Anyone who broke the rules of trial by combat automatically forfeited the bout and his right to life.
Horace and Killeen faced each other now. Killeen crouched, knees bent. Horace stood upright, balanced lightly on the balls of his feet. The mace and chain swung heavily and ponderously between them. Horace’s sword moved as well, the point describing small circles in the air.
Suddenly, shattering the stillness, the signal trumpet brayed its single note.
Killeen was big and clumsy. But he was fast, faster than Horace had anticipated. And his thick wrist had the huge strength necessary to flick the mace and chain up and over, so the spiked ball came arcing down in an overhead blow. As he did so, he stepped into Horace, forcing the young warrior to spring backward as he brought up his shield to ward off the blow.
Halt had suggested that the mace and chain would hit like a battering ram. To Horace, it felt as if a house had fallen on his shield. Never before had he felt such a massive, crushing force. Not even when he had faced Morgarath’s huge broadsword, many years ago.
He grunted in surprise and was nearly caught by Killeen’s follow-up, a flailing sideways attack that slammed into his shield again, as he managed to lower it just in time. Again, Horace backed away. Only his speed had saved him from those first two strokes, and as he sought the eyes behind the vision slit in the helmet, he sensed that Killeen had hoped that his unexpected lightning attack would finish matters before they really got started. Killeen shuffled after him, wary himself now that he had seen the speed of his opponent’s reactions. He swung again, this time another overhead blow. But now Horace was ready, and he stepped lightly to the side so that the iron ball slammed into the turf.
He cut quickly at Killeen’s forearm. The mace and chain had one disadvantage. Unlike a sword, there was no crosspiece to catch blows aimed at the hand and lower arm. But Killeen wore heavy brass-plated gauntlets and solid brass cuffs. The sword cut bruised him and made him jerk back hurriedly. But his armor held, and it was far from a telling blow.
Horace began circling now, moving to Killeen’s right to cut off the arc of the mace and chain. He knew he could avoid Killeen’s blows or block them with his shield. But he could see no way at the moment that he could strike back. He had to keep away from the giant, to avoid having the chain hit the rim of his shield and whip over. Had he been facing a swordsman or an axman, he could have moved in, crowding him and cramping his weapon. But the mace and chain was a different prospect and he had to avoid that whiplash effect at all costs.
Killeen stepped in with another overhead blow. Horace took it on the shield again, feeling the shock of the blow up to his shoulder. Before he could retaliate, Killeen whipped the heavy weapon back and in again, slamming into the shield a second time.
Horace heard something crack in his shield. He danced back to give himself room and looked down at it. The shield was rapidly becoming bent out of recognizable shape, the edges crumpled and ragged. In the center there was a crack where the steel had fractured, exposing the wood lining underneath. Much more of this and the shield would be destroyed, he realized. His mouth went dry at the thought of facing that horrific mace with only his sword. For the first time, he considered the possibility of defeat.
Then Killeen was attacking again and Horace had no choice but to block with his shield. The steel split further under the assault and the spiked ball bit deeply into the wood. For several seconds, it stuck there and there was a desperate tug-of-war between the two warriors. Then Killeen jerked it free and swung again.
This time, Horace ducked low and the iron ball whistled close over his head. But an idea was forming in his mind now. It was a last-ditch, desperate idea, but it was the only one he could come up with. He realized it was similar to the moment when he had faced Morgarath and hurled himself under the hooves of the warlord’s charging horse.
Killeen swung overhead again and Horace skipped lightly backward, watching the mace head thud deeply into the turf. The Outsiders’ supporters were beginning to jeer as he danced and ducked away from their champion. So far, he had been totally ineffectual in attack.
The other side of the field had gone noticeably silent, apart from anguished groans or gasps as the thunderous mace and chain strokes found their target.
He danced lightly to his left again, backing away a few more meters to give himself a few seconds’ respite. As Killeen began to shuffle slowly after him, he glanced down at the leather strap that held his shield to his upper arm.
He had a few seconds. He slammed the sword point down into the turf and hurriedly adjusted the retaining strap, loosening it a few notches. Then he just had time to recover his sword and dance away again. This time, however, he moved to his right, surprising Killeen, who had expected him to continue to circle left.
That gave him a few more meters, but now he stood and waited for Killeen. As the islander came at him, he swayed to one side to avoid the mace, then stepped quickly in and lunged the point of his sword at the vision slit in the helmet. Killeen, by now used to attacking without retaliation, was caught by surprise and only just brought his own shield up in time. The moment he was blinded by the raised shield, Horace darted to his left and hacked again at Killeen’s weapon hand, then leapt back again.
Neither the thrust nor the hand strike were telling blows. But they served the purpose he had set. They infuriated the huge man facing him. Killeen stepped forward with a snarl of rage. The mace and chain whirred in giant circles over his head as he gathered momentum for one crushing, final stroke.
Eyes narrowed, Horace watched for him to release his wrist and unleash the blow. He knew he would have to judge timing and distance perfectly if his plan were to succeed.
Here it came!
Judging centimeters with the uncanny natural skill that set him apart from the normal run of warriors, Horace took a half pace forward, set his legs, and brought his shield up to take the blow. He grunted as the mace slammed into the weakened metal and the spiked ball bit deep into the shattered steel and wood. Bit and held.
In that same instant, he released his hold on the handgrip and slipped his arm out of the loosened restraining strap. A fraction of a second later, when Killeen jerked the mace and chain back to free it, the battered, crumpled shield went with it, firmly attached to the end of the chain. It soared high and wide in an arc behind the islander, the unexpected extra weight on the end of his weapon jerking him momentarily off balance.
It was only natural that he would turn his head in surprise to see what had happened, exposing his neck below the full face helmet for just a second or two.
Which was all Horace ever needed. Holding his sword two-handed, he stepped in and swung a lightning side stroke at the exposed two centimeters of neck.
There was a roar of surprise from both sides of the arena as Killeen’s helmet went spinning away to land on the turf with a dull thud.
The roar dropped to silence as the spectators realized that his head had gone with it. Killeen’s giant torso slowly buckled at the knees and seemed to fold into itself as it collapsed to the ground.
Then the western stands began to cheer as they realized Horace, who had essayed only one serious attacking stroke in the entire conflict, had won.
Will and Halt were under the railing in a flash. They ran to the center of the field, where Horace stood, his sword hanging loosely at his side. He looked at them and smiled tiredly.
“I think I’m going to need another shield,” he said.
42
HALT SHOOK HIS HEAD AT HORACE, A DELIGHTED GRIN ON HIS face. “Horace, you continue to amaze me! How did you ever think of that stunt with the shield?”
Horace looked at his two friends. To be truthful, he was a little surprised that he was still here and able to talk to them. There had been an ugly few minutes during the combat when he thought he’d bitten off more than he could chew.
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he said mildly. “I just hope Gerard won’t be using one
of those maces, too. I don’t think I could pull it off twice.”
“He’ll be using a sword,” Will said, smiling up at him. He felt a great sense of relief. Like Horace, as he had watched Killeen battering his friend from pillar to post, he had begun to fear that there was no way he could survive, let alone win.
Halt clapped the tall warrior on the shoulder, and Horace winced at the impact.
“Thanks, Halt. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t hit me there at the moment. I’m a little tender. I’ve just had a giant walloping me with a large iron ball.”
“Sorry,” said Halt, but the grin was still on his face. He glanced now at the eastern stands, to see how Tennyson was reacting to the totally unexpected result. The smile faded as he did so.
The priest looked surprisingly unperturbed by the death of his bodyguard. Or by the implications of the loss. He was talking calmly to one of his white robes, smiling at the man’s reply. Yet he must have been surprised by Horace’s sudden reversal of fortune. During the fight, Halt had looked across several times and seen Tennyson, flanked by his three Genovesans, leaning forward, shouting encouragement as Killeen had rained blow after blow down on his seemingly helpless opponent.
A small frown creased Halt’s forehead. There had been three Genovesans behind Tennyson. Now he could see only two. He turned to Will.
“Get back to the tent quickly and keep an eye on things. We’ll be along shortly.”
Will took one look at his teacher’s face and needed no further urging. He ran lightly through the milling crowd of people who had invaded the arena, making his way to the imposing white tent at the northern end of the ground. When he was a few meters short, he stopped. The crowd was thick here as the vendors had recommenced selling their wares and people were lining up for refreshments before the next bout. But he thought he had seen a glimpse of dull purple slipping through the mass of jostling people, heading away from the pavilion. He shoved his way for a few more meters in pursuit and caught one more brief glimpse before the crowd swallowed the figure.
It could have been one of the Genovesans, he thought, and, if so, he had been very close to Horace’s tent. He was torn by the temptation to follow and catch up with whoever it was. But Halt had told him to keep watch here. Reluctantly, he turned back to the pavilion. As he approached the canvas flap that screened the entrance, he stealthily slipped the saxe knife out of its sheath, holding it low, against his leg, so that people wouldn’t notice it.
The leather thongs securing the canvas door seemed to be as he’d left them, but he couldn’t be sure. Quietly, he untied them and, jerking the screen back, darted inside, the saxe held ready now at waist height.
Nothing.
The tent was empty. Somewhere he could hear a bluebottle fly, trapped inside and buzzing frantically as it butted against the canvas, seeking escape. He scanned the interior. Table, water jug and two tumblers, still draped with damp muslin. Chair, lounge, arms rack—empty now but with the spare shield standing beside it. Nothing else in sight.
It was hot inside the tent. The sun had been beating down on it and the flap had been closed, trapping the hot, stuffy air inside. He turned, meaning to tie back the canvas door flap and let some fresh air in, when he realized that he hadn’t checked the screened-off privy. He crossed the tent now and jerked the screen back, knife ready in case he needed to lunge.
Empty.
He let out a long pent-up breath and resheathed the saxe. Then he busied himself tying back the door flap and opening a ventilation panel at the rear of the tent. A breeze of cooler air swept in, and the interior temperature quickly began to fall. The stuffiness was dispelled as well.
Halt and Horace arrived, the former carrying Horace’s sword, helmet and the battered, crumpled shield. He tossed it into a corner.
“You won’t be needing that again,” Halt said. He looked a question at Will and the young Ranger shook his head. Nothing suspicious to report. Although Halt’s remark about the shield reminded him that he should check the straps and fittings on Horace’s reserve shield before the next combat.
Horace sank back on the lounge, sighing as his bruised muscles came in contact with the cushions, and glanced longingly at the jug on the table.
“Pour me a drink, would you, Will?” he said. “I’m parched.”
His dry mouth and throat were caused by nervous tension and fear as much as exertion, he knew. And Horace wasn’t ashamed to admit that he had felt fear while he was fighting Killeen. He leaned back, his eyes closed, and heard the soft tinkle of ice as Will poured.
“ That sounds good,” he said. “Make it a big one.”
He drank the tumbler in one long draft, then nodded as Will offered the jug for a refill. This time, he sipped at the cold water more slowly, enjoying the sensation of the liquid sliding down his dry throat. Gradually, he began to relax.
“How long till I face Gerard?” he asked Halt.
“You’ve got over an hour,” the Ranger told him. “Why don’t you get out of that armor, lie back and relax for a while?”
Horace went to rise, groaning softly as he did so.“Good idea. But I should check my sword’s edge first,” he said.
Halt gently stopped him. “Will can do that.”
Horace smiled gratefully as Will moved to take the sword and check it. Normally, Horace would have insisted on doing the task himself. Will and Halt were the only people he trusted to do it for him.
“Thanks, Will.”
“Let’s get that mail shirt off you,” Halt said, and helped pull the long, heavy garment over his head. The mail shirt had a light chamois leather liner, now stained and damp with sweat. Halt turned it inside out and draped it across the arms rack, moving the latter so that it was just inside the doorway, catching the cross breeze.
“Now rest. We’ll take care of things. I’ll wake you in plenty of time for a massage to get the kinks out,” Halt said. Horace nodded, and lay back with a contented sigh. It was nice, he thought, to have attendants to fuss over him.
“I think I could get used to this Sunrise Warrior thing,” he said, smiling.
He could hear the gentle rasping sound as Will put an extra-sharp edge on his sword. There had been one slight nick in the blade, where it had caught against Killeen’s shield, and the young Ranger set himself to remove it. The sound was oddly relaxing, Horace thought. Then he drifted off to sleep.
Halt woke him after half an hour. Horace’s muscles were stiff and aching, so at Halt’s bidding, he rolled over onto his stomach and let Halt work on them. The Ranger’s strong fingers dug and probed expertly into the muscle and tissue, loosening knots and easing the tension, stimulating blood flow back to the bruised, strained parts of his body. It was painful, but strangely enjoyable, he thought.
The short nap had left him feeling drowsy and sluggish. He shrugged to himself. That often happened if you slept during the day. Once he started moving and got some fresh air in his lungs, he’d be fine.
He swung his legs off the lounge and sat, head down for a few seconds. Then he shook himself. Will looked at him curiously.
“Are you all right?” he asked. He’d watched over Horace while he slept, his saxe knife drawn and lying ready across his knees.
Horace looked at the weapon and grinned sleepily. “Planning on chopping vegetables?” he asked, then answering his friend’s question, “I’m just a bit foggy, that’s all.”
Halt looked at him, a small light of concern in his eyes. “You’re sure?” he said, and Horace smiled, shaking off the torpor that seemed to have claimed him.
“I’ll be fine. Shouldn’t sleep during the day, really. Pass me that mail shirt, will you?”
The chamois lining had dried in the breeze, and he pulled it on over his head as he sat on the edge of the lounge. Then he stood to let it fall to its full length, just above his knees. As he did so, he swayed and had to grasp the back of the lounge to steady himself.
Both the Rangers watched him with growing concern. He smiled a
t them.
“I’m fine, I tell you. I’ll walk it off.”
He took the clean surcoat that Will offered and pulled it on over the mail shirt.
Halt glanced outside. The area around the food and drink stalls was becoming less crowded as the spectators made their way back to their seats. Horace and Gerard would be called to the arena in the next ten minutes. He decided that Horace was probably right. A bit of fresh air and exercise would see him right.
“Let’s head up there now. The stewards will have to examine your sword again anyway,” he said, coming to a decision. In fact, the entire preamble to the combat would be repeated. It was a bore, Halt thought, but it was part of the formal ceremonial ritual attached to trial by combat.
Halt and Will gathered Horace’s helmet, his spare shield and his sword. Will refastened the tent flaps and they walked alongside Horace, flanking him as he made his way back to the combat ground. The dwindling crowd at the stalls made way for them, showing deference to the Sunrise Warrior. He had already become a popular figure among the people of Dun Kilty. The spectacular way he had dispatched Killeen had caught their collective imagination.
Halt watched the young warrior carefully as they approached the weapons table set in front of the King’s enclosure. He let go a small sigh of relief as he saw Horace’s stride was firm and unfaltering. Then his heart missed a beat as the young man leaned down to him and said, in a conversational tone and without any outward sign of concern:
“Halt, we have a problem. I can’t focus my eyes.”
The three of them stopped. Halt’s mind raced and he glanced instantly to where Tennyson was sitting, surrounded by his cronies. There were three purple-clad figures with him now, but as he watched, Tennyson leaned over and spoke to one of them. The Genovesan nodded and slipped away into the crowd.
In that moment, Halt knew what had happened. He spoke urgently to Will.
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