“Done! We shall do it now. Clear the room and bring me my sword. I’ll spill your guts Zorlan, and then I’m coming after you,” he shouted, pointing at Ebain.
King Zorlan just laughed. King Wilam’s advisors were whispering in his ear, trying to calm down their lord, but Quinn noticed the laugh and he felt a cold ball of fear knotting up inside his stomach.
“As you have accused me and Ebain, I shall let Ebain fight the duel,” Zorlan said.
“What?” King Wilam asked, for the first time realizing that his rival was manipulating the situation.
“Ebain shall be my champion,” Zorlan said.
“Then I shall be King Wilam’s,” Mansel said in a low, menacing voice.
For the first time Ebain looked at Mansel. The passionless, yet intense stare would have unnerved most men, but Mansel didn’t flinch. He’d been busy with Quinn, but the tension building up inside him needed an outlet and he thought fighting Zorlan’s torturer might be exactly what he needed.
“No,” Wilam said, putting a hand on Mansel’s shoulder. “This is my fight and I welcome it.”
“My lord,” Quinn said, “think this through. What will happen if you lose?”
“He’s right, my King,” said Symon. “You are much to valuable to risk your life in a duel.”
“It is my accusation,” Wilam said. “I will not let another risk his life for me. No one fights in my stead, not anymore.”
“This is fruitless,” Quinn said. “We should be focused on fighting the enemy, not each other.”
“Bring the king his sword,” Zorlan said. “Let him back up his accusations with steel.”
“We should wait, my liege,” said Symon. “At least wait until the army arrives.”
“Of course, you should have an entire army to back up your cowardly lies,” King Zorlan sneered.
“You are baiting him on purpose, King Zorlan,” Quinn said angrily. “We all see it.”
“Of course I am. He has besmirched my honor, and thereby the honor of Falxis and of my royal ancestors. I shall not let this insult pass. I demand satisfaction. Trial by combat is a time honored right. I am within my rights and would be in any of the Five Kingdoms.”
“One hour,” Wilam said angrily.
“In the courtyard,” Zorlan replied, a smile playing around his lips.
“Prepare yourself, Ebain,” Wilam spat the name as if it left a vile taste in his mouth. “You shall pay for your crimes on the edge of my sword.”
Ebain didn’t reply, in fact he didn’t even look at King Wilam. He was focused solely on Mansel and the big sword that was now propped across Mansel’s thick shoulder. There was a cold, predatory look in his eye, and Mansel used all his self control not to spring across the table that separated them and cut his advisory down. He didn’t know why he felt such danger emanating from Ebain, but he knew one thing for certain, King Wilam wasn’t a match for the cold blooded killer. Mansel worried that none of them were.
Chapter 15
Quinn and Mansel followed Wilam to his rooms. Most of the king’s advisors were younger men, all nobles. Back in Orrock he would have ministers who oversaw the various aspects of the kingdom, but here he was surrounded by young warriors anxious to test themselves and advance their standing among the nobility of Yelsia. Still, none of them looked excited about seeing their King in single combat.
“Where is my sword?” he asked to no one in particular.
“It is here, my Liege,” said one of the advisors.
“King Wilam,” Quinn said as he moved to Wilam’s side. “Think this through, please. What do you gain by fighting King Zorlan’s champion now?”
“Justice,” Wilam said, trying to sound more confident than he felt.
“It’s a trap,” Mansel said. “We all walked into it, but discretion is the better part of valor. You should walk away now.”
“And be called a coward?”
“Lead your men well,” Mansel said calmly, “and no one will call you a coward.”
“I cannot let their evil go unpunished,” Wilam said fiercely. “Bring me some armor!”
“Let Mansel be your champion,” Quinn argued. “You are too valuable to risk.”
“No! I swore I would kill Ebain and now that opportunity has presented itself.”
“He won’t be easy to kill,” Mansel said. “You know that, right? King Zorlan wants this. He practically goaded you into it.”
“Right will prevail, you will see gentlemen,” Wilam said. “For now, I must prepare. I trust you can show yourselves out.”
Quinn turned to leave, the frustration evident on his face.
“Let me serve as your second,” Mansel said.
Willam looked the big warrior up and down. They had first met on the road as Quinn and Wilam fled from Osla. Wilam remembered that Mansel had been Quinn’s partner but the two had quarrelled and parted ways. Now it seemed their friendship was as tight as ever. Mansel was a big man, young but strong. He had the strength of a smithy, but he was more athletic and fierce in a fight. Wilam had trained with weapons and combat tactics for most of his life, but Mansel was a natural fighter. Quinn had trained the younger man from the knowledge he’d gained serving in the king’s army and then in the Royal Guard, but Mansel’s skill with a sword had soon outpaced his teacher’s.
“Alright,” he said. “But you must not interfere with the duel.”
“As you wish,” Mansel said.
King Wilam had armor. He had carried it with him from Orrock, although he’d not found reason to use the heavy metal plates. It started with finely woven chain mail. He was draped with a quilted undergarment, then the long chain mail was dropped over his head. It had sleeves and hung down to his knees. The lower portion was split in front and back so that it could be tied with leather thongs to protect his thighs. Then came a solid chest plate that hung over his shoulders. There was a metal plate in front and back and to these were hung scalloped metal armor to cover his midsection and lower back. Shoulder pieces were added as well, with long metal tubes for his upper arms to fit into. The armor was hinged to allow free movement, but the weight, Mansel saw, would be difficult to manage.
Thick leather gloves were pulled on and then metal gauntlets attached to his hands to protect his fingers, hands, and forearms. One advisor carried Wilam’s shield, another his helmet, which covered his head and had adjustable cheek plates and a nose guard. The armor was well made, but Wilam moved slowly under the weight of it. Mansel couldn’t help but assume that Ebain, King Zorlan’s champion would capitalize on the lack of speed. The armor was fine on horse back, Mansel assumed, since the animal would carry the weight of it, but in a duel King Wilam needed speed. Still, no one could imagine the lone heir to the Yelsian throne going into single combat without armor, so no one suggested he leave some of it behind.
The wooden stairs groaned under Wilam’s weight and Mansel saw Quinn waiting for them down near the big double doors that led out of the feasting hall to the courtyard which had been the center of the small settlement. Nycoll was waiting as well. She looked worried and Mansel wanted to go to her, to comfort her, but he would have to rely on Quinn to do that.
The double doors were thrown open and the gray day seemed to reflect the muted attitudes of the Yelsians. The clouds were heavy and low, threatening more snow. Most of the snow fall from the night before had melted, making the ground muddy and slick. The courtyard was essentially a large square of grass. It had served as the market place and playground for the village of Walheta’s Gate, now it was empty. What clutter had been left out on the square had now been cleared away. King Zorlan waited with his back to the feasting hall, a thick, purple cloak was draped over his hunched shoulders. Ebain stood close to his king, the torturer’s face was blank, his eyes cold and dark.
King Wilam’s staff followed him and lined the side of the square nearest the feasting hall, opposite Zorlan’s smaller group of soldiers and servants. He turned once Wilam stopped moving forward. Mansel saw that
Wilam was sizing up his opponent. Ebain wore no armor save for a stiff leather vest and a skull cap.
“So, you are intent on fighting,” King Zorlan taunted. “I didn’t think you had the courage, pup.”
“Save your insults,” King Wilam shouted. “Your words are worthless on the field of honor. The truth will be made plain.”
“As you wish,” Zorlan said.
He nodded to a servant who stepped over to Ebain with two large, metal weapons.
“What are those?” asked Symon, who stood behind Wilam and Mansel.
They didn’t have an answer so they just watched as Ebain shoved his hands down inside what looked like square, metal tubes. The tubes extended past his hands and down his forearms, almost to his elbows. From the center of each metal tube, just above the hand was a thick metal blade. The weapons transformed Ebain’s arms into swords.
“He won’t be able to bend his wrists,” Mansel said. “And they’re probably heavy. Avoid them and strike his body or legs.”
“I know how to fight,” Wilam said angrily. “I’m not a sheltered child who needs a tutor.”
“No,” Mansel said, “I meant no offense.”
“You are not to interfere unless they first act dishonorably, do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord,” Mansel said through gritted teeth.
“Good.” He turned to Symon. “My helmet.”
The heavy helmet was fitted onto King Wilam’s head, and secured with leather straps. He drew his sword; it was long and narrow, with an ornate hand guard. Mansel thought it looked fragile compared to the sword arms of Wilam’s opponent. Another officer hefted his shield, holding it while the king fit it tightly to his armored left hand and forearm.
“Ready!” shouted Wilam.
“We are ready,” King Zorlan replied. “Let the trial by combat begin.”
Both men moved forward slowly. Ebain rolled his head around on his shoulders, loosening his neck muscles but letting the heavy sword hands hang at his side. Wilam kept his chin low, gazing at his opponent through the narrow eye slits of his helmet. They came within striking distance and then began to circle. Ebain’s expression never changed. He looked as calm and blank as a witless child. Only the torturer’s eyes showed his true intelligence and the danger the man posed. They had circled half way around when Wilam feinted forward, flicking his sword up toward Ebain’s exposed chest. Had the attack been real perhaps the torturer would have reacted, or perhaps Wilam would have ended the duel in one swift blow, but Ebain didn’t flinch. His arms were still hanging at his sides, his face still blank. The tip of Wilam’s long sword came within an inch of the torturer’s chest, then darted away.
Mansel felt a sick feeling. He could tell that Wilam was growing over confident and they still didn’t know what Ebain was capable of with his strange weapons. Wilam next pretended to sway to his left, then suddenly struck to his right. He brought his sword around in a graceful arc that would have shredded Ebain’s throat, but the torturer simply raised his arm, so that the sword on his left hand was pointed up toward the sky. Wilam’s sword bounced off the heavier blade with a ping that reverberated in the cold air.
Then Ebain struck, raising the sword on his right hand and hammering it down toward Wilam’s shield. The strength of the blow sent Wilam reeling backwards with a ragged gash in his shield.
“At this pace Wilam will be chopped to bits,” Quinn said quietly. He had come up behind and a little beside Mansel.
“What can we do?” the warrior asked.
“You can’t do anything,” Symon said firmly. “You heard King Wilam, you are not to act unless provoked by King Zorlan.”
Wilam next tried a thrust toward Ebain’s chest, but the torturer was faster than anyone had anticipated, even with the heavy weapons. He twisted and swayed away from the king’s sword and then used the momentum to strike out at Wilam. This time Ebain swung low with his right hand, forcing Wilam to drop his shield to defend against the heavy sword. At the same time Ebain swung his left hand weapon in a level arc toward Wilam’s shoulder. Wilam was off balance and unable to escape. The thick weapon smashed into the sculpted metal of Willam’s shoulder armor, crumpling it and thumping hard on Wilam’s upper arm. The armor kept Ebain’s weapon from severing the arm, but it had obviously made a powerful impact.
Wilam cried out in pain, his sword arm dropping to his side as he backed up. Ebain could have closed with Wilam, could have pressed his advantage, but he waited, the faintest hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“He’s toying with him,” Quinn said.
Mansel could only grit his teeth and watch.
Wilam’s arm was twitching and stinging from the deprived blood flow. He felt the familiar tingle, which always reminded him of ants crawling up and down his arm, as if he had sat propped against his arm too long and it had fallen asleep. He tried to shake the limb and get some strength to return, but it didn’t help. Rage reddened his vision. He couldn’t believe Zorlan’s torturer had hurt him. He’d sworn to himself it would never happen again. He lowered his shoulder behind his shield and dashed forward, straight at Ebain.
Mansel saw Ebain’s weight shift to the balls of his feet and he knew instinctively that Ebain would spin out of the way of Wilam’s charge. Ebain’s knees flexed and at the very last possible moment, he spun to his right, dodging Wilam and letting his own sword slash out and smack Wilam in the one place along his back that wasn’t protected. Willam had no armor over his buttocks, only the chain mail protected him there. The blade hit hard, snapping several of the metal links and gouging them into his backside.
Wilam shouted in pain and rage again, spinning to meet his attacker but Ebain was already thrusting his sword toward him. The king’s shield met the blow, but it knocked him backward. Wilam dropped his sword and his arms windmilled as he tried to stay on his feet. Ebain followed his first strike with a second, bringing his sword around in a long, overhead strike so that the blade was chopping down like an axe. Wilam raised his shield in the knick of time, but again the strike was so powerful that it knocked his shield down and Ebain’s sword clanged onto Wilam’s helmet.
“He’s getting killed out there,” Quinn said worriedly.
“He’s not out of it yet,” Mansel said.
Wilam was still moving backward, but he pulled a dagger from his belt with his free hand and slashed at Ebain as the torturer closed in again. The dagger was long and thin, more decorative than deadly, but the blade slashed across Ebain’s exposed midriff and left a red gash in the torturer’s stomach.
Finally it was Ebain who was moving backward, one arm folded over the wound in his stomach, so that his sword blade pointed up at an angle over the opposite shoulder. Wilam dug his boots into the wet ground and launched himself forward, using his shield like a battering ram. Ebain brought his sword up but Wilam’s momentum drove the torturer backwards several paces. Wilam dropped to one knee and retrieved his sword just as Ebain started toward him again.
Wilam started to rise, but his foot slipped and the weight of his armor made him stagger to the side, completely off balance. Ebain slashed at Wilam’s leg and this time the strength of the blow not only severed the chain mail but cut a wicked gash in Wilam’s thigh. The king screamed in pain before falling to his knees. As Ebain closed on Willam, the king thrust his sword forward. Ebain dodged but the blade slid along the torturer’s hip, slicing the thick leather belt and drawing blood, but it didn’t stop Ebain from moving forward and hacking down with his heavy sword. The attack wasn’t as exact as it should have been, which was the only thing that saved Wilam’s arm from being severed. The thick metal sword blade came down at a slight angle, so that it didn’t connect with the armor on Wilam’s biceps right on the edge where it might have done the most damage. Still, it crumpled the metal armor and snapped Wilam’s bone.
King Wilam toppled onto his side with a cry of pain and Ebain slashed down with his heavy sword again, this time hacking into Wilam’s exposed side
. The scalloped armor broke away and the chain mail was severed, so that the blade bit deep into his side. Blood burst out in a spray that turned the air pink and covered Ebain in tiny crimson dots.
Mansel was moving before he even realized what he was doing. He dashed across the open square toward King Wilam, his sword drawn and extended. He heard the shouts of people around him but made nothing out except for Nycoll’s piercing scream.
Ebain had raised his sword again, this time for the killing stroke. Mansel slid across the wet ground, extending his sword to save Wilam. Ebain’s blade fell like an axe, a blow that should have severed the young king’s head and ended his short rein, but Mansel’s sword blocked the stroke. The long sword that Mansel carried was broad and strong, but with just enough flex in the steel to keep it from being brittle. The power of Ebain’s downward blow pushed Mansel’s sword down and the tip stuck into the ground. The blade flexed a little, but stopped the torturer from killing the king.
Mansel didn’t wait to see what Ebain’s reaction would be. He kicked the torturer in the hip, driving him backward, away from Wilam.
“What is this?” screeched King Zorlan. “No one can interfere in a trial by combat.”
Mansel ignored the outraged monarch, instead he focused all his attention on Ebain. The cold blooded killer had stumbled back, but now his eyes locked on his new prey. Mansel knew he would have to kill Ebain or forever be looking over his shoulder. Still, he didn’t want to sully King Wilam’s reputation without first trying to salvage it if he could.
“You won,” Mansel said. “There’s no need to kill him.”
Ebain didn’t speak, he just looked at Mansel with a cold intensity that made his intentions clear.
“You can walk away,” Mansel said, as he got back to his feet. He slung the mud off of his sword and took a two handed grip, holding the sword low, by his hip, the tip pointing up into the gray sky. “You don’t have to die today.”
Five Kingdoms: Book 07 - Wizard Falling Page 11
