway.

  Barrett ignored them and instead pointed at Cezar. Instantly his magical protection disappeared, his skin lightening to its normal colour and his wounds opening and beginning to bleed—although they were still nothing like the ones Martil had taken.