“Bad form, Ektor,” Kratos bellowed, but Nikomedes rolled toward his discarded dagger without looking in the one-eyed warlord’s direction. “A poisoned blade I could have abided, but not the actual serpent.”
Ektor, too, appeared to be ignoring Kratos as he lunged toward Nikomedes in the instant the younger man wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his dagger.
“Hold still!” Ektor roared, lashing out with his boot and catching Nikomedes in the chest.
Hot fire erupted in the left side of Nikomedes’ chest, and he knew he had just suffered a few broken ribs. The warlord followed the kick with a would-be coup de grace from his sword, but Nikomedes managed to block the attack with his dagger.
But the dagger was not made for such a violent impact, and its blade shattered just a few inches from the hilt. It did manage to divert Ektor’s jeweled sword just enough that the killing blow became a glancing hit to Nikomedes’ right shoulder, and blood began to ooze from beneath his leather chest piece.
Nikomedes scrambled away, and found that Ektor did not immediately pursue. Turning back to face the warlord, Nikomedes saw Ektor’s discarded shield on the ground not far from his feet.
Scooping it up, he saw the first look of uncertainty come over the older warriors’ face. Coupled with the heavy, labored breaths his opponent was now taking through his mouth, Nikomedes knew that the tide had taken a decisive turn in his favor. His eye had also cleared of the frozen gravel, and aside from a persistent stinging pain, that eye seemed to function well enough to undo the potentially crippling maneuver.
“You little bastard,” Ektor growled, switching to a two-handed grip on his overly stylish weapon, “I’ll eat your stones for dinner!”
The warlord slammed his sword into Nikomedes’ shield, and Nikomedes was pleasantly surprised to find that the shield was very nearly of the same quality as Ektor’s sword.
The clang of metal on metal rang out across the rocky terrain as blow after blow slammed into the brightly burnished shield. With each passing swing of his jeweled sword, the warlord’s movements became more obvious, to the point that Nikomedes knew it was only a matter of time before his superior conditioning proved decisive.
He kicked dirt up into Nikomedes’ face again, but Nikomedes saw the ploy coming long before the frozen dirt arrived in his eyes. He blocked the spray with his shield, and when he did so Ektor swiped low with his sword. But it had been too obvious, and Nikomedes brought the edge of the shield down on the flat of the blade before Ektor could pull it back into a ready position.
The sword clattered to the ground and once again, Nikomedes dove for his opponent—except this time he had what was left of the dagger in his right hand.
Ektor was strong and powerfully built, with a girth that likely rivaled that of Felix, but Nikomedes was longer and fresher. He easily established top position as Ektor fought wildly to buck him off, but with each desperate movement his opponent made, Nikomedes improved his position atop the fallen warrior.
He brought the ruined dagger up to Ektor’s neck, and the warlord managed to get one of his hands on Nikomedes’ wrist. Had it been one of Ektor’s hands against one of Nikomedes’ hands, the warlord likely would have emerged victorious. His grip was like iron and his hands were massive enough to nearly encircle Nikomedes’ forearm completely.
But Nikomedes had isolated Ektor’s other arm and pinned it with his knee, so the jagged remains of the dagger’s blade drew nearer and nearer to Ektor’s neck. Before it pierced his skin, Ektor gasped, “I’ll give you anything, just don’t—“
The three inch long remnant of the dagger’s blade pierced his throat, and with a vicious, sideways jerk, Nikomedes tore a ragged hole in the left side of Ektor’s neck which saw his blood squirt furiously into the air.
Ektor continued to struggle for nearly a minute, much as a slaughtered animal does when been bled before a feast. Nikomedes held his foe down until his motions ceased and the pumping spray of blood turned into a slow, steady oozing which formed an expanding puddle on the ground beneath them.
Standing on incredibly shaky legs, Nikomedes reached down and collected the jeweled sword. It was only when he stood upright once again that he saw Kratos was standing and Hephaestion, the smooth-faced youth who had served as Ektor’s standard bearer, was standing with a look of abject shock on his face. He seemed frozen in place, unable to take his eyes off the fallen form of his warlord, but Kratos shook the boy from his stunned reverie by turning and proffering his hands.
“Untie me, boy, as was agreed,” Kratos said, prompting Hephaestion to do as he had been instructed. The boy’s face was nearly as white as the snow capping the White Wall’s many peaks, but his hand was steady as he undid the bindings he had fastened just minutes earlier.
Kratos collected Glacier Splitter and left the dumbstruck youth where he stood. As the one-eyed warrior approached, he raised a hand above his head and Nikomedes saw movement from behind some nearby rocks. He heard the sound of movement behind him, and he turned to see a Black Arrow—one of the elite Ice Raiders under Kratos’ command—emerge with a bloodied blade in one hand, and the severed head of a warrior dangling by its hair from the other.
“Good work,” Kratos grunted, giving Nikomedes a barely perceptible nod as he turned and waved to what turned out to be four other Black Arrows as they emerged from concealment.
Nikomedes realized that the Black Arrows had found and killed five enemy warriors—warriors who had encircled the duel site in a decidedly dishonorably act. The nearest one approached, tossed the head to the ground beside Ektor’s motionless body, and said, “They were armed with bows; the nocked arrows were coated with this.”
The Black Arrow tossed a small, rolled up piece of leather to Kratos, who caught it deftly in mid-air before holding it up to his nose and inhaling lightly. Recoiling in disgust, he tossed the small pouch onto Ektor’s body before nodding, “Poison…naturally. Good work, Aramus.”
Aramus, the Black Arrow, returned the nod as the other four Black Arrows tossed the severed heads they carried onto the warlord’s corpse.
Kratos turned to Nikomedes, who only now understood that it had not been Kratos, but Ektor, who had come to the affair with less than complete honesty. It was a strange realization when Nikomedes came to understand that, at least in this particular engagement, Kratos had been the more honorable of the two warlords.
What is the world coming to when a heretic like Kratos can claim to be the standard of honor? Nikomedes wondered silently as he drew long, deep breaths to dispel the burning sensation which had spread throughout his body after the deadly duel.
“You there, boy,” Kratos barked, causing Hephaestion to warily meet his gaze. Kratos gestured for the youth to approach, and when he stood before the towering Ice Raider, the one-eyed behemoth leaned down slightly and said, “What have you seen here today?”
Hephaestion gulped but jutted his chin out defiantly as he said, “An honorable duel sullied by my warlord’s duplicity.”
Kratos narrowed his eye, “You knew nothing of the snake?”
Hephaestion shook his head steadily, “Had I known him capable of such dishonorable conduct, I would have slain him while he slept.”
A harsh, barking laughter erupted from Kratos’ lips, and he was soon joined by his fellow Ice Raiders. “I believe you might have, at that,” Kratos allowed after his laughter had subsided. “Who stands as second in Ektor’s army?”
“His name is Garrus,” Hephaestion replied promptly, “his band of warriors is a recent addition to Ektor’s force.”
“Would he have fared better than Ektor against my boy here?” Kratos asked, tilting his head toward Nikomedes.
Hephaestion gave Nikomedes a nervous glance before shaking his head, “Ektor was faster than Garrus; Garrus would not have lasted half as long as Ektor did.”
“Will Garrus seek vengeance for Ektor’s death?” Kratos asked, and Nikomedes got the distinct impression that this particular series of questions
and answers was being conducted for his benefit, rather than for Kratos or his people.
Hephaestion shook his head confidently, having regained nearly all of his composure since the death of his warlord. “Garrus had no love for Ektor; it was only a matter of time before the two met in battle to determine leadership of the war band.”
Kratos nodded perfunctorily, “And Ektor’s Hold Mistress was the one who set Garrus among Ektor’s men, wasn’t she?”
Hephaestion hesitated before nodding, “Yes. She was preparing to abdicate to her eldest daughter. The matron of House Spira is unwell, having taken with the coughing sickness this past winter. Rumors say she had arranged for Garrus to become Protector to her eldest daughter when she abdicated, or died,” his lips twisted into a smirk, “whichever came first.”
“Spira women have a habit of taking matters of death into their own hands,” Aramus commented with open amusement. “For two hundred years their line of women has died from two things and two things only. The first is childbirth, and the second is by sheathing their family’s ritual blade between the fourth and fifth ribs before nature can claim her life.”
A sour expression came over Kratos’ face. “A coward’s death,” he spat, and Nikomedes had to agree at least partially with his assessment. He turned to Hephaestion and said, “You will carry the news of this duel to this Garrus. Tell him that if he wants to test himself against his betters, all he needs to do is keep his men camped where they are and we’ll find him at dusk.”
Hephaestion looked squeamish for a moment, “They may kill me for bearing this news alone.”
Kratos nodded knowingly, “Aye, that they might—but I will kill you for not bearing it. Now go.”
Needing no further encouragement, Hephaestion scampered away, stopping briefly to retrieve his fallen warlord’s banner before setting off at a run down the same path from which he and Ektor had arrived.
“He seems a good lad,” Kratos chuckled as Hephaestion left view. He then turned to Nikomedes, regarding him in silence for several seconds before tilting his head toward the crumbling citadel built against the nearby mountainside, “Now let’s go collect on your efforts.”
The Main Hall of the citadel was better preserved than its battlements had been, but that was not saying much. Even Eukaria’s relatively modest Main Hall had been better appointed, if slightly smaller, than the one into which had Nikomedes followed Kratos following the duel with Ektor.
More pointed than the cobwebs amid the rafters, or even the timeworn, faded tapestries which had clearly hung for many decades without major additions—additions which should have recounted recent victories, either in battle or politics, over the Hold’s many enemies—was the near lack of milling nobles, gentry, or mercenary warlords who would normally be found at the Hold’s beating heart on any given day.
There were barely thirty people within the Main Hall, and half of those appeared to be the citadel’s attendants and the personal guard of the Hold Mistress herself.
“Kratos, Protector of the Hold, approaches,” an aged herald called out, his wizened, stooped form propped up by a gnarled staff as he stood on the third of five steps leading up to the Hold Mistress’s chair dais.
The Hold Mistress herself was very young, and Nikomedes could not ignore the familial resemblance she bore to Kratos as they approached. Only three of Kratos’ people had entered the Main Hall: Kratos himself, Nikomedes, and Aramus. Aramus had donned a suit of metal armor for the occasion, and it was clear that he had prepared for the occasion, and Nikomedes watched with mild interest as Kratos stopped at the base of the platform.
There was another girl sitting on a simple stool two steps below the dais, and she also bore a striking resemblance to the now-one-eyed warlord who waited silently at the bottom of those steps. Nikomedes knew that custom dictated her to be a Second Daughter, given her station on the steps.
The First Daughter of a Hold Mistress was the only member of the Hold permitted to sit one step down from the Hold Mistress herself, while the Second Daughter would sit two steps down opposite her sister. Heralds stood on the third step, petitioning nobles were assigned the fourth step and everyone else—including mercenary leaders, gentry, or local commoners—was resigned to the fifth, lowest, step.
Protectors, of course, were permitted to occupy the highest platform, and after a pointed delay at the base of the steps Kratos made his way to the top of the platform. When he arrived before the Hold Mistress, he knelt before her with a sour look on his face as he said, “Daughter mine, where is your mother?”
“She has passed on three nights hence, Protector-Father,” the woman replied officiously. “The funeral rites were held this last night; the nobility of the Hold have assembled for the vigil, as was their duty to do, and will continue to do so for another four nights.”
Nikomedes could barely contain a surprised scoff at hearing that this paltry assemblage represented the entire local nobility—or at least the dutiful ones. The Hold’s citadel was not the only thing which had become dilapidated, it would seem.
Kratos stood before his daughter, the new Hold Mistress, and nodded, “Her missive suggested as much. I marched with my men as fast as we could, but were unable to arrive in time to attend the vigil.”
The Hold Mistress’s eyes narrowed. “There was no love lost between you,” she said with icy precision. “Let us not sully her memory with false platitude and sentiment.”
Kratos snickered, and Nikomedes could tell that he was far from a popular figure among the occupants of the Main Hall. “I always said you were more mine than hers,” he quipped before raising his voice and continuing as he turned to address the paltry assemblage, “this very morning we have turned back the men who marched in the name of House Spira. They will not return until the ground thaws in five months, at the earliest.”
A chorus of whispers made its way around the nobles, and even the herald seemed taken aback as he said, “But, Protector, there has been no battle! Our sentries report that Ektor’s army made camp only this last eve; why would he march here with his entire host only to turn back and make the four week march to his Mistress’ domain?”
“Oh, he wouldn’t,” Kratos said, deigning to give the old man even a brief glance as he swept the pitiful crowd with his lone, remaining eye—and Nikomedes realized no one had so much as asked after how he had gained the wound, further bolstering his supposition that Kratos was a far from favored figure among the Hold’s ruling members. “Ektor is dead,” he declared, causing a series of wordless protesting shouts to erupt from the crowd. “He is dead,” Kratos continued, casting a burning gaze in the direction of the loudest dissenters, “and with him died your hopes of taking my daughter’s throne from her.”
“Impossible!” a man dressed in fine furs cried. “He would not accept a duel with you!”
“Oh, aye,” Kratos agreed, “we all know you paid him too well for that. No,” he said, smirking in Nikomedes’ direction almost imperceptibly quickly before continuing, “one of my Black Arrows—our newest, in fact—took him down. His herald should be along shortly to convey as much, but I’ve no intention of waiting for him to do so.”
Kratos turned his back on the assembled crowd of nobles—a crowd which had quite clearly divided in two nearly perfect halves after Kratos’ suggestion that Ektor had marched in no small part due to one side’s urging that he do so.
“Daughter mine,” Kratos said, sweeping one of his massive hands toward Aramus, “as was agreed, after the funeral rites for your mother have concluded, Aramus will submit himself to become your Protector. You are nineteen years old,” he said in a raised voice, which nearly silenced the bickering nobles as his deep, gravelly voice echoed throughout the hall’s stone walls, “and, as your father, I must step down as your Protector so you may begin to forge your own line of successors.”
The Hold Mistress nodded officiously. “We will complete the funerary rites for Mother,” she declared, “and then you will be dismissed fro
m your post, Protector-Father.”
Kratos snorted, “No, lass, I won’t be waiting around for the funeral.” He turned to the Hold’s Second Daughter, who seemed significantly happier to see her father than the Hold’s new Mistress did, “Have you secured your patents and the requisite treatise, Valeria?”
She began to nod, but before she could reply she was interrupted.
“This is highly irregular, Protector,” the herald argued, causing a rising growl of approval from the assembled nobility, “as the Hold’s Protector, you must watch over the transition to ensure stability—“
“I must?” Kratos cut in loudly, glowering at the elderly man as the assembled nobles were once again silenced by his loud, commanding tone. He took a menacing step toward the frail man before repeating more coldly, “I must?”
The old man, frail and stooped though he was, refused to back down from Kratos’ looming figure. “These are our traditions, Kratos,” he said, his tone considerably more respectful even if his posture was not, “without them we are no different from the beasts of the field and sea.”
Kratos regarded the elderly man for several moments of deafening silence before shaking his head. “They are your traditions, Tacitus,” he said pointedly before just as pointedly turning his back on him to once again face the Hold’s Second Daughter, “not mine.”
Valeria, the Hold’s Second Daughter, stood from her stool and declared, “I am ready to accept you as my Protector, Father.”
Kratos nodded wordlessly before turning to the Hold Mistress, “Then, with your official bequeathal of Valeria’s new holdings, we’ll be on our way.”
The Hold Mistress regarded him in cold silence for nearly two minutes before standing stiffly. As she turned to her sister, Valeria approached and knelt before her as the elderly herald produced a trio of copper plates which were clearly maps, along with a handful of scrolls, which she took from him and proffered to her.
The Forge of Men Page 12
