Avenger of Antares

by Alan Burt Akers

  But, here and now, a duel awaited me.

  Casmas was of the opinion that the betting would be heavy. This surprised me. “But surely no one will give me a chance against Leotes?” Then I hurriedly corrected my slip. “Against Garnath?”

  He chuckled. “Normally, no. But such is the fame of Leotes that there have been few duels in which he has been engaged since he wounded Rees. The betting will be on the artistry with which he dispatches you.” Casmas coughed, recollecting himself. “I crave your pardon, Amak. But the way of the world.” And again he spread those plump white hands.

  “Well, bet on a victory for me, without side issues. If you discover anyone willing to bet on some fancy way in which Leotes may be seen off, let me know. I will accommodate you.”

  He glanced at me obliquely. He was puzzled.

  “I detect a change in you, Amak Hamun. You talk almost as though you expect to survive unscathed.”

  “As far as the bets are concerned, Casmas, I shall win.”

  He chose not to reply, dismissing that as mere wind; and I was content to ride in silence for a space.

  Truth to tell the mere arranging of the duel had exhausted my interest in the matter. I yearned to place the fat golden deldys into Nulty’s hand and bid him collect his people and start for Paline Valley, as I myself would begin to discover the last secret of the cayferm. I had no ideas as yet on the best way of doing that beyond seeking out the gul Ornol and bribing him afresh.

  The rest of the night passed as the arrangements for hiring the dueling hall were made, the bets placed, and the odds increasing all the time in my favor as people realized I was fool enough to think I could make a fight of it. Casmas attempted to restrain me as I accepted any and every bet. One man in a wine-reeking tavern waved his pewter pot and bet me I could not slice Leotes’ trousers away so that they fell in ribbons. “I will do that,” I said, and then remembered to smile and giggle foolishly. “I will cover your note to a thousand deldys, if needs be.”

  Casmas gasped. The fellow, one Jefan from Nulvosmot, a not too savory town up in the northeast on the mainland near the Risshamal Keys, slopped his wine. “A thousand golden deldys?” He looked at me suspiciously. “You can cover the bet?”

  “Better, perhaps, than you.”

  “I own fish-processing plants, seaweed factories, more slaves than—” He stopped and drank, very flushed. Then he spat out: “A thousand, then! And Casmas is my witness.”

  “Done!”

  He was typical. I took bet after bet. They were like the chanks of the inner sea, greedily grasping after every last drop of blood. Casmas shook his head and noted the bets, for he would take a commission, and pronounced privately to me as we went to the next tavern: “You cannot possibly cover these wagers, Amak! That is transgressing the law.”

  “I can cover them, Casmas. Do not fret. Just make sure you get the best odds.”

  So it went on all that night, and the formal challenge by Vad Garnath’s seconds had not yet been given!

  This was done first thing in the morning as I awoke from a light sleep. Nulty let them in and the business was concluded without ado. Rapier and main-gauche? Certainly. First blood, as the law required? Why, does that rast Garnath then desire a fight to the finish? It is in his mind. Then tell the cramph he must satisfy the law, that it is of no concern to me. As you wish. No, my fine friends, as you wish, for I will be satisfied with first blood, and will stop then. But the Vad, we understand, will fight to a finish. Him or Leotes, miserable crawling cramphs both.

  They were nonplussed, these two popinjays in their fancy foppish dress and their affected manners; but it was understood and arranged and they left. They’d even bet me privately five hundred deldys apiece that I would lose, and in what manner Leotes would cut me up.

  “Well, master,” said Nulty. “I know you are a swordsman. But you’ve become a boaster now.”

  “True, friend Nulty, true. But to a purpose only, mind.”

  Word came during the day that Vad Garnath had obtained a dispensation, seeing the serious nature of the challenge, that the duel might be fought to a finish, if necessary. The strict Hamalese laws would still operate, but much of their sting would be removed. This meant the Vad or Leotes could kill me with impunity. I returned an answer by the servant who brought the message that I would draw first blood.

  Then an interesting permutation on the situation occurred in the arrival of a further pair of seconds. These came from Leotes ti Ponthieu, on his own account, challenging me. I accepted at once. “I’ll fight both the rasts, singly or both together!” I bawled out of the inn window at the departing backs of the seconds.

  Uncouth, yes, refreshing — well . . .

  The impression I had created and which remained was that I had been away taking rapier lessons and was now puffed with pride, more than half drunk. Any other explanation would have been far more sinister. Everyone believed implicitly that Leotes was the finest swordsman in Ruathytu, and would have no trouble with my new skills. They were right on one count; he was the finest swordsman among the sacred quarter rufflers. You know of my feelings about swordsmen. I have reached a certain age and a certain skill, but always I know that one day, possibly, I shall meet a greater master with the sword. When that day comes I look forward to the greatest and most enjoyable fight of my life. Leotes could be the man. He had never been extended here, not even by Rees. I did gamble, in very truth. There is precious little of chivalry or gallantry — strange bedfellows for me, I allow — in any Bladesman knowing he will always win, of boasting he is the finest swordsman in the world, or in two worlds in my case. Such a boaster merely murders his opponents. I faced each challenge as a fresh encounter in which I could be killed as easily as the other fellow.

  The lure of easy gold had brought Leotes from Zenicce to Ruathytu. Also, I learned, he had been disappointed in his hopes of becoming House Champion for Ponthieu. So that meant there was at least one bravo-fighter of superior skill left still in Zenicce — and fighting for Ponthieu, Drig take him!

  The night of the duel came. I had been to see Rees and Chido and had not spoken of the affair. But they knew. Their concern was distressing to me. I could not explain, but I told them not to worry — a footling sort of statement, by Vox! — and that I would see them as ever the next day. Chido’s father was coming up from their estates to see him, and Rees’s wife and twins, also. I felt a little surprise, not equating Rees with the cares and problems of matrimony and fatherhood.

  “Ah, Hamun! Wait until you see my boy, by Krun! My little Reesnik! He is seventeen, a marvel! And” — here a huge, slobbering fatuous smile broke over Rees’s Numim face — “my darling Saffi!” His great golden mane glowed with the last of the streaming lights of Zim and Genodras flooding in through the open window.

  “He has talked of nothing else, Hamun, since the news came.” Chido’s rib was mending, but he was still well strapped up.

  “And it is fitting that I should, Chido, you fambly! My wife, the glorious Rashi, and my young boy, Roban, will be coming also. We are a family, I tell you, you bachelor scamp, of which any man might be proud.”

  Rees was right, too. As a Trylon he had the responsibility of ensuring the line went on, and this Rees of his, this son, would have to fight and scheme his way to his father’s titles, as was the way of Kregen. Any man may begin the long trek of life’s journey in the gutter and by courage and skill and perseverance wind up a noble, a Vad or a Kov, or even a prince or king. Who better should know this than one such rascal called Dray Prescot?

  Although, I added to myself as I left, and the addition was made somewhat briskly, I was nowhere near ready to wind up yet.

  The dueling hall was packed. Bets were still being laid. The nobles and the Horters and their ladies crammed the seats and stood in every perch. The central space had even been a little restricted to afford more seating. The samphron-oil lamps glowed a mellow even light. I drew the attention of the judge to the decreased space of the dueling ar
ea. Before he could answer, Vad Garnath spoke with a contemptuous sneer.

  “All the less space for you to run, yetch.”

  I didn’t bother to answer.

  My friends were there, my enemies were there. I had taken no second, and the judge well understood why. Nath Tolfeyr undertook the duties of a second but without the obligation to cross swords if I fell out. Everything was made ready. The buzz of excited conversation never stopped. These people were betting on the exact ways Leotes or Garnath would cut me up. No one gave any thought to the idea I might draw first blood.

  I had insisted that Casmas should sit with Nath Tolfeyr at my end of the mat. He was busily taking bets, not trusting a stylor to do that for him. Next to Casmas sat a little dumpling of a woman, whose fashionable spread skirt revealed fat white thighs. I nodded in their direction. She squealed and gripped Casmas’ arm, and he turned absently, writing busily, and his thoughts came out even as he spoke.

  “. . . Five hundred deldys, the odds being — Ah, my dear? No, do not fret. Everything is in perfect order.” And he turned back at a shout to take a paltry hundred sinvers on Leotes taking off my left ear before my right.

  I knew the heavy bettors would have talked to Leotes and arranged with him his exact program of butchering me. These last minute wagers were from the marks ripe for the plucking.

  The catcalling and abuse I endured! The way these painted and scented ninnies contumed me! All knew I was a weakling, a poltroon, for I had proved it a hundred times in the avoidance of an issue, the bypassing of an insult, the cowardly backing out of a challenge. And now I was boasting away about what I was going to do and taking huge bets on the outcome, backing myself. Well, they said among themselves, when I had lost I had better honor my debts and pay up. If I welshed it would be the Heavenly Mines for me, by Havil the Green!

  Leotes stepped forward.

  He had chosen to wear his Ponthieu colors of purple and ocher, and this made him a favorite with the crowd, for the queen’s personal colors were gold and purple. I wore plain black trousers, cut short to the knees, boots, and a white shirt from which most of the frilling had been removed. In addition, I had wound around my waist a wide cummerbund of brilliant scarlet. By Makki-Grodno’s worm-infested tripes! Let these ninnies take heed of that, if they could!

  “So, Garnath,” I said loudly, over the hubbub. “You send your lackey to do the work first! Never fear, rast-nest, I shall meet you with great joy!”

  “Yetch!” he bellowed, going crimson.

  The judge demanded more dignity in this serious affair.

  “Dignity is for men,” I shouted. “Not for nulshes like these offal of calsanys.”

  Well, it was all good rousing stuff. The necessary formalities were gone through. Leotes was too much of a Bladesman to be prompted into anger. He was cool and professional. He said: “I shall cut you up, Hamun the Onker, as you deserve.”

  Give him his due. He was a professional.

  We crossed blades.

  I felt the power in his wrist at once, and searched for his skill. Naturally I was using the finest of the rapiers and its matched main-gauche that Delia had given me. The blades rang and screeched, sliding and licking and parting. He essayed a strong but essentially simple series of passes and attacks. I met them all as the textbooks and the sword-masters prescribed. He smiled. He had heard I had been off taking lessons, and he read this defense as standard salles d’armes stuff. He pressed again, more warmly. Again I held him off without effort. When he committed himself, and it was for real, then I would know.

  Our feet stamped up and down in perfect line. Our bodies held in balance, our arms in the regulation poses, rapier and dagger angled just so. The people had been yelling, for they expected Leotes to begin chopping me up at once. Now they gradually became silent and fell into complete absorption with the spectacle. I held him off, then let my dagger slide just that fraction off line that would indicate an opening. He saw it, he feinted and pressed in, and I, confidently expecting a neat lunge finished with a flick to cut my exposed ear, instead barely managed to scrape my rapier up and across as his dagger flashed to my chest.

  He leaped back, surprised he had missed.

  I cursed. He’d been aiming to remove the last frills of my shirt, a nice showy beginning to the cutting-up process. But he’d almost had me. I could not afford to give any more free openings. Then he pressed in earnest, and I discovered how good this bravo-fighter from Zenicce really was.

  He was good — very, very good.

  And, good as he was, he quickly realized that he faced a master swordsman, also. A tense look crept about his eyes. He essayed simple attacks, and complicated linked series of attacks; I knew them all and beat him back. So far I had not attacked. The steel rang and slithered, our feet stamped, and gradually his breathing grew louder and more ragged.

  “Come on, Leotes!” yelled a frustrated onlooker. “Start slicing him up!”

  “Yes, by Havil! Let’s see the color of his blood!”

  The blades sang together, dagger and rapier, rapier and dagger.

  He flung himself in, now, seeking no longer to slice me but simply to kill me and so have it over with. I pressed him off, forced him back, and then instigated an attack. As I say, he was very, very good. He survived, but now the sweat collected at the corners of his nose, and his mouth hung open as he breathed. His trousers were cut away as I had bet Jefan.

  With a delicate touch, finicky, I’d say, I slid the steel into his left arm, my rapier and dagger crossed and down.

  “First blood!” I shouted.

  “No! No!” screamed the crowd. They were raging. “To the death!”

  Leotes looked ghastly. I felt sorry for him. I was quite prepared to let it go at that, and see about Garnath. But the bravo-fighter from Ponthieu rushed in, his left arm still in action, the hand still gripping the dagger. “No!” he shrieked. “To the death!”

  I circled him around the central area, for with rapier-and-dagger-work the simple small-sword style of straight up and down is overmatched. There followed a quick passade and he staggered back, his shoulder staining dark with blood.

  I caught the judge’s eye. “First and second blood!” I called. “Take witness! I do not desire this man’s death. By the law of Hamal I abjure his death, and place it upon his own head!”

  “Kill him, you fool Leotes! Kill him!” screeched Garnath. He bent swiftly and spoke to a slave girl in the gray slave breechclout, but with a silver-tissue bodice, who he had brought to hand him his spiced wine.

  I swung back. “Do you want to die, Leotes?”

  “I shall surely kill you, rast!”

  And he tried.

  Fully intending not to slay the onker, I played his blades, and as his left-hand dagger grew weaker I cut in and thrust, intending to spit his thigh and, I hoped, make him fall down and thus be incapable of continuing the bout. But he sought at the end to be clever with his swordplay and spun sideways and ducked down to let me have that long, lunging, desperate throw, with his left hand on the ground. My rapier went clean through his throat.

  He jerked back, writhed on the blade, and as I withdrew, he toppled. Before his seconds could rush to him I bent over. He stared up, sick with his own knowledge. He could just speak with the bright blood pumping up.

  “Who — are — you?”

  I bent close. He had earned this.

  “You know of Strombor, Leotes of Ponthieu?”

  He nodded, unable to speak now. His eyes glared madly. I said, very softly, “I am the Lord of Strombor.”

  Then he died, this Leotes, Bladesman, sword-master of Ponthieu, bravo-fighter of Zenicce.

  There was some considerable confusion. Out of it all I bellowed in that foretop hailing voice: “Garnath the Kleesh! Garnath the Foul! Stand forth, Garnath, and make your bow!”

  Like any onker, I, Dray Prescot, had overdone it.

  I scooped up a glass cup of wine and drained it and flung the glass at Nath Tolfeyr. I strode to t
he mat, and waited.

  After a moment Vad Garnath appeared. He was accounted a fine swordsman, I knew, yet all around me the bettors were frantically trying to lay off the bets they had made, and to wager afresh that I would win.

  I stared at this Vad. “To the death, I think you said, cramph. I think so, too, for the sake of my friend, the Trylon Rees of the Golden Wind. You are not fit to—” And then I suddenly halted. I felt a wave of the most dizzying weakness pass over me. Vad Garnath smiled. He whickered his rapier about, very swashbuckling as to swagger, very powerfully proud.

  “You were saying, Amak?”

  “By the Black Chunkrah! You — you’ve—”

  “To the death, I believe, Amak Hamun, boaster, coward.”

  I stood, swaying, my rapier wavering, the whole vivid scene jumping erratically. The devil had drugged my drink! That silver-bodiced slave girl! I did not know the poison then, but its effects were subtly to overpower me and gradually to take away my strength and sense of balance. I staggered, and recovered, and the room swam.

  The judge called for order. Garnath’s rapier flashed out, and, somehow, mine met it. The blades crossed and rang like tocsin bells.

  In the next instant, with that infernal dizziness clawing at me and dragging me down into ever-increasing weakness, I was fighting desperately for my life.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Of the duelists’ mat and the nose of Vad Garnath

  Weakness grew on me with dizzying speed. Garnath’s blade flamed before my eyes, streaks and dazzlement of blinding silver darting into my brain. I felt as though a wersting pack ululated at my heels to pull me down, or a pack of our powerful hunting rarks of the Great Plains of Segesthes bayed after me as they bayed after the slinking leem, until we might ride up astride our voves to dispatch the feline furies.