Swords of the Horseclans

by Robert Adams

  Shaidos cleared his throat. “I am certain that he will, sir. I set identical conditions for our own meeting . . . if ever it comes to pass.”

  Alexandros smiled coldly. “It will, little bumboy, it will. Have no fear.”

  * * *

  Though cloudy, the morning was bright. Duels were supposedly a private affair, but news of this one had traveled widely, for Lord Paulos had many friends . . . and twice as many enemies. The yard was a frequent setting for duels, many of them as well attended as this one promised to be, so the guardsmen had set up the wooden bleachers and awnings the afternoon before; by dawn, every inch of board had been rented, and the guards were dragging stools and benches from their barracks to seat latecomers . . . at an exorbitant price, of course. Rumors that High-Lady Mara was in attendance passed through the throng, but since all the ladies were heavily veiled, there was no certain knowledge. Guardsmen passed through the throng, as well — a few hawking cool wine and sweet meats and heavily salted biscuits, most engaged in making bets on one contender or the other.

  Within the yard, Feeleepos and Djeree reported back to Alexandros after examining Lord Paulos’ gear and weapons. “His cuirass and greaves are fancier but of no better quality. He had a nasal on his helm, but we made them remove it. There is a springspike in the boss of his buckler and the iron rim is knife-sharp all around. You should make him use another. . . . You can, you know, under the Code.”

  “The men of Kehnooryos Makahdohnyah often carry shields like that,” replied Alexandros slowly. “No, I’ll not protest. Let him bear that shield. Perhaps I can show him a pirate trick when I’ve tired him enough.

  “What of his sword and dirk?”

  “I don’t think his dirk blade is envenomed, Alex.” Djeree grinned. “But I pissed it down from one end to the other, just for luck.”

  Now Alexandros knew what had prompted the angry shouts at the other end of the yard. It was well known that somehow urine would cleanse most poison pastes from steel. But to imply that someone like Lord Paulos might bring a poisoned dirk to a duel . . .

  “And what was the outcome of that little episode, Djeree?”

  Still grinning hugely, the old fighter shrugged. “I’m to meet him next week — if you leave anything of him. We’re to fight with sabers, mounted.”

  “The sword Lord Paulos brought was a ground-down broad sword, the type they normally swing with two hands in the Middle Kingdoms; of course, the hilt had been shortened and the blade was the proper width and length, but the weapon was far heavier than yours, due to the fact it was half a finger thicker,” stated Feeleepos soberly. “Djeree and I protested, naturally, and Captain Nathos backed us up after he’d swung and hefted it. So Paulos will be fighting with a regulation guard’s sword, identical to yours, my lord.”

  The sun peeked briefly through the clouds as the combatants crossed to the center of the yard, where waited the senior-captain of guards, who had been agreed master for this duel. Behind him stood two archers, their hornbows strung.

  Lord Paulos shone like a jewel as the sun sparkled on his gold-inlaid armor. Alexandros’ armor — chosen, like the rest of his panoply, from the main armory — was browned for field service, its only decoration being an abbreviated jet crest on his helm and the Three Orks of the Sea Isles copied onto the front of his cuirass and the face of his buckler by a palace artist. In the bleachers, Paulos’ friends laughed and joked at the Sea Lord’s drab appearance.

  Senior-Captain Nathos bade them halt face to face and five feet apart, their attendant-gentlemen a few feet behind them.

  “My Lord Alexandros, I will recite these rules mostly for your benefit. I am certain that Vahrohnos Paulos could recite them in his sleep, so often has he stood here. Since this is to be a death match, I’ll not go into the signals for withdrawal. Much as I detest seeing Ehleenoee noblemen kill each other, it is not my function to attempt mediation of your quarrel.

  “As this is to be a foot combat, signals will be by drum roll rather than bugle. At the first drum roll, you will each retire to your assigned place.” Nathos indicated two squares of colored sand about ten yards apart. “There, each of you will be subjected to a last inspection, conducted by me.

  “At the second drum roll, you will draw your steel, salute your opponent, and commence orders. Anyone who enters this yard before I do will be killed. The duelists will fight with the weapons they now bear and only those weapons. The sudden appearance of any darts or throwing-axes or spare dirks will earn their bearer an arrow; so, too, will the throwing of sand or dust into your opponent’s eyes — this is not a general battle, but a duel. Do I make all points clear, gentlemen?”

  Alexandros moved out slowly, his body half crouched and his eyes peering through a narrow slit between the iron rim of his buckler and the front band of his helm, for men had been known to throw a sword blade into an opponent’s unguarded face and end a match before it had hardly commenced. Taking careful steps and circling, he and Paulos came very gradually to striking distance.

  Surprising Alexandros with his speed, Paulos feinted a thrust at the same time his shield rim slashed at the Sea Lord’s knees. Turning the thrust with his own blade, Alexandros took the slash on his buckler. The sharp edge cut through all three layers of tough hide to the wood beneath, bringing shouts from the crowd. Quickly recovering, Paulos drove in, trying hard for the face or throat, his own face and body behind his buckler.

  Alexandros’ shield came up, but then he abruptly straightened his left arm and slammed the face of the shield into Paulos’ extended sword arm, aiming his iron boss for the wrist He failed to strike the wrist or hand, but Paulos almost lost his sword, and the Sea Lord’s thigh thrust penetrated leather kilt and flesh alike.

  When Paulos skipped backward, he could be seen to favor his left leg and, while they maneuvered toward another meeting, a thread of blood crept from beneath the Vahrohnos’ kilt

  Above the loud comments of the crowd, Lord Djeree’s voice roared, “That’s the way, Alex! Take his parts off next time, boy!”

  But Alexandros was worried. Aside from involuntary grunts and gasps, his foeman had spoken not a word — no threats, no sanguinous promises, nothing. From experience, he knew a silent fighter to be among the most dangerous. Their first encounter had convinced him that if the big, brawny man was not his equal, he was frighteningly close. Taunting the Vahrohnos might not help, but it was worth a try — anything was at this stage.

  “I’ve yet to hear your voice, you perverted ape,” Alexandros sneered. “Or did my knee make a soprano of you?”

  “No,” Paulos growled, “but I mean to make a full eunuch of you . . . before I slay you. I hate so to waste beauty, you ungrateful young bitch, but I offered you my love and you answered me with hurt and humiliation; I must make of you an example.”

  “If you can,” grated Alexandros.

  Lord Paulos sighed. “Oh, I can, lovely Alexandros, I can. This is my thirty-seventh duel. But, I reiterate, I would prefer to not slay you, darling. If you’ll even now, say that you’ll be mine. Let me draw a few drops of blood, and I’ll declare the contest done and spare your beauty and your life. Please say yes.”

  “Fagh?” Alexandros spat. “I’d sooner couple with a sow. And you had my answer one night last week . . . when you saw fit to sneak into my suite.”

  They circled and circled. Alexandros’ battle-trained eyes told him that Paulos seemed less relaxed and supple than he had earlier. He hoped it was the tenseness of anger, but it could equally well be fatigue or the pain of the thigh wound, which had continued to slowly seep. He decided to try once more to arouse the Vahrohnos into a rash move.

  Conversationally, he inquired, “Why do you duel so often? Duels are much more common in my realm than here, but I know of no man of mine who has taken part in so many.”

  “I am the Lord Vahrohnos of Notohpolis,” stated Paulos, a bit pompously. “My sacred honor . . .”

  Alexandros’ barked laugh interrupted. “Honor? You,
you High Lord of buggerers, you don’t really know the meaning of the word. How could you, when your highest aspiration is to wallow in dung?”

  Lord Paulos’ face was now becoming darker and his jaws were working, so Alexandros threw a final verbal dart. “No, you piece of filth, you’ve slain your thirty-six men in an attempt to prove what no one can ever prove — that Paulos of Notohpolis is truly a man. Give up. No amount of blood will ever transform you into what you have’ never been, even the whore who spawned you . . .”

  But he had no more time for words. Paulos charged, flat-footed, his sword slashing before him. Alexandros danced lightly from the big man’s rush, managing to sink a deep stab into the Vahrohnos’ left arm, between epaulet and buckler. Roaring like a bull, Paulos whirled and slashed wildly, but his blade whistled through empty space. The Sea Lord had dashed behind, and his red-tipped sword again penetrated Paulos’ shield arm, lower this time, near the elbow.

  Shaidos and Hulios were screaming advice to the Vahrohnos, but their voices were lost in the constant shouting of the onlookers.

  But it could not last. Paulos suddenly ceased his berserker tactics and, once more silent but for the ragged breathing caused by his exertions, recommenced his wary circling. There were two more brief flurries of sword-play, but the Vahrohnos seemed to be much slower in getting up his buckler. And this was a mystery to none, for the entire left side of his cuirass was streaked and smeared with blood.

  Alexandros decided to end it; after all, he had another duel to fight. He swept in, his thrust aimed low. Paulos’ steel caught the thrust and the blades slid their full length, until crossguard met crossguard. While the thews of their sword arms strained, Alexandros slammed his buckler into Paulos’ shield, his boss below the Vahrohnos’. For a brief moment, he feared that Paulos might fail to rise to the bait, but then he felt the shock of the barbed spike as it locked the two bucklers together.

  Quickly, he jerked up on his buckler. Paulos was unprepared for such and his own sharpened rim gashed his chin deeply. He did the natural thing, taking a step backward, then another and another, trying vainly to gain room to disengage his sword, now that his locking device had trapped his opponent in a position where brute strength meant more than agility. But Alexandros doggedly followed, step for step, until Paulos’ bloody cuirass was grating on the stone wall that separated yard from drill field.

  For the first time, Alexandros discerned fear in Paulos’ bloodshot eyes. Adroitly twisting his sword out of the engagement, so long maintained, the Sea Lord swung his body out as far as he could. He allowed Paulos to raise his blade above his head and start the vicious downswipe . . . and then he stopthrust him, his gory blade grating on the bones of Paulos’ forearm.

  “That was a pirate trick, Lord Paulos,” Alexandros panted. “Now, with your help, I’ll show you another.”

  “Keeping the Vahrohnos’ blood-gushing right arm skewered on the sword, Alexandros stepped closer and began to strain upward on his buckler, forcing Paulos’ higher . . . and higher, as the weakened, throbbing left arm began to fail. The knife-edged rim of Paulos’ buckler drew closer and closer to his own throat. Closer, still, blood from his gashed chin dripped onto it.

  When it was bare inches away, Paulos gasped, “My lord, please, I beg you!”

  “Thirty-six men,” hissed Alexandros. “Thirty-six slain, and how many more dishonored because they feared you?”

  Up came the rim of the buckler, and so still had it become that they might have been alone. Up, closer, ever closer.

  Tears joined the sweat pouring down Paulos’ face. “As you love God, my lord, if you’re going to do it, do it quickly! You have a sword. Why must you torture me so?”

  Savagely, Alexandros jerked his blade from the useless right arm and Paulos tensed, then raised his chin. But the Sea Lord did not thrust. “As I recall, you intended to emasculate me ere you killed me. I am not so crude, but perhaps I’ll take an eye or two. Eh?”

  The cursive rim of the buckler was now pressed hard against Paulos’ flesh. As the dripping sword point neared his eyes, he jerked his head to the side . . . and cut his own throat!

  Paulos remained briefly erect, the two bucklers dangling from one limp arm. His lips moved, but only a gargling sound issued from him. Then his knees buckled and he pitched onto his face.

  * * *

  The cool, dry air of the guards’ armory was as refreshing to Alexandros as a cool swim, after the mugginess and heat of the practice yard. Furthermore, its thick granite walls muted the laughter and shouted conversations of the crowd to a dull muttering, so that the long, narrow room seemed a place of peace, despite its rack upon rack of weapons.

  The Sea Lord sat slumped in a camp chair, his cuirass replaced by a thick cloak, that he might not chill and stiffen, while Djeree Pahtuhr sponged his head and face with a mixture of warm water and wine. Feeleepos dragged over a low chest and lifted the young victor’s booted feet, now filthy with blood and dust, onto its top, then started to unbuckle the greaves.

  Alexandros opened his eyes, raised his head enough to see the officer, and shook it, saying, “No, Fil, leave them on. They don’t bother me. And, remember, I’ve another match this morning. Don’t let that sword I used get away, either; it’s nicely balanced.”

  “Small chance of that, Alex,” chuckled Djeree, whose broad grin had never left his face since the gory demise of Vahrohnos Paulos. “I entrusted your steel to a couple of my lads to clean it and restore its edge.”

  Drawing up another chest, Feeleepos seated himself and commenced to knead the twitching thigh muscles of his charge. Djeree laid aside his sponge and applied his powerful hands to the neck, shoulders, and upper back. Since both were veteran warriors, they knew just where their ministrations would be most effective, and soon had their subject completely relaxed, his arms and legs no longer trembling.

  There was a tentative rap on the heavy doors. Then one opened enough to admit one of the guards’ officers. Feeleepos arose. “What is it, Stahvros?”

  Smiling, the officer rendered Alexandros a formal salute. “My lord, that was a beautiful piece of work out there! I am sorry to disturb you, but another of the late Vahrohnos’ pack is in the corridor. He demands audience.

  When the doors were opened, in came Lord Shaidos, flanked by two men who had also been guests at Paulos’ ill-starred party. The Vahrohnos’ former second was very pale, his lips had become a thin, tight line, and a tic spasmodically jerked at his cheek. But Alexandros could detect no panic or fear in the black eyes, only a dull resignation.

  Old Djeree straightened and chortled, “Hawhaw, Alex, boy, look who’s come to try and weasel out!” If the visitor heard Pahtuhr, he gave no indication of it, addressing Alexandros directly. “Lord Alexandros, I must confess that I was not expecting this outcome. I have sent some friends to my home for my panoply, but it may be as long as an hour before they return. If you wish to fight me immediately, however, it is your option; if so, sir, I am sure I can be fitted out from the arms in this room.”

  The Sea Lord shrugged and spoke in flat, disinterested tones. “Lord Shaidos, I’ll not force you to fight with unfamiliar weapons. Take all the time you need or wish. Also, why don’t we change our meeting to a blood match? I’ve no real reason or desire to kill you.”

  Shaidos’ lips twisted wryly. “You are most magnanimous, sir, and I thank you. But, no, I’d as lief be dead as live in penury; you see, I wagered all I owned on poor Paulos.”

  The Sea Lord shrugged again, then pushed to his feet. “As you like, sir. But should you experience a change of heart, your gentlemen can find me in the guards’ officers’ baths. I feel the need for a hot soak.”

  As he walked toward the door, he heard old Djeree grate, “I’ll expect my twenty-five hundred thrahkmehs to be paid me before your suicide, lordy-boy Shaidos. I dislike collecting from widows!”

  * * *

  Once again, Senior-Captain Nathos soberly recited the rules and procedures, but added, “Lord Shaidos,
I am informed that Lord Alexandros is willing to settle for a blood match. Is this agreeable to you?”

  The gold traceries on Shaidos’ enameled helmet flashed to the shaking of his head.

  Nathos sighed. “Very well. You may retire to your squares, gentlemen.”

  Alexandros’ doubts that the dispirited Shaidos would fight were speedily dispelled. The garishly attired man trotted forward at the first tap of the drum roll and, without preliminaries, launched a lightning attack, his sword a silvery blur.

  The Sea Lord managed to catch or turn every slash and thrust on his target and sword blade, but the contacts jarred him to the very bone. Shaidos was obviously stronger than he appeared. Doggedly, he remained on the defensive, staving off attack after precipitate attack, knowing that his opponent must soon burn himself out — no mortal man could maintain such violent exertions for long.

  And so it proved. Gradually, Shaidos’ blows and stabs were delivered with less force, his foot and shield work perceptibly slowed. As the target involuntarily fell enough to disclose his strained, streaming red face, Alexandros stamped into the offensive, sweeping aside Shaidos’ blade with a swing of his shield and thrusting, straight-armed, for his foeman’s eyes.

  He very nearly made it! Shaidos raised his target barely in time to save his eyes; even so, the hard-thrust weapon took him just under the rim of his gaudy helmet, sinking two inches into his forehead. Not realizing what had happened at first, Alexandros jerked with all his might to free his blade from whatever was locking it. Reluctantly, it came free with a sucking noise . . . and Shaidos’ lifeless form pitched face-down on the sand at his feet.

  That he bent to turn over Shaidos’ body was all that saved Alexandros’ life. The throwing-ax meant for his face caromed off his helmet, filling his head with flashing light and a red-black roar, and driving him to his knees. He neither saw nor heard Hulios, who followed his ax with a leap over the barrier and dashed toward the dizzied Sea Lord, shrieking and sobbing, the ax’s twin held over his head. The slender boy managed two strides before a pair of black-shafted arrows thumped into his heaving chest. Still, dead on his feet, he essayed throwing the ax, but it flew far wide, striking the hot sand at almost the same time as Hulios’ fine-boned body.