by Tad Williams
As Josua and his followers stepped through the gate, the prince and Vorzheva caught each others’ eyes. Josua deliberately made the sign of the Tree on his chest, then kissed his hand and touched it to that spot. Vorzheva turned away as if to hide tears.
Fikolmij stood and began to speak to the assembled crowd, slipping back and forth between Westerling and the harsh Thrithings dialect as he held forth to the seated dignitaries and the other clanfolk gathered around the paddock fences. As the March-thane roared on, Deornoth slipped forward between the half-dozen spearmen who had followed Josua into the enclosure and moved to his prince’s side.
“Highness,” he said quietly, laying a hand on his shoulder. The prince started, as if woken from a dream.
“Ah. It’s you.”
“I wanted to beg your forgiveness, my prince, before…before whatever happens. You are the kindest lord a man could want. I had no right to speak to you as I did yesterday.”
Josua smiled sadly. “You had every right. I only wish I had more time to think about the things you said. I have indeed been far too self-absorbed of late. It was the act of a friend to point that out.”
Deornoth fell to a knee, pulling Josua’s hand to his lips. “The Lord bless you, Josua,” he said quickly. “Bless you. And do not close too swiftly with that brute.”
The prince thoughtfully watched Deornoth rise. “I may have to. I fear I have not the strength to wait long. If I see any chance at all, I must take it.”
Deornoth tried to speak again, but his throat was too tight. He clasped Josua’s hand, then retreated.
A ragged volley of shouts and cheers rose from the crowd as Utvart climbed over the paddock fence and took his place before Fikolmij. Josua’s adversary stripped off his cowhide vest and displayed his muscular torso, which had been rubbed with fat until it glistened. Seeing this, Deornoth frowned: Utvart would be able to move quickly, and the fat would help him keep warm.
The Thrithing-man’s curved sword had been thrust scabbardless through his broad belt, his long hair pulled into a knot at the back of his head.
Utvart wore a bracelet on each arm, and several earrings dangled against his jaw. He had daubed his scars with red and black paint, making himself seem a kind of demon.
Now he pulled his sword from his belt and lifted it over his head, engendering another chorus of shouts. “Come, Lackhand,” he boomed.
“Utvart is waiting.”
Father Strangyeard was praying aloud as Josua walked forward across the enclosure. Deornoth found that rather than soothing or reassuring him, the priest’s words rubbed on his nerves until he had to step away; after a moment s consideration, he moved to a spot along the fence just to the side of one of the guards- He looked up and saw Isorn staring. Deornoth shifted his chin in a virtually undetectable nod; Isorn eased over toward the wall also, until he stood a few yards from Deornoth.
Josua had left his cloak with Duchess Gutrun, who cradled it like a child. Beside her stood Leleth, dirty fist clutching the duchess’ tattered skirt. Geloë was a short distance away, her yellow stare hooded.
As Deornoth surveyed the group, other eyes met his and slid away, as if fearing to maintain too lengthy a contact. Sangfugol quietly began to sing.
“So, son of Prester John, you come before the Free Folk of the Thrithings a little less great than you once were,” Fikolmij grinned. His clansmen laughed and whispered.
“Only in my possessions,” Josua said calmly. “As a matter of fact, I would like to propose a wager, Fikolmij—between the two of us, you and me.”
The March-thane laughed, surprised. “Brave words, Josua, proud words coming from a man who knows he will soon die.” Fikolmij looked him over calculatingly. “What kind of wager?”
The prince slapped his scabbard. “I propose to bet on this and my good left hand.”
“Good, since it is your only hand,” Fikolmij smirked. His clansmen roared.
“That is as may be. If Utvart defeats me, he gets Vorzheva and you get her bride-price, is that not true?”
“Thirteen horses.” The March-thane was smug. “What of it?”
“Simply this. Vorzheva is already mine. We are betrothed. If I survive, I gain nothing new.” His eyes met Vorzheva’s across the crowd of watchers, then moved back to her father with cold regard.
“You gain your life!” Fikolmij spluttered. “In any case, it is foolish to talk. You will not survive.”
Utvart, waiting impatiently, allowed himself a thin smile at his thane’s words.
“That is why I wish to make a wager with you,” Josua said. “With you, Fikolmij. Between men.” Some of the clansmen chuckled at this; Fikolmij looked around angrily until they fell silent.
“Speak on.”
“It will be a wager of little value, Fikolmij, the kind that bold-willed men make without hesitation in the cities of my people. If I win, you will give me the same price you are asking from Utvart.” Josua smiled. “I will choose thirteen horses from you.”
There was an undertone of anger in Fikolmij’s hoarse voice. “Why should I wager with you at all? A wager is only a wager if both sides risk something. What could you possibly have that I want?” His expression turned cunning. “And what do you have that I cannot simply take from your people when you are dead?”
“Honor.”
Fikolmij drew back in surprise. The whispers around him intensified. “By the Four-Footed, what does that mean?! I care little for your soft-hearted, stone-dweller’s honor.”
“Ah,” Josua said with a ghost of a smile, “but your own?”
The prince turned suddenly to face the crowd of Thrithings-folk who hung over the fences of Fikolmij’s great paddock. A ripple of quiet talk ran through the throng. “Free men and women of the High Thrithings!” he cried. “You have come to see me killed.” A bray of laughter greeted this statement. A clod of dirt hurtled toward Josua, missing him by only a few cubits and rolling past Fikolmij’s clansmen, who glared out at the assembly. “I have offered your March-thane a wager. I swear that the Aedon, god of the stone-dwellers, will save me—and that I will beat Utvart.”
“That would be something to see!” one of the crowd bellowed in heavily-accented Westerling. There was more laughter. Fikolmij stood and moved toward Josua as if to silence him, but after looking around at the shouting spectators seemed to think better of it. Instead, he crossed his arms over his broad chest and watched sullenly. “What do you wager, little man?” one of the clansmen near the front shouted.
“All that remains to me: my honor and the honor of my people.” Josua drew Naidel from its sheath and lifted it high. His shirt sleeve fell back; Elias’ rusted manacle, which he still wore around his left wrist, caught the faint morning light like a band of blood. “I am the son of Prester John, the High King who you remember well. Fikolmij knew him best of all of you.” The crowd murmured. The March-thane growled his discontent at this show.
“Here is my wager,” Josua shouted. “If I fall to Utvart, I swear it will prove that our god Usires Aedon is weak. and that Fikolmij speaks true when he says that he is stronger than the stone-dwellers. You will know that your March-thane’s Stallion is mightier than the Dragon and Tree of John’s house, which is the greatest house in all the city-lands of Osten Ard.”
A chorus of shouting voices rose. Josua calmly surveyed the crowd. “What does Fikolmij wager?” someone cried at last. Utvart, standing only a few ells away, was glowering at Josua, obviously furious at how his thunder had been stolen, but just as obviously unsure as to whether Josua’s wager could somehow increase his own glory when he slaughtered this crippled city-dweller.
“As many horses as Vorzheva’s bride-price. And my people and I to go free and unhindered,” Josua said. “Not much when matched against the honor of a prince of Erkynland.”
“A prince with no house!” someone catcalled, but a host of other voices drowned out the heckler, exhorting Fikolmij to take the wager, crying that he would be a fool to let this stone-dwelle
r show him up. The March-thane, features twisted in poorly-hidden rage, let the crowd’s urgings wash over him like rain. He looked quite ready to grasp Josua’s neck in his hands and throttle the prince himself.
“So. It is done,” he snarled at last, lifting his arm in a gesture of acceptance. The watchers cheered. “By the Grass Thunderer, you have heard him. The wager is set. My horses against his empty words. Now, let this foolishness come to a swift end.” Much of the March-thane’s enjoyment seemed to have evaporated. He leaned forward, speaking low so that only Josua could hear. “When you are dead, I will kill your women and children with my own hands. Slowly. No man makes me butt of a joke before my clans and steals my rightful horses.” Fikolmij turned and stalked back to his stool, frowning at the jests from his rand-warders.
As Josua unbuckled and cast away his sword belt, Utvart stepped forward, corded arms gleaming as he lifted his heavy blade.
“You talk and talk and talk, little man,” the grasslander snarled. “You talk too much.”
A moment later he bounded across the intervening space in three long strides, his sword swinging in a great arc. Naidel flashed up, deflecting the blow with a dull chime, but before Josua could bring his slim blade up for a cut of his own, Utvart had whirled and begun another powerful, two-handed sweep. Josua again managed to sidestep Utvart’s attack, but this time the curved sword rang hard against the prince’s guard and Naidel almost flew from his hand. He staggered back a few steps across the muddy turf before he could regain his balance. Utvart grinned fiercely and began circling, forcing Josua to turn quickly so the prince could keep his left shoulder facing the Thrithings-man. Utvart feinted, then lunged. Josua’s boot heel slid on the hoof-trampled ground, forcing him to drop to one knee. He managed to turn Utvart’s thrust, but as the big man pulled his blade free it sawed back across Josua’s sword arm, freeing a ribbon of blood.
The prince rose carefully. Utvart showed his teeth and continued circling. A trickle of red dripped from the back of Josua’s hand. The prince wiped it on the leg of his breeches, then raised it again quickly as Utvart feigned another thrust. Moments later the blood was again dribbling down Josua’s wrist and onto his hilt.
Deornoth thought he understood the strange business of the wager—Josua was hoping to make Fikolmij and Utvart angry in the hope it would lead to some sort of mistake—but the prince’s idea had all too obviously not succeeded. The March-thane was indeed furious, but Josua was not battling Fikolmij, and Utvart did not seem as hot-headed as the prince had probably hoped. Instead, the Thrithings-man was proving himself a canny fighter. Rather than relying blindly on his superior strength and reach, he was wearing Josua down with heavy blows, then springing away before the prince could counter.
As he watched the one-sided combat, Deornoth felt his heart falling like a stone. It had been foolish to think anything else could happen. Josua was a fine swordsman, but he would have had trouble with one like Utvart at the best of times. Today, the prince was injured and poorly-rested, weak as a stripling. It was only a matter of time…
Deornoth turned to Isorn. The young Rimmersman shook his head grimly: he, too, understood chat Josua was fighting a defensive action, putting off the inevitable as long as possible. Isorn lifted his eyebrow inquiringly. Now?
Father Strangyeard’s murmured prayers were a counterpoint to the shouting throng. The guards around them were staring raptly, eyes wide, spears held only loosely. Deornoth lifted his hand. Wait…
Blood was rilling from two more wounds, a slash on Josua’s left wrist and a broad gouge in his leg. The prince wiped sweat from his forehead and left a broad scarlet smear across his face, as though he sought to match Utvart’s painted scars.
Josua stumbled back, ducking awkwardly beneath another of Utvart’s swinging attacks, then ceased and lunged forward. His thrust ended harmlessly, well short of Utvart’s oiled stomach. The Thrithings-man, silent to this point, laughed harshly and cut again. Josua blocked, then attacked. Utvart’s eyes widened, and for a moment the paddock echoed with the percussive sound of steel on steel. Most of the throng were up and shouting. Slender Naidel and Utvart’s long sword spun in and out through an intricate dance of silver light, ringing their own accompaniment.
The Thrithings-man’s mouth stretched in a grimace of wild glee, but Josua’s face was ashen, his bloodless lips pursed and his gray eyes burning with some last reserve of strength. Two of the Thrithings-man’s powerful swings were clangingly rebuffed, then Josua’s swift lunge drew a bright red line along Utvart’s ribs. Some in the watching crowd shouted and clapped at this evidence that the fight was not yet over, but Utvart narrowed his eyes in anger and surged forward, raining blows like a blacksmith hammering at an anvil. Staggered, Josua could only retreat, trying to keep Naidel up before him, the thin strip of steel his only shield. The prince’s weak attempt at a counter-thrust was carelessly knocked aside, then one of Utvart’s bludgeoning swipes banged off the prince’s guard and struck his head. Josua lurched backward for several loose-jointed steps before slumping to his knees, blood coursing from a spot just above his ear. He lifted Naidel before him as though to ward off more blows, but his eyes were bleary and the sword wavered like a willow limb.
The noise of the throng rose to a howl. Fikolmij was on his feet, beard blowing in the sharp wind, clenched fist in the air like an angry god calling down the thunder of the heavens. Utvart approached Josua slowly, still surprisingly cautious, as though he expected some stone-dweller trick, but the prince was clearly beaten, struggling to rise from his knees, the stump of his right wrist slipping in the mud.
A different kind of noise suddenly arose from the far side of the paddock. The crowd’s attention grudgingly turned toward the source. There was an eddying of bodies near where the prisoners stood, and spears flailing like grass-stems. A woman’s shriek of amazement was followed immediately by a man’s cry of pain. A moment later a pair of bodies broke free from the press. Deornoth held one of the Thrithings guards, his elbow around the man’s throat. The knight’s other hand clasped the guard’s spear just below the head, its sharp point pushed snug against the man’s belly.
“Tell your other riders to stand back, horse-lord, or these men will die.” Deornoth prodded at his captive’s belly. The man grunted but did not cry out. A spot of blood appeared on his dun-colored shirt.
Fikolmij stepped forward, flushed with wrath, his braided beard quivering on his jaws. “Are you mad? Are you madmen? By The Four-Footed, I will crush you all!”
“Then your clansmen will die as well. We do not like to kill in cold blood, but we will not stand by and see our prince murdered after you beat him until he could not fight.”
The crowd murmured unhappily, but Fikolmij, seething with rage, paid no attention. He raised his braceleted arm to call for his warriors, but a voice lanced out.
“No!” It was Josua, climbing totteringly to his feet. “Let them go, Deornoth.”
The knight stared in amazement. “But, Highness…”
“Let them go.” He paused to find breath. “I will fight my own battle. If you love me, release them.” Josua rubbed blood from his eyes, blinking.
Deornoth turned to Isorn and Sangfugol, who held spears on three more guards. They returned his astonished stare. “Release them,” he said at last. “The prince bids us release them.”
Isorn and Sangfugol lowered their spears, allowing the Thrithings-men to step away. They promptly did, scrambling out of reach of the spearpoints before they remembered their original roles as captors and stopped, muttering angrily. Isorn ignored them. Beside him, the harper was trembling like a wounded bird. Geloë, who had not moved through all the furor, shifted her yellow eyes back to Josua.
“Come, Utvart,” the prince said haltingly, his smile a bitter slash of white across a bloody mask. “Forget them. We are not finished.”
Fikolmij, who stood close by, champing with his open mouth as though at a bit, started to say something .He never had the chance.
> Utvart leaped forward, battering at Josua’s guard. The moment’s respite had not returned Josua’s strength; he fell backward unsteadily before the Thrithings-man’s attack, fending off the curved blade only by the slimmest of margins. At last a swinging blow slid past, nicking Josua’s chest, then the following attack landed the flat of Utvart’s blade on Josua’s elbow, springing Naidel from his grasp The prince scuttled after it, but as his fingers closed on the bloody hilt his feet slipped from beneath him and he sprawled on the trampled turf.
Seeing his advantage, Utvart lunged forward. Josua was able to lift his sword and turn the stroke downward, but his awkward position as he rose from the ground allowed Utvart to grapple him in a hugely-muscled arm and begin to pull the prince in toward the cutting edge of the curved sword. Josua brought up his knee and right arm to try to hold his attacker at bay, then managed to raise his other arm, keeping his blade locked against Utvart’s guard, but the stronger Thrithings-man pushed his sword up slowly against the prince’s stiffened wrist, forcing Naidel back as the crescent blade rose toward Josua’s throat. The prince’s lips skinned back in a grimace of ultimate exertion and sinews knotted along his slender arm. For a moment, his supreme effort halted the rising blade. The two men stood grappling chest to chest. Sensing the prince’s flagging strength, Utvart tightened his grip around his smaller foe and smiled, drawing Josua toward him in a movement almost ritually slow. Despite the agonized play of the prince’s muscles, the long edge of the curved blade continued inexorably upward, coming lovingly to rest against the side of Josua’s throat.
