by Roland Green
The other faction, not much smaller than the first, came to praise Aurhinius and urge him to sterner measures. He spoke to these with more warmth, for they were of his own mind, but said much the same as to the others.
The fault of Zephros and others like him was not that they hated kender or loved—“certain factions” was what Aurhinius said, instead of “the kingpriest”—too much. It was that they did not understand the need for discipline, without which an army was a mob, and a mob this close to the desert was an array of dead men waiting for a place to fall down.
He would punish Zephros as much as the needs of discipline allowed, neither more nor less. They should take heed of this warning, and pass it on to their soldiers.
Neither faction left Aurhinius’s tent in any light spirits, which doubtless had something to do with the fact that it was now well on toward cockcrow. Also, the sky was growing clouded, with both moons and half the stars shrouded from sight.
Aurhinius had begun to longingly contemplate his cot when Nemyotes entered. The secretary wore a long clerk’s robe and a frown.
“Don’t tell me,” Aurhinius said. “You’ve come to tell me that I can’t arrest Zephros.”
“How did you guess, my lord?”
Aurhinius wished that he could doubt his ears. He did try to forestall the bad news by saying, “It is too late or too early for jests. Choose which one, then be silent.”
“Your pardon, my lord, but I do not jest. The warrant under which Zephros assembled his band and marched south is very specific. You do not have the right of high or middle justice over him or any of his sworn men, save in a case involving a crime against a man sworn into the regular service of the city.”
Aurhinius saw a leather pouch under Nemyotes’s arm. “Is that a copy of it?”
“Yes. It cost me—”
“Whatever you spent, take it from my strongbox. In the morning, please.”
The copy of Zephros’s Warrant of Captaincy over Tax Soldiers made quite as dismal reading as Aurhinius had feared. Nemyotes’s interpretation was correct, as it usually was. The man would have made a formidable law counselor.
“Very well,” Aurhinius said. He restrained an urge to tear the warrant into shreds. “I do not suppose that the kender Edelthirb was sworn into the regular service of Istar, by any interpretation?”
Nemyotes shook his head. “I inquired. He was not even listed as a servant to any of our sworn people.”
Aurhinius did not waste breath groaning. Truthfully, a kender was about as likely to be a registered servant in an Istarian army as Takhisis, the Dark Queen, was to be a virgin.
“Very well,” he said at last. “We must content ourselves with what we can do. Guard those two remaining kender as if they were high-ranking clerics.”
“We shall, when we find them,” Nemyotes said.
“When you—oh, to the Abyss with that!” Aurhinius snapped. “Also, if I cannot keep Zephros from moving about, I can at least keep watch on him. Guards will be posted where they can watch his tent at all times.”
“Ah—that may not be so easy,” Nemyotes said.
“The difficult I expect to be done. If you had said it was impossible—”
“It may be that, too, my lord. Zephros has pitched his camp well apart from the rest of us. All approaches are already watched by his sentries. They seem to be hand-picked men, and more seasoned soldiers than one would expect to find under such a captain.”
Not if the kingpriest helped him recruit them, Aurhinius thought. He wondered briefly if Zephros’s band was in truth the supposedly outlawed militia called the Servants of Silence, tricked out like an aging woman of pleasure in a fresh gown and new jewelry.
“Very well. Have a few trusted men ready to move, nonetheless. It looks to be coming on to storm. The best sentry in the world finds it hard to halt an intruder when rain or sand is blowing in his face.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Aurhinius nodded in dismissal. As Nemyotes left the tent, Aurhinius realized he was still nodding. Indeed, his head seemed too heavy for his neck. He pushed himself up and away from his camp desk, stumbled over the chair, but reached his cot before his legs gave way under him.
He did not awaken as Nemyotes reentered with two servants, to undress their commander and see him snugly abed.
Pirvan reckoned Hawkbrother had already tested the footing while standing captive under Darin’s gaze. It was what he would have done in the younger man’s place, and he would not assume that a desert chief’s son was any less shrewd that a Knight of the Sword.
From chronicles of battles the knights had fought for Istar against the “barbarians,” none of them had been despicable opponents. The knights had won, but they and Istar had paid a fair price in blood and treasure.
Tonight at least no one would be spending treasure, and neither side could readily lose honor—as the knights had sometimes done as Istar’s hirelings. Blood might be lost, but, the gods willing, not even much of that.
Pirvan made his rounds of the square, studying each man’s face as he passed. Good. No one looked to be harboring plans for treachery or folly. He hoped no one would dishonor him, even if he appeared in mortal danger.
More than his own honor was at stake here. The trust men placed in the Knights of Solamnia still stood between the kingpriest and absolute power. Any knight’s loss of honor weakened that barrier. If tonight ended with Haimya and the children weeping over his corpse, it would still be a fair price for keeping that barrier strong.
He gripped shoulders with Darin while standing on a patch of ground that felt like a hard crust over something softer below. They could even embrace now, he and the younger knight, without him standing on tiptoe or Darin stooping like a hunchback, although it had taken some years of practice.
Then Pirvan was face to face with his family. Their weeping over his body suddenly seemed not so small a price to pay, even for the honor of the knights or the downfall of the kingpriest.
He remembered a warning, from one of his oldest and shrewdest instructors.
When you are in love with honor or reputation, death may seem light. For you, perhaps it will be. Unless you’ve been an utter fool, you’ll be given to the skies or the earth, with Huma and the old heroes.
It is those you leave behind who will weep. To them, your death will be heavier than a mountain, and your honor may seem lighter than a feather when they think of how much they miss you.
Pay for honor in your own coin, not by borrowing from others.
If I die tonight, Pirvan thought, I will not join with Haimya when she is a grandmother. I will not see Gerik either a knight or embarked on some other honorable course of life. I will not see Eskaia growing into her full beauty, and wed to some man I am sure I will consider not at all worthy of her. I shall remember all of this, and not be careless of either life or honor.
Pirvan finished his round and stepped into the center of the square, not more than a bow’s length from Hawkbrother. The young warrior might have been cast in bronze.
“It is time, I think, friend,” Pirvan said.
“Time indeed, and friend if the gods will it,” Hawkbrother said.
No need to fear this one’s being foolish about life or honor, either, thought Pirvan. This is a son any father might be proud to claim.
Pirvan raised his voice. “Sir Darin, will you give us the command?”
For a moment Pirvan thought the younger knight would balk. Then he drew his sword, tossed it, caught it by the hilt, and held it upright.
In a great arc, Darin swept the blade downward, until the point touched the ground. As it did, he cried, in a great voice: “Begin!”
Two kender had been crouching behind a boulder, one peering out from either side. Now rain spattered the boulder, driven on a harsh wind that made them both wish to be in a forest or in some other civilized place. They scampered back to the rough shelter of another boulder that overhung a dry streambed.
They had had enough of cam
p, and it held nothing worth getting drenched for. Besides, there was no true friend in any human camp, and little in the way of dry clothes.
“We could build a fire,” one kender said. His name was Horimpsot Elderdrake, and in spite of his name, he was barely old enough to be traveling.
The other kender gave him a sour look. He was more than old enough to be traveling, and had indeed traveled more than most kender. One journey had taken him to the camp of a minotaur named Waydol, whom he had served loyally for the remainder of the minotaur’s life.
His name was Imsaffor Whistletrot.
“With what?” Whistletrot asked. “And how to light? And where to put it so that none of the humans see it before we’re warm?” All he got by way of an answer was a blank stare. “Oh,” Whistletrot added. “You are a wizard who can ignore all these questions?”
“Now you are being nastier than you ought to be,” Elderdrake complained. It was not quite a whine, and Whistletrot realized that perhaps he had gone a trifle far. Seeing a comrade killed in front of your eyes not halfway through your first journey was an experience the older kender had been spared, but Elderdrake had not. The young fellow had a right to be upset, as long as he didn’t do anything dangerous.
That covered more ground than usual, for a kender. Whistletrot was no more cautious than most of his people, but knew that sometimes even a kender ought to be careful to stay alive.
For one thing, they owed Zephros a debt for Edelthirb’s death.
For another, they needed to warn someone who would listen that people like Zephros were roaming the desert. Everyone in the camp already knew, so they had to get away to spread the warning.
But who would listen? Dwarves usually retreated to their caves to wait out human follies. Silvanesti elves did the same with their forests. Other kender were sparse in this land.
“We’re going to strike out for the citadel of Belkuthas,” Whistletrot said. “Starting now. Krythis and Tulia talk to everyone. That means they must listen to everyone, or nobody would talk to them. We’ll take the warning to them.”
“We will? What about Edelthirb? He hasn’t had any rites, and he won’t have them from the humans, so our duty—”
“Oh, be quiet. Only living kender can give rites to a dead one. We’ll be needing rites ourselves if we don’t travel fast.”
Elderdrake still looked dubious. “Shouldn’t we at least warn the other humans that Zephros will desert?”
Whistletrot laughed. It was a laugh that would have chilled to the bone anyone who believed kender were merry, lighthearted, light-headed little folk. It was a laugh that sounded more like fire tongs scraping together.
“Why should we? The farther Zephros goes from the other humans, the easier it is for us to catch him.
Elderdrake pondered that for a moment, then nodded and began counting his pouches.
It must have been this way among the first humans when two men had a quarrel. Knives (perhaps chipped from stone) in hand, naked save for loincloths, and friends looking on to cheer or jeer as the mood took them.
But this battle was different, too. There were rules, the knives were fine tempered steel (dwarven work, in Hawkbrother’s hand), and one of the fighters had no real friends in the square around him.
That spoke well of Hawkbrother’s courage, to place such faith in the honor of his enemies. Briefly, Pirvan held the thought that he had never before fought a man he would be so reluctant to kill.
Then he forced those fancies away. One did not go armorless into a fight with live steel while harboring kind thoughts of one’s opponent. He might not return such thoughts, and yours might slow you for one vital moment.…
It would be shameful to kill Hawkbrother without cause. It would be even worse to be killed by him through carelessness.
The two men spent the first minutes of the fight testing the ground and each other. Each walked cat-footed, alert for the least opportunity to launch a damaging attack. Both knew that knife fights were as often as not settled in moments, by the first slash or thrust that cost one fighter blood, speed, or strength.
Neither man gave his opponent an opening for such a stroke, however, or at least no opening safe from a deadly riposte.
Some knife strokes left no chance for a riposte. The victim was dead before the steel withdrew, even if he still stood on his legs. But these strokes were few, and much about them hung on sheer luck.
Without such luck, you could kill your opponent without taking from him the strength of desperation and the power to kill you before he died. That outcome Pirvan wished to avoid at all costs. Honor, Oath, and Measure required him to accomplish his mission in the south, which could be done with either him or Hawkbrother alive. It could not be done with both of them dead, barring a miracle. Pirvan had lived too long to put that kind of trust in miracles.
Twenty years before, when his night work in Istar was done with no weapon save a dagger, Pirvan could have ended the bout in minutes. Even those who lived by the bloody knife walked wide of him, knowing how many folk survived because Pirvan would not kill, rather than because he could not.
Though twenty years may be an eye blink in the life of an elf, it is a long time in the life of a man. Eyes and nerves, muscle and sinew, will none of them be what they were. Pirvan had kept in practice with knives as much as work allowed, which was much less than when he would no more have touched a sword than robbed an old woman.
Hawkbrother, despite his youth, was clearly a finished knife fighter—not at the height of his powers, but certainly Pirvan’s match. Though shorter than Pirvan, he equalled the knight’s reach, thanks to long arms.
Indeed, a wise man would not bet either way on this fight.
None of the onlookers seemed in a wagering mood. They stared at the fighters as if the sheer intensity of their gaze could bring the fight to a swift and bloodless conclusion. Haimya was pale under her tan. Eskaia kept her countenance better than either her mother or brother.
Most likely, she had not seen enough bloodshed to imagine all the horrors that might come to one or both of us tonight, thought Pirvan.
That thought was ill-timed. It passed through Pirvan’s mind as Hawkbrother moved in for his first attack. He came low, striking for Pirvan’s leg, to slow or disable him.
Pirvan saw the steel flash toward flesh and tendons. With an eye blink to spare, he pivoted on the other leg and came out of the spin, thrusting at Hawkbrother’s thigh. It was the desert warrior’s turn to spin away with equal agility.
Equal, but no more, in spite of his thirty years’ advantage in age. That gave Pirvan a useful hint. Hawkbrother might not be his opponent’s equal in fast footwork. If he had not learned tumbling, jumping, and climbing as thoroughly as Pirvan, the knight might have a surprise or two for his opponent. Now, how not to waste the surprises …
Hawkbrother had a mature head on his broad young shoulders. He would not be overconfident. Most likely, he could be surprised only once.
And that had best be soon, thought Pirvan, before those thirty years slow me enough that the surprise will go the other way.
Fit and trained as he was, the knight had no illusions he could match the endurance of an opponent amply young enough to be his son.
The next few exchanges were feints, each man testing the other for blind spots, bad habits and good ones, lack of imagination. If this had been a test bout at Dargaard Keep, and the two men training for the Knights of Solamnia, their instructors would have praised both highly. Neither man was predictable, neither easy to catch off guard (Pirvan, after his first lapse, was impossible), and both had worked up a good sweat without losing speed or temper.
The last thought made Pirvan grin. It would not unman him to kill Hawkbrother, if the gods willed it. But he firmly refused to contemplate being angry with the young warrior.
Hawkbrother saw the grin and laughed. “You find my work amusing? Perhaps I can change your mind.”
He sprang at Pirvan, jumping so that he altered his cours
e in midair to land within easy striking distance of the knight.
Or rather, what would have been easy striking distance, if Pirvan’s eyes had not taken in Hawkbrother’s legs as well as his knife hand. Pirvan had moved while Hawkbrother was still in midair, and came down a finger’s breadth out of his opponent’s reach.…
An opponent who was, for a moment, off balance.
It was Pirvan’s turn now to make a low pass, and his steel went home. Not deeply, only scoring the callused flesh over Hawkbrother’s left knee, but blood flowed.
“I claim first blood!” Pirvan called, with the most knightly formality he could muster when short of breath. Then he repeated it, realizing that his first effort must have come out more a gasp than words.
“I heard you the first time,” Hawkbrother said. “So, I’ll be bound, did the elven rangers in the forests of Silvanesti. I may be bleeding, but I’m not deaf.”
“Your pardon,” Pirvan said, bowing. “I meant no insult.”
“If you mean no insult, then do not bother asking me if I yield,” Hawkbrother replied. “Shall we continue the dance?”
“As you wish,” Pirvan said, with another bow. He did not take his eyes off Hawkbrother as he bowed, which was just as well. The warrior came in fast, stamping to raise dust and confuse Pirvan about his direction.
Perhaps also, thought Pirvan, to prove that he could endure the pain of his bloody knee.
The knight wanted to tell Hawkbrother that he took his opponent’s courage and endurance for granted; that he need not put himself to pain and trouble to prove either. But he was too busy evading or parrying Hawkbrother’s darting blade, to have time or breath for polite conversation.
That lack of breath was reason for concern, Pirvan decided. Best take the next good chance to end this quickly, before he had to risk a mortal wound to one or both of them.
By good fortune, he’d moved toward the patch of hard crust over soft sand, which he’d marked earlier. He judged that Hawkbrother had also noticed it and could not be led across it.
That did not matter. It was not Hawkbrother who had to step through the crust.
