by J. L. Doty
Chagarin, oddly enough, sat quietly throughout the evening, frequently looking at Morgin with an odd sideways glance. As Morgin turned and headed for his tent, the Master Smith joined him and walked silently beside him. They had to navigate around the forest of arrows buried in the ground to reach his tent, and there, Chagarin turned to face him. He said, “Don’t kill Jerst tomorrow. He deserves better.”
He said nothing more, but turned and walked away into the night.
~~~
Morgin actually slept quite well that night. He did think on Chagarin’s words for a short time, but sleep quickly found him, and he slept deep and long, with only normal, ordinary dreams to remember in the morning.
He awoke just after dawn feeling quite refreshed. He dressed, washed up and ate a light breakfast, just a couple of bites. The entire Benesh’ere camp had arisen early like Morgin and he saw many whitefaces moving among the tents. But everyone’s movements appeared slow and tentative, and an odd, oppressive silence muffled all sound, even the clanking of pots and pans.
Morgin sat down in front of his tent to sharpen and oil his sword, and await whatever would come. He didn’t have to wait long before Baldrak approached him and sat down facing him. “We smiths have to remain neutral in this, but that doesn’t mean I can’t tell you what to expect.”
Morgin wanted to ease the obvious discomfort he saw in Baldrak’s eyes. “I thank you for that. And I thank you and the other smiths for the friendship you’ve shown me.”
Morgin’s words appeared to increase the smith’s discomfort rather than ease it. “You’re allowed only a sword; no knives or other weapons beyond your fists and knees and elbows and teeth. When I stand and walk away, you should walk to the center of camp. There you’ll find a large circle fifty paces wide and marked by small stones. Wait outside the circle until Jerst joins you. Outside the circle, neither of you can draw a weapon against the other. Jerst will approach you directly and issue formal challenge. After that, the two of you will part and walk to opposite sides of the circle. Wait until Jerst steps into the circle, then you do likewise. Once inside the circle, it is you and your sword against Jerst and his, and you cannot again leave the circle until one of you is dead. If either of you attempts to do so, you’ll be shot by a dozen archers stationed outside the circle. And if anyone enters the circle to aid either of you, they’ll be shot by the same archers.”
Morgin said, “A well-defined formula.”
Baldrak considered his words for a moment, then said, “A formula we have lived by for centuries.” With that, he stood and walked toward the Forge Hall.
Morgin had dressed carefully that morning with an eye toward the coming contest: loose breeches, his boots and his knee-length Benesh’ere tunic. He stood, stripped off the tunic, stripped to the waist and belted on his sword. Then he walked slowly and calmly to the center of the camp, accompanied only by an oppressive circle of silence. No one greeted him and he greeted no one. The circle of stones had been laid out just as Baldrak had described, so he stopped one pace outside it and waited, and he felt no need to fidget nervously or look about, but stood there staring at the other end of the circle. And he waited.
Slowly a crowd gathered around the circle, though they maintained a distance of about ten paces from the stones. They spoke among themselves and chatted amiably, though that oppressive silence muffled their words. The sun rose farther into the sky as the crowd built, and Morgin realized every whiteface in the tribe had come to see his execution. He looked for Val, but saw nothing of the twoname, hoped the whitefaces hadn’t chosen to execute him outright.
He stood in the midst of seven thousand men, women and children, and while they were not loud, as a crowd they emitted a low background of voices and quiet murmurs. But then, in a single heartbeat, that murmur disappeared and an utter and complete silence descended upon them all. He heard gravel crunching beneath a pair of boots behind him, too close to be just another onlooker, and without turning, he said, “Warmaster Jerst.”
Jerst stepped up beside him. At the far side of the circle the crowd parted. Two warriors carried Angerah’s throne through the opening created, and placed it at the front of the crowd outside the circle. Angerah followed, the crutch under one arm, the walking stick held in the other, Merella beside him. He sat down on the small throne, looked across the circle at Morgin and Jerst, and nodded.
Neither Morgin nor Jerst looked at the other; standing side-by-side they both faced the center of the circle, and Jerst said amiably, “Elhiyne, I hope you slept well last night.”
They sounded like two merchants casually greeting one another on the street. Morgin said, “Quite well.”
Jerst’s voice was oddly bereft of anger as he said, “I challenge you, to the death.”
Morgin needed to right the wrong between them, even if doing so was no more than a meaningless gesture. “And I accept. But before we start this, I owe you an apology. The words I spoke more than two years ago were wrong and uncalled-for.”
“Thank you,” Jerst said. “I accept your apology . . . but I still must kill you.”
“If you can.”
For the first time Jerst looked at Morgin, so Morgin turned and looked at him. They stood that way for a long moment, then by some sort of mutual consent they both turned away from one another, and walked to opposite sides of the circle.
Morgin stopped as he’d been instructed, turned and faced the center of the circle, standing just outside the perimeter of stones. Jerst, already standing on the other side of the circle, drew his sword and handed the sheath to a whiteface standing beside him. Morgin unbuckled his sword belt, drew the blade from the sheath, and laid the sheath and belt on the ground beside him.
Jerst stared across the circle at Morgin and nodded almost imperceptibly. It was a question, and in return Morgin answered with one, single nod of his head. Jerst stepped into the circle, so Morgin did likewise. They stood there fifty paces apart, and the crowd about them uttered not a sound. And then, again, as if by some mutual understanding, as if they could communicate on some level beyond that of sight and sound, they both simultaneously charged.
~~~
Norlakton seemed rather subdued this morning. With the arrival of the Benesh’ere several days ago, the dirt street running through the middle of town had seen a steady stream of activity. From the earliest hours of the morning, and even well into the evening, any number of whitefaces could be seen about the town, or, if the whitefaces themselves were not visible, their presence was marked by their desert ponies tied up here and there. But this morning, nothing, not a single one.
Out of curiosity Rhianne wandered down to the inn, stepped through the crude, wooden door and into the dirt-floored common room. Fat John stood behind the bar, wiping a tin mug with a bar rag. She asked him, “Do you know why the Benesh’ere have suddenly disappeared?”
He shrugged and said, “There’s something up with them whitefaces. My guess is they’re settling a dispute between a couple of their warriors. Can get pretty bloodthirsty. Best to stay clear of their camp until it’s over.”
Rhianne opened her mouth to ask for further details, but in the distance an odd sort of rumbling, thunder interrupted her. The sound continued without letup, though the walls of the inn muffled it considerably.
The innkeeper nodded, put his rag down and stepped around the end of the bar. Rhianne followed him out into the street, and there, even though distance still muffled the sound, there was no mistaking the roar of several thousand voices raised in a vast and deafening shout.
She wondered if she should go there, took a step toward the stables, but Fat John grabbed her arm. “You stay away from them whitefaces, mistress, today, and for several days after. When they start killing like this, it ain’t healthy for us plainfaces to be near them.”
Rhianne was torn, and yet she knew nothing of these strange desert people; it would be foolish to act on such an impulse. She had no good reason for going to the Benesh’ere camp, so she nodd
ed, resolved to take Fat John’s advice.
Most of Norlakton had stepped into the open air to listen just like Rhianne and the innkeeper. “Yup,” Fat John said, “someone’s gonna die today. It’s bad for business when them whitefaces get to killing each other.”
~~~
Morgin and Jerst met in the center of the circle charging at full speed. Jerst’s blade swung toward his knees, but Morgin sensed from the steel that it was a feint, that the blade would swing upward at the last instant and go for his throat, so as it began to rise he dropped and rolled beneath it. He came up behind Jerst, and as the warmaster spun to face him Morgin swung his blade in a flat arc. Jerst deflected the blow clumsily and they separated, the roar of the whitefaces’ shouts and screams a deafening backdrop to the ring of steel.
He and Jerst faced each other, both in a crouch, breathing heavily, circling warily. It happened again, that odd sensation that he knew what Jerst’s steel would do before it did it, as if the steel itself were alive and talking to him. Jerst came in with a two-handed overhead strike. Morgin deflected it to one side, spun and elbowed Jerst in the ribs, spun out of reach and turned to face him again. Again, crouched at the ready they circled warily. So far Morgin had gotten the best of Jerst, probably because the warmaster had started out overconfident. Morgin saw in his eyes that would not happen again.
Don’t kill Jerst tomorrow, Chagarin had said, and for the first time Morgin thought that, with the steel aiding him, he just might win. But he couldn’t win, not by killing Jerst. He owed Chagarin that.
Morgin lunged with a two-handed strike, slicing in at an angle. Again, Morgin knew what Jerst’s steel was about to do, so he was ready for the warmaster’s parry. The blades struck and rang loudly, but Morgin slid his cross-guard down the length of Jerst’s blade, forced it high and stepped beneath it, only to meet Jerst’s fist as it slammed into his temple. He hit the ground hard and rolled dizzily away as the tip of Jerst’s blade bit into the earth next to his head. Then he staggered to his feet and back stepped away from the warmaster, blood dripping down his cheek from a gash Jerst’s fist had opened there.
The Benesh’ere tribe went insane.
Morgin continued to back step and circle, Jerst stepping forward and circling with him. The warmaster didn’t fight with anger or rage, but with cold determination masked by a hint of sadness, as if carrying out an unpleasant task that must be done.
Jerst stepped in and swung. Morgin met his blade squarely, and responded with a strike of his own. They traded four blows that way then separated, again circling warily.
Morgin felt his muscles tiring, slowing, his lungs demanding more air. But the warmaster had slowed also, gulping in air with each breath. The roar from the tribe had grown so deafening, Morgin could no longer hear Jerst’s struggling breaths, could almost not hear his own.
Morgin attacked, feinting with a low slice that he turned into a lunging jab. Jerst skipped out of the way on his tiptoes, but Morgin felt his blade bite into the man’s side, a glancing cut that wouldn’t kill him, but might slow him. But the warmaster was better than that; he spun away from Morgin’s blade, and with Morgin overextended he chopped toward Morgin’s neck. Morgin deflected the strike with a clumsy, glancing parry, Jerst’s blade slicing across his upper arm. They both danced away from each other, Morgin thankful the cut had not been on his sword arm. But it would limit his effectiveness in a two handed stroke, though with Jerst clutching at his side they were even on that score.
Again and again they engaged, Morgin’s uncanny awareness of Jerst’s steel keeping him alive, but Chagarin’s demand he not kill Jerst preventing him from taking advantage of the strange sentience of the steel. Each time they met, each time they engaged, they both moved slower and slower. And heartbeat by heartbeat, as the sun climbed toward noon, the cries of the whiteface onlookers grew muted and restrained.
Morgin could barely lift his blade, could barely stagger into the next engagement, then stagger away from it. He had a dozen minor wounds on his arms and legs, and the effort to swing his blade frequently threw blood in Jerst’s face. Once, it even gave him some advantage as the warmaster was momentarily blinded by a few drops of Morgin’s blood. But Morgin’s footwork had turned clumsy, oafish and heavy, and he missed the opportunity to take advantage of it. Though Jerst fared no better, and each time they engaged Morgin suspected they both looked like two inexperienced novices clumsily slapping their blades at each other.
They separated, staggered away from one another, the sun now well past its zenith. They’d fought through the morning and into the afternoon, and Morgin realized Jerst bled from as many wounds as he. They’d knocked each other to the ground several times, and rolled about chest to chest a couple of times. The warmaster’s face and arms were covered with sweat and blood and dirt, and when Morgin looked at his own arms he realized he was in no better shape.
They both stood there for a long moment about ten paces apart, swaying unsteadily from side-to-side, too weary to lift their swords, the tips resting in the dirt in front of them. “I won’t kill you,” Morgin said.
Jerst lifted his arm and used his sleeve to wipe blood encrusted dirt from his eyes. “Won’t . . . or can’t?”
Morgin shrugged. “A bit . . . of both.”
“Why?” Jerst asked, clearly perplexed.
Morgin sensed the weariness in Jerst’s steel, sensed the weariness in his own steel. An eerie pall hung over the tribe as they looked on in mute silence, no longer cheering, no longer shouting for blood. “The steel doesn’t want me to. And your steel won’t let you kill me.”
Jerst nodded as if he understood. “But we’ve fought this way for centuries. We can’t leave the circle of stones until one of us is dead.”
At that moment Morgin understood more than fatigue held Jerst back. It was not just the exhaustion of his body and his steel, but the weariness of his heart. He wanted Morgin’s death no more than Morgin wanted his, so Morgin said, “Perhaps it’s time to change.”
Jerst shook his head. “I don’t know how,” he said, then staggered forward, raising his blade in a clumsy, overcommitted strike. Morgin had had enough, and to the warmaster’s steel he said, “No.”
Jerst staggered, struggled to hold his blade up, trembling with bunched muscles as if its weight had grown unbearable. Slowly, the weight of the blade grew, forcing him to lower it to the ground; fighting against it Jerst stumbled over his own feet, and fell to the dirt in front of Morgin. On his hands and knees, Jerst looked up, and instinctively Morgin raised his sword for a death stroke.
Don’t kill Jerst tomorrow, Chagarin had said.
Morgin hesitated, and in that instant Jerst saw his opportunity, he rolled forward and threw his weight against Morgin’s ankles. Morgin went down on top of Jerst, and in a tangle of arms and legs they rolled over several times. Jerst came out on top, reared up and slammed a fist into Morgin’s eye. The world spun, and before Morgin could act, Jerst had regained his feet and stood over him with his sword raised. But just as Morgin was about to command the steel again, the warmaster hesitated, a frown of indecision on his face.
The moment drew out, the crowd deathly still, and then a single male voice crowed with laughter. Toke stood on the edge of the circle next to Angerah, laughing hysterically, tears streaming down his cheeks, the demon namegiver hovering at his shoulder. Jerst lowered his blade and looked about uncertainly, frowning, glancing from right to left as if Toke and ElkenSkul were hidden in one of Morgin’s shadows.
“Have you . . . found your . . . name yet?” Toke shouted, having trouble spitting the words out in the midst of his own laughter. “Or do you . . . still claim . . . a false name?”
Toke’s riddles only served to inflame Morgin’s anger. Ignoring Jerst, he lurched to his feet, crossed the short distance between them staggering like a drunk. He stopped at the edge of the circle only a hands-breadth from Toke, and shouted in his face, “Enough!” He leaned forward, careful not to cross the line of stones that m
arked the limit of the circle, and in Toke’s eyes he saw only laughter and derision. “Why do you torment me with your riddles, old man?”
Toke’s laughter died, and in the stillness that ensued Morgin noticed several whitefaces glancing back and forth between him and Toke, as if they couldn’t believe their eyes. While Angerah and Merella both smiled and nodded knowingly, as if privy to some dark secret. “You see all . . .” Toke said, “. . . and yet you see nothing.”
Morgin heard Jerst’s footsteps behind him, so he spun to face the warmaster. But Jerst paused just outside the reach of his blade. He lifted the sword and looked at it for a moment, then tossed it to the ground. He walked up to the edge of the circle and, like the other whitefaces, his gaze shifted back and forth between Morgin and Toke. Then his eyes settled on Morgin and he asked, “You see Toke?”
Morgin shouted, “Of course I see him.” He pointed at the old man. “He’s standing right there. I see him as easily as you.”
Jerst shook his head, a look of wonder and awe on his face. “But I don’t see him. No one has ever seen him . . . not until you. He is invisible to us all, was born that way, and has lived his life that way.”
Harriok stepped out of the crowd, reached out like a blind man searching with his hands in a dark room. One hand touched Toke’s shoulder, the other his cheek, and Harriok said, “He is here.” He looked at Morgin. “It was said that you would see all, and yet see nothing.”
A single voice cried out, “Nooooo!”
Blesset, on the far side of the circle, ran around it staying just outside the perimeter of stones. She stopped at the closest point to them, leaned forward and said, “No. It’s time to kill him. So let’s be done with it”
Jerst shook his head and said, “No, it is time for us to change.”
“Kill him,” Blesset demanded. “Kill him, damn you. Where is your honor?”
