“Hold her arms!” Arastan hissed. He sheathed his sword, and hiking up the hem of his mail shirt he tucked it into his belt. Lucia screamed in fury, sorrow, and terror; but could do nothing but struggle against the two massive Goths that pinned her.
“Stop!” Connor called out, his voice booming through the courtyard.
Arastan turned towards him. The look of amazement on the young lord’s face quickly turned to anger.
“You?” Arastan said.
Lucia too had looked over to see who had spoken. The brief flicker of hope in her eyes was quickly smothered by confusion.
“Let her go,” Connor said. His voice still carried, but his tone was calm. His hands hung by his sides, and Archangel still rested in its scabbard.
“And why the fuck should I listen to you?” Arastan said.
“Because I am speaking to you of moderation and honor,” Connor said, forcing a smile. “Virtus et Clementia – valor and mercy – are the virtues that mark the true warrior. Enough has been taken from this girl. Leave her alone.”
“I agree,” said Valia, striding up beside Connor. Gaiseric, Tuldin, Henric, and the others were close behind, but still no weapons were drawn amongst them.
If Arastan was angry before he was furious now, but he struggled to control himself.
“I see,” he said. “Abandoning your post to poach on our claim? Is that it? Fine work, Valia. Leave our people to move blindly across the countryside while you try to steal from me? You jealous bastard. My father will hear of this.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Valia said with a smile. “I still have a full contingent of scouts on the road. I only came here because I thought you might need some help. Controlling a villa this size can be dangerous. No telling what resources they have, or what the slaves might do.”
“Is that your story?” Arastan spat. “I suppose that I cannot stop you. Take what your greedy hands can carry then, but again – my father will know.”
Valia smirked, but bowed his head in mock politeness. He was about to speak more when Connor interrupted him.
“We will start by taking charge of that girl.”
“If you want this girl you can take your place behind me and my men. I don’t care if you are aligned with Valia; you do not come in here making demands of me. I was here first. I took the risks. She is mine.”
As if to underscore his statement, Arastan drew his dagger and cut the cord that served as Lucia’s belt. As he tore at her dress Lucia screamed and struggled anew, but her captors held her. Far from un-nerving Arastan, as Connor had hoped to do, it seemed that he had only enraged him further – and the young man’s rage was looking for a victim.
“She is not yours; she is mine. I challenge you for her!” Connor proclaimed, his voice silencing the courtyard as he stepped forward.
“Valia?” Henric protested. This was not the plan.
“Connor,” Valia whispered. But Connor was not listening as he took another step forward.
“Valia,” Arastan said, “sorry about the loss of your man. This has gone too far. You come onto my find to poach, and then you challenge me? Fuck you! Kill him.”
Four of Arastan’s Visigoths moved forward. Connor was aware of two more flanking behind him. They were all big men. They all wore armor. And they were all eager to shed more blood today. But Connor did not yet draw his sword. Drawing his blade too early would be certain death.
“Coward!” Connor cried. “Rotten pig-shit coward! Challenged by one of your own people, by right of law, and yet you try to let others do your murder for you.”
Connor’s attackers looked back to their master. Connor knew that he was on the right path. He took another step, slowly crossing the distance towards Arastan.
“I have heard the lore of the Visigoths,” Connor said, his voice loud and beginning to take on rhythm. “I have heard the glorious stories, the legends, the fame. I know of the struggles, of the dreams of the Gothic people. You will not be down-trodden. You will not be victims. No man may dominate you. No ruler may rule without respect for you. Wars will be fought for your glory, not at your expense. This is the path of the Visigoth, the path of glory and honor. Is it not? Is it not?”
The Goths – both Arastan’s and Valia’s men – were all looking intently at him, listening.
“And now I stand before you as one of you, adopted and baptized in blood, and I demand law. I say that the woman is mine. I say that mine is the prior claim. And I say that I am making this challenge in blood and iron! Now, what say you? Would you deny me? Deny one who is as one of you? Murder me instead of let God, Fate, and the sacred ancestors decide? Have you been so corrupted by Roman ways? For that is what the Romans would do – only hear what they want to hear, and kill all those that oppose them. Look into your hearts, my brothers. Is that the character of the Goth? Is that what the worthy Visigoths are to become?”
Arastan let the hem of his mail drop down from his belt as he stepped away from Lucia and towards Connor. There was an icy scraping as he drew his sword.
“Except that you are no Goth,” he said, his eyes blazing, his face colored at the sting of the insults lain at this feet. “You call us brothers, but we do not even know you. God knows what you are.”
“I am a barbarian,” Connor said. “This is not just a Gothic war, but a mission of justice for all our kind – Visigoth and Ostrogoth, Alan and Vandal, Frank and Sueve. My ancestors fought these wars before yours did. I have been accepted by Valia. If he says that I am his man, then I am under the Gothic banner, and as much a part of that spiritual inheritance as any of you.”
Arastan looked over towards Valia, as did all the men, awaiting his answer. Valia seemed to shake off his confusion.
“It is as he says.”
Arastan turned his back.
“Men stand back!” the young warlord cried. “Cut the branches to mark the boundary. This whore-spawn wants to challenge me – Arastan, son of the great Stratygos Sarus – to single combat for the ownership of one Roman bitch! Make ready. Mark the scene well. Mark what happens when I am opposed.”
Arastan stood tall with his arms outstretched, his sword brandished. Without prompting, one of his men brought his shield. Another placed his helmet on his head and strapped it down.
Valia grabbed Connor’s tunic and wheeled him around.
“You fool! What are you doing? What have you brought us into?”
Connor looked at the confusion, concern, and anger in the Goth’s face.
“You have been a good friend to me, Lord Valia,” Connor said.
“You saved my life yesterday,” Valia said. “By backing up your claim I just saved you from being hacked to death by ten men. Cunning words and good rhetoric, Connor; but now Arastan is going to kill you for your trouble. This is senseless!”
“I’ll get him my shield,” Gaiseric said, turning to run back to where the horses were tethered.
“No,” Valia said. “He is facing the son of Sarus in combat. We are far too close to this situation already.”
Valia raised his voice. “Connor is one of my warriors; and yet he duels now on his own. The decision that Fate now renders shall be the decision that we all accept. He has no second – and this fight will not escalate. This is my command. Lord Arastan, do you also enter this pact?”
“Just give me the blood of this bastard,” Arastan growled. “To hell with the rest of you.”
The rumble of “No fratricide” passed through the men gathered. Whether they would stick to this pact or not, Connor did not know. The chances were that he would not be there to see how this day turned out.
Branches were hastily cut from trees and lain down to mark the borders of the fighting ring, though the ornamental trees provided some natural obstacles and boundaries. It was getting darker. The air was cool on Connor’s red ears. Montevarius’ blood was dried and cracked on his hands. Everything seemed so sharp, so acute. Ahead of him, dragged just out of the way, Lucia stared at him with bloodshot eyes, sil
ent as the tears streamed down her beautiful face.
Connor looked at Arastan. The warrior was ready. He was crowned with an iron helmet with cheek plates and nose guard ornamented in gold, crested with a long, black horsetail. His chain mail was light for raiding, not heavy battle, but it was well made and fringed with ornamented leather. His belt and baldric were hung with medals and amulets to ward off danger. His shield was new and made from willow boards and leather; metal ridged and with a sturdy iron boss – as much weapon as defense. His spatha was long and sharp, the pattern-welded blade shining in the late day sun as he held it ready. But Connor knew what was more to fear than all these armaments was the man that wielded them. Was Arastan not born to be a warlord, the son of a great general? Had he not been trained to this end from infancy, taught to use his body and his mind in war, schooled in every manner of fighting and forged to forsake pain and fear to achieve victory? Had he not been fighting on the battlefield and in skirmishes since the first days of his passage from boyhood? Had he not probably killed scores of men? Connor was just one more. And Connor saw only rage on the warrior’s face, and no sign of fear.
Connor took a deep breath, mastering his thoughts and pushed all this from his mind.
Arastan had a shield and armor. Connor would have to aim for his legs. But Arastan would know this. He would be ready for Connor’s leg shot and block with his shield, holding his sword ready to strike from over top of it, severing Connor’s spine through the neck or upper back. Connor took a second breath and pushed these thoughts too from his mind.
Lucia stood before him. If he failed, their anger at him would carry over to her. If he succeeded, how could he be sure that they would honor the agreement? He had to save her from this fate. She did not deserve this. No one did. He must succeed. He had sworn an oath to Montevarius, his enemy that had become his friend who lay dead behind him. And if he did not succeed then what would become of Dania? Taking his third breath, he pushed all of this from his mind.
“No mind,” Titus had said, standing on the grassy knoll where young Connor sparred him with a stick. “Fight with passion, but a passion that comes of unification with body, mind, and spirit – not thought, either good or bad. Listen to your enemy. Feel his intention. Do not try to force your strategy, just act. Feel and move and act. Spirit, soul, and body.”
Connor took a fourth breath and pushed even this from his mind. He drew Archangel and stepped into the field of combat.
Arastan was seething. His whole body seemed to expand and contract as he breathed. He held his shield forward with his left arm, covering much of his body. His right hand gripped his sword poised just along the upper ridge if the shield, pointed at Connor’s heart. He stared down the length of the blade as if aiming an arrow; his dark eyes clouded, his helmet adding to his demonic appearance. Connor could see by the way he was standing that, regardless of how many civilians Arastan had murdered, that he was used to fighting in battle – in the shield wall – and so he would favor coming in using the shield to bash, and the sword to strike from behind it. Connor dropped in to his stance, knees well-bent and the weight on the balls of his feet. He must be like a spring. All of the weariness of the last few days – the endless walking and running and riding – was gone. Connor could feel power coursing through him as he stood right leg forward, his Archangel in his right hand.
With a roar Arastan attacked: rushing forward with his shield towards Connor. Connor leapt to his right, clearing the shield, and swung his sword for Arastan’s neck. Arastan parried with his own sword from the other side of his body – something taking no small skill. Then Arastan spun, striking with his sword and following with the edge of his shield, intent on taking Connor’s head off. But Connor slipped the blows and dashed again to his right, bashing his shin into Arastan’s forward thigh as he went.
Arastan was right behind him, pursuing aggressively with the press of his shield and lunges with his sword. Connor faded away from him, avoiding as he could and parrying as he had to; until Arastan had him pushed back towards the far boundary. Connor took the opportunity of his enemy’s missed stroke to dash by him again, using Arastan’s own shield as a means of cover. As he passed by, Connor pivoted and cut low. But Arastan was too quick, and moved his leg back in time.
Connor could not allow Arastan to pursue him back across the fighting area unchecked. He attacked, feinting swiftly, looking for an opening. As Arastan struck back, Connor parried and riposted towards his enemy’s face. He struck only Arastan’s shield. Connor kept the pressure up, forcing Arastan to move and to follow his intent; but in truth there was little else he could do. If he swung his sword too strongly into Arastan’s shield, the flexibility of the willow boards and leather would cause the sword to bounce back, and as he would try to regain control his enemy would strike. If he thrust too hard and met the shield, his point could become lodged. He had to bide his time and find his opening.
Arastan shouted as he attacked, but neither the arc of his sword nor the weight of his shield could find Connor. But every time Connor blocked he felt the violence of his enemy shake him through the grip of his sword. All at once Connor dug his heal in, done giving ground, and pushed forward. Jamming his enemy’s blade, he hurled all of his mass into Arastan’s shield, knocking him back. Connor followed as Arastan struggled to regain his balance, thrusting and making close cuts with his spatha. He drove Archangel towards Arastan’s face. They were fast, small movements, intended to confuse rather than kill; and the few times Connor’s blade touched Arastan’s body it met only the iron of the mail or the leather of the gauntlet. But then, just as Arastan was about to recover from the backward momentum, Connor shot right and cut low. Arastan moved at the same time, but could not completely escape. Archangel bit into the Goth’s left thigh, spilling blood across the courtyard stones.
The wound was not deep into the muscle, but it was bleeding freely. A safe distance away now, Arastan risked a glance. Enraged even further, he attacked Connor – intent now on ending this duel quickly, striking as if he meant to cleave Connor in two with a single blow. He closed the distance and began swinging his sword in up and down diagonal arcs, forgetting his shield, a continuous battle cry splitting the air.
But this was what Connor wanted. He feinted retreat by one step, but as soon as the ball of his foot touched the ground and Arastan’s wild blow had missed, then Connor rebounded forward. He checked the descending blow with his spatha as he closed in tight against Arastan. Almost in the same motion, he brought his pommel across Arastan’s face and wrapped him tight with his left arm. The helmet took the pommel strike, but the force that did penetrate provided the distraction Connor needed to lock in with Arastan. Dropping his hips and driving forward, he hooked Arastan’s back leg and took him down hard.
Arastan’s helmeted head bounced off the ground as he hit. With the fluidity born of talent, training, and years of practice, Connor instantly moved to secure his position. He had his enemy’s sword arm pinned by his chest. He moved to side mount and then instantly to top mount, grapevining Arastan’s bleeding leg with his own as he crushed the breath out of him. Arastan tried to bash him away with his shield, but Connor was far too close and the shield too big. In an instant the naked edge of Archangel was resting on the right jugular vein of the Gothic nobleman.
“Yield,” Connor hissed inches away from Arastan’s face.
“Fuck you!” Arastan growled back.
“Yield!” Connor demanded again, increasing the pressure on the blade.
Ignoring the danger – or perhaps taking the calculated risk based on Connor’s clemency, Arastan bucked his hips up and pushed hard against Connor. Connor lost his control over Arastan’s center as he struggled to prevent him from getting use of his sword back. In the scramble, Arastan was able to slip past Connor’s sword and get to his knees facing his enemy. Connor hooked his left hand behind his enemy’s neck to keep them locked in together. Arastan shook his shield off. Knowing Connor was too close for swords
to be effective Arastan drew his dagger with his left hand. Connor saw his last chance and threw himself into it. Dropping his own sword to grab his foe, he dove in wedging his right leg against Arastan’s waist. Seamlessly, he kicked his left leg over Arastan’s head and hooked the back of the warrior’s neck. He pushed down with all of his weight and momentum against Arastan’s trapped body, dropping him down with his back against the ground, pinned by Connor’s leg across his neck. Connor was now weaponless on the ground, but had both of his enemy’s arms trapped. He wrenched Arastan’s spatha from his grip and, bringing his knees together and arching back, he snapped the elbow of his foe’s knife arm.
Arastan screamed in pain as Connor threw the knife away. Before he could recover any attempt to fight Connor easily transitioned back to a top mount and sunk his grip into the collar of Arastan’s chain mail. Pulling his grip tight, the unyielding iron dug into the blood vessels buried in Arastan’s neck. Arastan bared his teeth, grimacing as he fought back as best as he could. His face went from flushed to purple as the choke sunk deeper. Connor could see as he looked into his enemy’s bulging eyes that he would soon go unconscious. And then there would be no resistance to the death Connor would inflict – the death this thief, murderer, and rapist deserved. It was more than just vengeance for killing Lucius – for Connor had no doubt that it was Arastan who dealt the blow – or the attempted rape of Lucia; it was all the evil that he had done and that he would otherwise go on to do. The world was a bad enough place as it was. It was time to relieve her of this parasite.
But something restrained him once more. Whether it was the thought of having one more Lorentius on his bloody hands or just the restraining voice of prudence, he was not sure. But Connor loosened his grip.
As the blood flow returned to Arastan’s brain, cognition returned. Connor’s hands were still in place, letting Arastan know that his death was still a squeeze away.
“Yield,” Connor demanded.
Arastan nodded.
“Guaranty my safety and the safety of this girl; as well as the safety of all of us here tonight. No retaliation,” Connor demanded again so that all could hear him.
The Songs of Slaves Page 25
