by Robert Adams
Including the “cargo” he had brought downriver, he now commanded a force of tenscore pikemen and fourscore archers. With the lieutenants, sergeants, weapons masters, cooks, wagoners, farriers, smiths and other service personnel, over four hundred men (plus a few women, camp whores, mostly) now called the new fortress home.
As he climbed the stairs to his commodious tower apartments in the chill of the early morning, Martuhn’s thoughts strayed back to the sumptuous little private dinner he had shared with his overlord and employer. Duke Tcharlz, on the evening following his morning duel — if the outright butchery of an arrogant but unskilled effeminate could be called such — with Duchess Ann’s spy, Sir Djaimz.
His strong yellow teeth having stripped most of the meat from the shank of a roasted lamb, the duke had wrenched it from the larger bone and tossed it to the waiting wolfhounds. Then, raising his voice above the racket of the dogs’ snarls and argumentative snappings, he remarked with eyes a-twinkle, “You know, of course, Martuhn, that you were under my eyes from the very moment you entered the outer chamber yesterday morning?”
The lean, scar-faced former count laid aside knife and joint, took a sip from his wine cup and replied, “Aye, my lord, I sensed that you had arranged that little farce. No need to ask why, of course.” He frowned then. “But, with all, I’d not have taken the miserable creature’s life.”
The duke chuckled, his florid face turning even redder. Absently, his guest noted that the noble host was beginning to add a second chin and that his jowls were starting to droop somewhat.
“Martuhn, Martuhn, my good friend, when you had down that bastard’s breeks, I thought surely I’d burst with laughter. To think that such things as that strut about with belted weapons and call themselves men!”
* * *
Weary unkempt, with fresh mud overlaying old dirt, the captain and Wolf had paced into the outer chamber and come to a halt before the table and the Seated Sir Djaimz.
The young man wore his dark-brown hair at shoulder length, the ends curled. The dark lashes over his pale-blue eyes were long and thick, but his lips were pale and thin, with a cruel twist at the corners. His narrow face was pale and unmarked by any of the scars and calluses that most men had acquired by the time they were knighted. His white-skinned, soft-looking, long-fingered hands looked as if they would find the hilt of the light sword lying on the table before him most unfamiliar.
Neither Martuhn nor Wolf knew the fop. He had arrived from Twocityport more than a month after their departure . . . but both knew his type of old. Nonetheless, Martuhn tried to be polite.
He nodded stiffly. “I am Captain Martuhn of Geerzburk, just returned from upriver with Freefighters. Duke Tcharlz will be expecting me.” Then he turned to the left and started around the table, his secret telepathic ability telling him that the duke was quite nearby, likely in the next room.
“Just one moment, sirrah!” Sir Djaimz shrilled, in a tenor so high that it verged on falsetto. “No one can see the duke without my leave. You hear? Least of all a filthy, smelly, seedy ragamuffin I’ve never before seen. Likely, the pair of you are nothing more than mean mountebanks hired by my enemies to humiliate me. How do I know you are what you say you are and not just another ill-born liar?”
Martuhn heard the faithful Wolf growl, but sent a telepathic command for peace . . . for the nonce. Turning again to the doorkeeper, he placed the palms of his big hands on the tabletop and leaned until his head was on a level with that of the fop. In a flat, cold, emotionless voice, he said, “Young sir, I have striven to be courteous. I have given you my name and my rank and imparted a modicum of my business with his grace. If you truly require warranty of all I have told you, why simply inquire of any one of the guardsmen here abouts; they all know me of old. Be warned of a few facts, however, young sir. I am at the least as nobly born as you; moreover, I am a full man. I have fought more battles than you have hairs in those girlish lashes, and there are precious few living men who ever have named me ill-born or a liar!”
But a single glance into the frigid depths of the eyes of the big-boned, but rapier-thin, stranger gave Sir Djaimz an immediate feeling of looseness in the guts and a raging urge to urinate. However, knowing how little real respect he commanded among either nobles or base in this savage domicile of the duke he had been dispatched to watch, he stubbornly refused to retrench and let the matter lie.
He curled his lips into a sneer, tilting his carefully coiffeured head to keep his eyes on the big man, who once more stood erect. But when he made to speak, his voice at first declined to obey the dictate of his will; it cracked, soaring high up into the treble.
“You . . .” To a chorus of sly chuckles from the guardsmen, Sir Djaimz cleared his throat and started afresh in his normal speaking tone. “You may be who and what you say you are, but if so, surely you would know better than to seek an audience with Duke Tcharlz while in so disreputable a state of both person and attire. Why not seek your home, if you have one, and bathe, if you know how, and don cleaner, if not better, clothing.
“Return tomorrow morning at the fifth hour — sharp, mind you — and if I feel you are in proper form to see the duke, I shall sell you the very first audience . . . and for a most reasonable price, too. Now, begone! Your stink nauseates me!”
Martuhn had then felt a grudging respect for the pale, slender man, for his telepathic mind could sense the raw fear being held down by force of will. Nonetheless, he knew that he must do what was expected of him in this, Duke Tcharlz’s latest, cruel little game.
He breathed a single, deep sigh, then deliberately swung a backhanded buffet against one of those wan, beardless cheeks; not nearly as hard as he might have struck had he been truly affronted or angry, but just hard enough to send the slender young man slamming back into his padded chair.
Sir Djaimz’s milk-white hand hovered for a second over the gilded hilt of his small sword, but then, recalling the long, heavy-bladed battle brand belted at Martuhn’s Side — and how the leather-and-wire hilt was hand-worn to a smooth shininess — he changed his mind. On unsteady legs, he arose and, in as firm a voice as he could muster, issued challenge.
At that juncture, Martuhn sensed excitement and a cold satisfaction from beyond the closed door to the duke’s rooms.
And the tall, scarred captain felt dirty, used, as if the last tattered shred of his old honor had been torn away.
The quartet of guardsmen who had quickly — too quickly not to have been prearranged, thought Martuhn — stepped forward had courteously ushered Martuhn and Wolf into one of the guardrooms, seated them, pressed jacks of cold ale upon them and then awaited a visit from a similar quartet, now in attendance upon Sir Djaimz.
At length, the young knight’s seconds arrived, were seated and given ale, chatted briefly of the weather and of anything save their mission.
Then the senior of them drained off his jack, arose and announced, “Captain Martuhn, gentlemen, challenge has been issued and legally witnessed by all here. Because I cannot imagine that the renowned Captain Martuhn of Geerzburk would decline a challenge, I simply ask what weapons he chooses and what mode of combat.”
Gleeful as malicious boys torturing a stray dog, Martuhn’s quartet’s suggestions flowed: a-horse, with spear and longsword, in full armor and shield; a-horse, in half-armor, with two-foot targets and heavy, cursive, nomad sabers; a-foot, with full armor and poleaxes. This went on for several minutes until their principal, disgusted, put an end to it.
“Gentlemen,” Martuhn growled, “I am as aware as are you that that boy out there is no true knight in any sense of the word, though I strongly suspect he’s got a shade more guts than you give him credit for. But I’m a soldier, not a butcher, gentlemen. I choose light rapiers and daggers, a-foot, no armor save face guards, ankle boots, breeches’ and shirts, and for three bloods only. Are my terms clear, gentlemen?”
He left unsaid the fact that he would have refrained from the precipitation of this farcial combat from the
start, had he not sensed the malign machinations of Duke Tcharlz in it Nor did he reveal that he now had, in his own mind, sacrificed the last dregs of the honor of Count Martuhn of Geerzburk in order to retain the goodwill of such a thing as the duke.
An hour later, after a quick wash in the guardsmen’s barrack, a shave and a hair trim by their barber, the loan of some clean and lighter clothing and the selection of a rapier from the castle armory, he stood ready, surrounded by his quartet at one end of the inner garden which had been chosen for the encounter. The duke was not visible at any of the surrounding windows, but Martuhn could sense the man’s mind now and again, close by, observing, and once more he had the uncomfortable feeling of being but a piece on a gaming board.
As he and his opponent were led to the center of the sward by their respective entourages, Martuhn once more felt respect — an increasing measure of respect — for the willow-slender man he was about to fight. The captain’s unusual mind could sense the dark oceans of terror lapping at and around the barrier reefs of will, yet Sir Djaimz’s demeanor showed no trace of fear and the only change in his face was a purple bruise on his right cheek, the result of Martuhn’s buffet.
Perfunctorily, the weapons and face guards were exchanged and examined by the seconds. Martuhn’s left-hand weapon — he had retained his own battle dirk from force of habit — was found to be heavier in the blade and somewhat longer than the wide-quillioned dagger of Sir Djaimz, so one of the men set off at a trot to fetch several shorter, lighter pieces from which the captain might choose.
While they waited, cool ale was offered. Sir Djaimz took a grateful gulp of his and was about to take another when he noted that his opponent-to-be was sipping, barely doing more than wetting his lips and mouth. He began to emulate the veteran captain.
Martuhn smiled to himself. The lad was both intelligent and adaptable. Given time, patience and training, he doubted not he could make a good officer of him. Sword knew he had the sand. This little business proved that for all to see.
Sir Djaimz cleared his throat and bespoke Martuhn, “Sir, I have been informed that I should not address you directly until . . . after these proceedings, but . . .”
Martuhn nodded once. “Speak away, sir. Yon’s a custom that’s honored as much in the breach as the observance. Do you wish to withdraw your challenge? I’m more than amenable. I’ve no desire to see your blood.”
Sir Djaimz flushed and shook his small head, sending the dark, curling locks swirling on his narrow shoulders. “No, sir, a certain high personage desires my death, and I had as lief receive it from a man I can see than from a wire garrote some dark night or a cup of poisoned wine.”
Martuhn shook his own close-cropped head, “I’m no man’s executioner, sir! This duel’s for no more than three bloods, mine or yours or both together, not to the death.”
Sir Djaimz just smiled cynically. “But, of course, accidents do occur now and then, don’t they?”
There’ll be no accidents this day,” declared Martuhn bluntly. “Unless you go mad and decide to run yourself onto my blade, you’ll leave on your own two feet.”
“No.” Sir Djaimz again shook his head. “I’d not do that, though it might be better for both of us if I did.”
The man returned from the armory, and Martuhn chose a dagger that was almost the mate to his opponent’s — eight inches of a thick but narrow and double-edged blade, with a crossguard three inches to the arm and a latticework of steel to protect the knuckles. Then he paced to his appointed place.
As the longsword of the arbitrator of the duel flashed downward, Martuhn moved forward smoothly and deliberately; although his conscious mind realized that he was but the instrument of an all but unskilled man’s cruel punishment and in no slightest degree of danger, to his subconscious and his physical reflexes, he was approaching another combat, pure, simple and deadly.
Sir Djaimz vainly tried to copy his opponent’s footwork, but though awkward, he neither hesitated nor halted. Nor did he flinch from Martuhn’s first, powerful thrust, catching and turning the licking tongue of steel on his dagger blade and delivering an upward slash which rang upon the bigger man’s face guard, even as the sharp edge of Martuhn’s dagger laid open a billow of shirt, barely missing the pale skin beneath.
As they fenced, the tall captain’s respect for the pale, slender man became less grudging; relatively weak and certainly unschooled, none of his attacks, defenses or ripostes seemed those of any school of the blade with which the widely experienced captain was familiar — Sir Djaimz seemed to be one of those rare, natural swordsmen. His weapon seemed an extension of his arm, the womanish soft hand inside the kidskin glove but an incidental link between the two.
Martuhn fleetingly regretted not naming longswords or even axes, the proper use of which demanded more strength than he thought his opponent owned, as that same opponent’s silvery blade danced and flickered before his eyes, weaving an intricate pattern between them.
He thought, “Had the skinny bastard the foot skill and a bit more muscle to go with it, he’d be flat dangerous!”
He fought defensively, deliberately ignoring seeming openings, until Sir Djaimz showed signs of exertion and he thought that he had finally caught the rhythm of the very unorthodox fighting style. Then he waited his chance and struck — point slashing not thrusting at the already ripped front of the shirt.
He came breathtakingly close, but at the last possible split second, Sir Djaimz’s blade beat down his own, so that the slash, rather than opening chest and shirt, severed the pale man’s fine waistbelt, the waistband of his breeches and the drawstring cinching his smallclothes. Both items of clothing promptly tumbled down about his ankles.
Apparently unaware of what had occurred. Sir Djaimz made to riposte . . . and fell fiat on his face, his bare white and almost fleshless buttocks reflecting back an errant beam of sunlight.
The guardsmen and other watchers, who had been hooting and shouting cruel jests at the downed knight, fell silent as Martuhn moved forward, his face as cold and bleak as a bleached skull. He kicked both weapons from the fallen man’s grip, then placed a foot in the small of his back and sank the point of his sword just deeply enough to draw a few drops of blood, once, twice, thrice into the back of the right thigh.
Then he dropped his own weapons and leaned over, placing his big hands under Sir Djaimz’s arms. As he effortlessly raised his erstwhile opponent onto his feet, he spoke swiftly and in a low voice.
“This is a good ending, better than you can imagine, my boy. You’ve been humiliated, and that’s a damned good and unquestionable reason for leaving Pirates’ Folly while you still have your life and most of your blood.
“Go back to the duchess’ court, Sir Djaimz. When the new fortress at Twocityport is completed, I am certain to be named to command the garrison there. Come to me then, and I promise to make a real swordsman of you, with your promise, an unbeatable one.
“What I will do now is for he who watches. Do not take it to heart; it’s for your protection as much as anything.”
With that, he patted Sir Djaimz’s bare buttocks, remarking, “Soft as a girl’s arse. Reminds me of that new whore down at Charlotte the Harlot’s place in Pahdookahport.” Then he threw back his head and laughed, and, still laughing, he picked up his weapons and stalked back toward the barracks.
Later that same day, Sir Djaimz and his servants had departed Pirates’ Folly, riding east toward Twocityport at about the time Martuhn was being ushered in to his dinner with Duke Tcharlz.
When once the remnants of the last course were cleared away and the table bore only a set of small silver cups and a goodly assortment of brandies and cordials, the duke gave over from chitchat and got down to business.
“The Twocityport citadel is completed, Martuhn. I took the liberty of installing in it the bulk of your old company, under command of Lieutenant Mawree, almost a fortnight agone.”
Martuhn looked every bit of his surprise. “But . . . my lord, it w
as no more than a plan when I departed.”
The duke grinned like a cat. “Well, nonetheless, it’s done, every last stone and timber and treenail of it, and with no less than three clearwater springs inside the walls. A full year’s worth of provisions for two thousand men and five hundred horses should be in its magazines by the time you reach it to take command, along with a full complement of wall engines and a well-stocked armory. And none too soon, say I.”
He leaned forward conspiratorially, nudging the table with his burgeoning paunch, sweat brought out by the rich foods and strong brandies gleaming on his face. “There’ve been developments since you left. Duke Alex, that arrogant, overweening, greedy, pig-spawned, dung-eating hound of a sneak thief, has — or so my agents in Traderstown court inform me — entered into a criminal collusion with the witless young jackanapes who now styles himself King of Mehmfiz. Through that supposedly royal ninny, our scheming neighbor is hiring himself an army from anywhere he can scratch up men, but mostly from the northwestern duchies of the Southern Ehleenee.
“Moreover, they — this precious pair of gelded jackasses — have begun to make threatening noises and movements toward certain of my downriver client-states and allies, states that that stunted, imbecilic dwarf Uyr of Mehmfiz has had his eyes on for years. They assume that I cannot but go to the aid of my allies whenever Alex and Uyr scratch up enough personal sand and armed men to actually attack one, and they’re right on that score, I’ll have to at least send troops down there, possibly even lead them myself.
“But they’ve not the collective brains of a pissant if they think I’m deluded. I know full well what they’re up to. You know it too, Martuhn, and so does every thinking man in my duchy: The one scheme that that prince of deceptions has harbored in his cesspool brain ever since the old duke died has been to rule both Traderstown and Twocityport, that he might control both ends of the transriverine cables.
“Therefore, my dear Martuhn, however much dust these two bastards may kick up downriver, we may be assured that their true objective is Twocityport and its immediate environs, and when once they feel they’ve engaged the bulk of my forces downriver, they’ll strike hard to seize my chief city. My spies at the court of my bitch wife are convinced that she and certain of hers are into this up to their plucked eyebrows, and they’re likely right, but I can’t prove the case just now, else I’d have her ugly head.