The Last Thane

by Doug Niles

  “May Queen Takhisis walk with me this day and guide my efforts in her service,” Sarah intoned formally.

  “Fight with honor, Knight Warrior,” replied the priestess.

  Governor-General Abrena frowned over Sara’s mail shirt. “You wear no armor,” she observed critically.

  Sara stood straighter under the heavy mail. “My armor was lost, General. I have not yet been able to replace it.”

  “And yet you willingly fight a duel in simple mail?” She shook her head at the stupidity of certain knights. “I would prefer to keep you alive, Conby. Knight Officer Massard has not appeared yet; we have time to find you something more suitable than that.”

  Cobalt suddenly growled deep in his throat. “He comes.”

  Another ragged cheer rose from the crowd as a lone figure entered the arena at the far end and began to swagger across the open floor to the group of officers. He tripped once but regained his balance and halted in front of Governor-General Abrena. Knight Officer Massard saluted rather crookedly. Abrena’s eyes narrowed, her full lips tightening in disapproval as her nose wrinkled suspiciously.

  Massard suddenly belched. The reek of spirits on his clothes and breath reached out to them all. The Adjudicator rolled his eyes. The others stifled mingled sounds of disgust and amusement.

  “Knight Officer,” snapped the general, giving him a withering glare. “You are a disgrace. Where is your pride? In the bottom of some latrine? How dare you show up here to fight a duel of honor in this condition?”

  Massard planted his fists on his hips and bellowed belligerantly, “What difference does it make? I can fight her on one leg.”

  “Do you wish to let the challenge stand?” the Adjudicator asked in a hard voice.

  “Blast it, yes! What’d ya think I came here for?”

  “What weapon do you chose?”

  “None.” Massard turned his black gaze on Sara. “I’m gonna kill her with my bare hands.”

  Shocked, the knights began talking among themselves in harsh whispers. Bare-knuckled fighting was not considered an honorable alternative in duels. That sort of brawling was usually relegated to the lowest ranks of mercenaries and draconians.

  Sara leaned back against Cobalt and tried to mask her emotions. The thought of fighting a big hulk like Massard with nothing but her fists scared her silly. At least with a sword she would have a chance to wear him down and wound him. This way she wouldn’t have a hope.

  General Abrena obviously had the same thoughts. She turned her swift glance to Sara and said, “No. Weapons must be chosen. I will not allow the duel for rank to be turned into a street fight.”

  Massard curled his lip. “Daggers, then. And that dragon must leave. I do not want to be scorched by him when she dies.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about the dragon if I were you,” Sara said caustically. “I’d worry about breathing near open flames. Your breath alone could kill an ogre.”

  The Governor-General held up her hand to stem the gathering tide of insults. “Daggers are acceptable. Knight Warrior Conby, do you desire armor?”

  Sara noticed that Massard wore his usual tunic and padded leather vest. “My opponent is not wearing any. I will abide as I am.”

  The Adjudicator held out his scepter for the crowd to see and shouted for quiet. As soon the audience settled down enough to hear, he continued, “The defender has chosen daggers. So be it. The fight is to the death. Let the dragon withdraw to the limits of the arena.”

  Whistles and cheers met his announcement. The knights withdrew to the walled seats above the arena floor.

  “He may be drunk, but he is strong and wily,” Cobalt warned in a soft hiss. “Be careful.”

  Cobalt gently nudged Sara’s arm, and she patted his neck in reply. Sara hooked her sheathed sword to the saddle and lovingly slapped his leg. He leaped up into the stands, crushing a few more wooden rails as he went, and took a precarious perch on the uppermost level of the coliseum where he could see Sara but still be considered at the ‘limits of the arena.’

  All too quickly the expanse of the arena was empty except for Massard and Sara. A hush of anticipation settled over the crowd.

  The Adjudicator stood on a platform above the sands and shouted, “You may begin.”

  Massard pulled his lips back in a sneer. Deliberately, he drew his dagger and threw it into the sand. “I want to feel your death with my bare hands,” he grunted to Sara.

  Sara drew her own dagger, letting its blade shine in the sunlight. “You’ll have to catch me first, you drunken lout,” she taunted.

  Like a bull, Massard roared in anger and charged forward. But the spirits were working deeper into his system and began to interfere with his vision. He suddenly saw two identical women laughing at him, but before he could clasp either one of them, they ducked out of his grasp and ran around behind him. He staggered, caught himself before he fell on his face, and turned clumsily.

  Sara looked into his eyes and recognized that unfocused look. Disgusted, she yelled, “Massard, you’re a fool!”

  The officer charged her again, and once more she slipped out of his reach. She hoped she could exhaust him by taunting him into these thoughtless rushes. As long he could not see her very well, she could easily stay out of his reach. She knew he was strong and heavy and could kill her if he caught her.

  They continued this deadly dance back and forth around the arena for some time. Massard’s face began to grow flaming red and bathed in sweat. He breathed hard whenever he stopped, his hands clenched at his sides.

  Sara was tiring, too. The chain mail felt like a shirt of lead on her chest and shoulders and was becoming very hot. Her bruised ankle ached from the constant turning and twisting; her head had begun to pound.

  Massard came at her again, his head lowered, his powerful legs thrusting his weight forward to crush her. This time she waited a fraction of a second longer as he bore down on her and slashed outward with her dagger before turning aside. The blade slid along his leather vest and skittered into the flesh of his upper arm. Sara dropped and rolled away. Blood had been drawn.

  The crowd had grown restless during the charge-and-dodge game. Now they roared their approval and stamped their feet, calling for more action.

  Massard ignored the wound. It was only superficial, a mere scratch to him. He shook his head and mopped his face with his tunic sleeve. His vision seemed better for the moment. He could once again see one image of Sara.

  He sprang for her again, but this time he slowed down and controlled his rush enough to see in which direction she intended to leap away. As she dodged, he pivoted in the same direction and caught her by surprise. His fist swung up and slammed into her midriff. She staggered, wheezing with pain.

  Massard punched her again and felt the tremendous satisfaction of his fist connecting with her cheek. The crowd roared with delight.

  The impact knocked Sara off her feet. She fell flat on her back, her head ringing and her face feeling as if something had shattered it. The flesh around her eye began to swell. Gasping for breath, she looked up and saw Massard flying through the air to land on top of her. Desperately, she wrenched her body sideways just as he crashed to the sand where she had lain. She managed to scramble upright and put some distance between herself and the knight.

  Massard climbed slowly to his feet. Blood trickled down his arm and sand covered his clothes. “Almost,” he sneered. “Just lie down—you’re good at that. Lie down and I’ll kill you quickly.”

  Sara laughed in spite of the pain in her face. “At least I am good at something. You never were, Massard. Isn’t that why Lord Ariakan sent you away? Because you couldn’t do anything worth an ogre’s spit? Isn’t that why you drink yourself into a stupor every day?” She snorted in contempt and finished with, “How did you ever become a knight?”

  Massard’s roared, his blood burning with fury. He lunged forward to catch her again, but this time instead of trying to punch her in passing, he grabbed for her clothing so he
could hold her down. His right hand closed on her upper wrist, and his left caught a fistful of her chain mail. He forced her wrist back until she cried out in pain and dropped the dagger to the sand, dragged her close and pressed his lips to her mouth.

  The audience in the seats laughed and cheered him on.

  Sara spit in his face. She struggled wildly, trying to break his grip. Realizing that her panicked struggles were accomplishing nothing, she forced her fear back and tried to think. Her son, Steel, had spent hours teaching her methods of self-defense, but she had not practiced them in so long that she had forgotten much. Leverage was everything, he used to say to her. Leverage … sparks of memory fired in her mind. Images became clearer. Phrases and words came back to her.

  Another little snippet of information swam back into clarity. The gully dwarf had said Massard had a bad knee. It was too bad he had not told her which one.

  These thoughts passed rapidly through her mind. In the time it took for Massard to tighten his grip on her chain mail, let go of her wrist, and pull back his fist to punch her in the mouth, she had decided what to try.

  She collapsed her knees and dropped to a crouch. Her move took him by surprise and forced his balance forward over his toes. Sara abruptly straightened her legs, driving her shoulder into his stomach. She grabbed his arm and using his forward balance to aid her momentum deftly flipped him over her back. The knight crashed to the ground and lay gasping in the sand.

  “Kill him!” The words echoed from one side of the arena to the other. “Kill him!”

  Sara groped in the sand for her knife. Massard rolled over and staggered up. He pulled a second knife, a black stiletto, from his boot and reared back to stab her. Shifting her weight to her arms, Sara lashed out with a booted foot at Massard’s left knee, the one she had noticed he favored in the past. Her hunch was right. The force of her blow slammed his knee sideways, and he fell like a stricken ox. His knife dropped to the sand.

  But if Sara had hoped he would lie on the ground and groan or nurse his knee, she was disappointed. Massard slipped beyond reason and the limitations of pain. Bellowing with rage, he scrambled over the ground and grabbed her leg.

  In that instant, Sara saw her dagger half-buried in the sand just beyond her fingertips. She tried to reach for it only to be wrenched back by a vicious yank to her leg. Her face banged into the arena floor; sand ground into her nose and mouth and tore into her swollen skin. She spat out the sand with a mingled cry of pain and fury.

  She twisted around to her back and used her free foot to kick at Massard’s head. Her first kick missed, but the second connected solidly with his chin and knocked him backward just enough for his hands to lose their grip on her leg. With all the strength she had left, Sara jerked her leg loose and shoved herself back over to her dagger.

  The knight bellowed angrily. He threw himself forward over her, crushing her down into the sand with his greater weight. His hands grabbed for her neck.

  She felt his fingers tighten around her throat like a noose. They dug into her skin, cutting off the flow of blood and air to her brain. Her face turned a sickly red, and her lungs burned from lack of air. The pain gripped her like a red-hot iron band around her neck and head. She wanted to scream but could not make a sound.

  Terror welled up from the depths of her soul. Almost every fiber in her mind screamed at her to struggle, to fight back, to pry those killing hands off her throat. But a few strands in the cold, reasoning part of her brain held her terror at bay for just a few heartbeats, long enough to give her hand time to reach for the dagger. She felt it still under the small of her back. If she could just get her fingers on it and pull it out, she could get him off.

  Massard screamed incoherent oaths at her as he squeezed the life out of her. He paid no attention to her drumming heels or the struggle of her left hand to claw at his face. Nor did he see her right hand worm its way under her back and laboriously pull out the dagger that Derrick had so carefully sharpened to a razor edge.

  Somewhere in the far distance Sara heard the murmur of the crowd like the hum of insects. Even fainter, she caught the cry of a dragon. Cobalt she wanted to cry. Cobalt, wait. The noises faded away into the thundering cry of her struggling heart.

  Her eyes bulged as the world grew dark. The dagger felt like a bar of lead in her hand. It was so heavy she could barely lift it. She did not waste time trying to aim for a killing stroke; all she wanted to do was get his hands off her neck so she could breathe again. With the last dregs of her failing strength, Sara drove the blade into his side just above his belt.

  Massard screeched in pain and twisted around to grab at whatever jabbed his side.

  Sara’s chest heaved upward in a frantic effort to breathe through her constricted throat. She gasped and coughed as he struggled to pull out the dagger. The blessed air in her lungs brought back her vision and a trickle of energy. The black roar faded from her head.

  Massard was weakening. She could feel his body sway. Her nose, free to breath again, caught the odors of sweat and liquor mingled with the metallic tang of blood. He thrashed around so violently that she could not reach her dagger. But she could reach his. The black-handled stiletto lay just an arm’s length away.

  Her fingers groped for the handle. At that moment, Massard wrenched her dagger free from his side and raised it triumphantly above her, the bloody point aiming for her bruised throat.

  Sara gathered the last vestiges of her strength. She closed her fingers around the black stiletto and brought it around and up. The slender blade punctured deep into the knight’s stomach and sliced upward behind his breastbone. A look of astonishment slid over his bearded face. He gazed down at the handle protruding from his abdomen as if he could not believe it was there. The dagger in his hand fell out of suddenly nerveless fingers. It clattered off her chain mail and dropped harmlessly to the sand.

  Slowly Massard toppled forward on top of Sara. His weight was more than she had the strength to lift.

  She sighed once and let the world go dark around her.

  About the Author

  Douglas Niles has been involved in the DRAGONLANCE® line since its inception, with novels including Fistandantilus Reborn, The Dragons, The Kagonesti, Emperor of Ansalon, The Kinslayer War and Flint, the King (with Mary Kirchoff). In total he has authored more than twenty books, including Darkwalker on Moonshae, the first book in TSR’s FORGOTTEN REALMS® series. He is currently at work on a trilogy of DRAGONLANCE novels set against the great glacier in the south of Ansalon.

  He is a lifelong Wisconsin resident and very enthusiastic fan of the Green Bay Packers, though he has never been known to put on a piece of fake-cheddar headgear. (Or real cheddar, for that matter.) He is married to Christine, a teacher, and they have two children.

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