He had considered the matter for weeks, and those last words perfectly described how he truly felt about the matter. If he accepted the offer and followed Kratos down his heretical path—a path which flouted tradition and spat upon those who held it dear—then he would soon become the very thing he despised most in the world.
Felix had been right, as had been Tacitus, the father of Valeria’s mother: honor and tradition were all that kept the men and women of his world from devolving into mindless beasts like the Stone Rhino or kraken. But it had taken Kratos’ offer for Nikomedes to truly understand what they had meant.
Even if he accepted the offer with the intention of changing Blue Fang Pass into something which met with his own standards of honor, he would be doing so based on a lie. By becoming Valeria’s Protector, he would be sworn to her will. If he acted in a manner which in any way undermined her will, or the traditions which she held dear, he would be acting just as dishonorably as if he had actually joined them in their heresies.
Kratos approached, Glacier Splitter gripped in both hands, and he looked down on Nikomedes for a long, silent moment before saying, “You refuse this great honor, Nikomedes, before all assembled here—including your Hold Mistress?”
“She is not my Hold Mistress, Protector Kratos,” Nikomedes said pointedly, rising from his knee since he was less than confident that he would survive long enough to defend himself if Kratos unleashed his fury while he still knelt. “My bond was to you, as a war-slave to a warlord, keeping with our oldest traditions.”
“Semantics,” Kratos bellowed. “Your tongue must be forked like a serpent’s to speak this way!” He took a step toward Nikomedes, casting a disapproving look on him as he did so, “I took you in, Nikomedes, and gave you the chance to hone your skills. You would not be the man you are today had I not done so,” he said, and Nikomedes knew it was true. There simply was no other place where he could have gotten anywhere near as much experience—both in battle and out of it—as he had in Blue Fang Pass.
“I do not dispute that,” Nikomedes said stiffly, feeling a pang of guilt at hearing the words pass his own lips.
“And yet you take all that I have given you,” Kratos continued, turning to the crowd as he stepped down past where Nikomedes stood, “as well as the generosity of this Hold entire, and refuse to give something back when it is asked of you? That does not seem an honorable choice, Nikomedes.”
Nikomedes turned, making his way from the dais as he felt the crowd veritably lean forward as they anticipated the conflict to come. “I am your slave, Kratos,” Nikomedes said archly, “I have served you as required under our traditions—“
“To Hades with your traditions,” Kratos snarled, “and to Hades with you—ungrateful whelp that you are! You turn your back on all we stand for, Nikomedes, after benefiting from it.” Kratos’ knuckles were white as he gripped the haft of Glacier Splitter. “As my war-slave, you are bound to my will—or have you turned your back on that as well?!”
“The terms of my service were quite clear,” Nikomedes said heavily, fighting to keep his voice from rising in anger at being accused of such dishonorable conduct. “I have not yet satisfied either the requirement of time or kills.”
“Then I’m going to give you a chance to do so right now,” Kratos boomed, turning theatrically to the assembled throng. “Per the terms we agreed to two years ago, you owe me three more years or one more kill.”
Turning slowly, Kratos smirked and Nikomedes realized that in spite of his inability to secure him as an heir of sorts, Kratos was determined to make the most of that particular loss by defeating him in front of the most powerful occupants of the Hold.
“A choice lies before you, Nikomedes,” Kratos continued in a raised voice, “you can either freeze to death in the sky cell, since only a few have survived there for three days, let alone three years. Or,” he said, lowering himself to a fighting crouch, “you can make one last kill—me!” A chorus of bloodthirsty whoops and cheers erupted from the crowd, but even amid the din of the throng, Kratos’ voice was clear to all as he added raucously, “Assuming you succeed where all the others have failed.”
Nikomedes reached up and unfastened the cloak he wore for warmth, retrieving his breathing mask from it before dropping it to the floor. “If you command it,” Nikomedes said, “then I will fight you, Kratos.”
“Command it?” Kratos asked incredulously. “I demand it! You have shamed me, my daughter, and the entire Hold with your blind refusal, boy—honor demands that I seek vengeance as a man, let alone as Protector of the Hold!”
“What would you know of honor, Kratos?” Nikomedes asked before strapping the mask about his face, which restricted his breathing significantly but he knew it was part of the only path to victory he could hope to find in this particular conflict.
“After tonight,” Kratos growled, tensing in preparation for the first exchange of the battle, “more than you’ll have ever had the chance to.”
Surging forward with the power of an enraged bull, Kratos swung Glacier Splitter as Nikomedes drew Ektor’s jeweled sword from its scabbard. He spun away from the blow easily enough, but Kratos was not only strong—he was fast.
The butt of his massive hammer jabbed Nikomedes in the ribs on his left side before he could lean out of the way, and Kratos’ left shin collided with Nikomedes’ ribs on the right. It was clear in the opening exchange that Kratos sought to rob Nikomedes of his wind, which was entirely predictable—even if the savage efficiency with which he attempted to do so had not been.
But Nikomedes had planned for that very outcome, and had reinforced the padding over his flanks and abdomen to protect from such early damage. Still, there was only so much protection that supple leather and knit wool could provide against a murderous behemoth like Kratos, and Nikomedes felt fortunate to back away from the powerful warlord’s range before any ribs were broken.
Setting his feet and gripping Ektor’s sword in both hands, Nikomedes braced for the next onslaught, which Kratos delivered with savage glee as he swung Glacier Splitter at the younger warrior’s knee in a short, compact stroke. Nikomedes had never seen Kratos wield Glacier Splitter in that fashion, and he knew that the one-eyed warlord had kept secrets from him just as he had done in reverse. Nikomedes could only hope that his secrets proved more decisive than the older warrior’s did.
Nikomedes parried the hammerhead with his blade, which was an ill-advised move considering the forces involved, but to do otherwise would open him to a savage kick to the midsection or, more worrisomely, another strike of the hammer’s butt.
Fortunately, Ektor’s sword survived contact with the hammer, and Nikomedes lashed out with a knife-hand chop aimed at Kratos’ neck.
The blow landed just as Nikomedes had hoped it would, but when his hand struck Kratos’ neck it was like he had just knife-handed a tree trunk.
Sneering, Kratos drew Glacier Splitter to his hip before swinging the brutal weapon up toward Nikomedes’ armpit. Nikomedes knew that the warlord was trying to goad him into leaping inside the weapon’s reach, since doing so would turn the battle into a grappling contest—a fight-ending proposition with both men fresh. Kratos was no slouch in unarmed combat and he outweighed Nikomedes by at least a third of the younger man’s body weight, and the difference was all muscle and bone.
So Nikomedes accepted the blow, rolling his body as much as he could to lessen the impact as he fought to keep his feet beneath him. Kratos growled bestially as he kicked with his left foot, burying his shin in Nikomedes’ abdomen precisely over his liver. Had he not reinforced that spot before the battle—and sacrificed some portion of his maneuverability in doing so—Nikomedes was mortally certain that the blow would have proven decisive in the one-eyed warlord’s favor.
As it was, he felt a rib crack but managed to get back and out of the murderous warrior’s path before another blow could land.
Kratos stood to his full height, shaking his head contemptuously—clearly doing so for
the crowd’s benefit at least as much as for Nikomedes’—and growling, “This is no contest.”
Then he surged forward behind Glacier Splitter, lashing out with the metal butt of the weapon in a feint before bring the weapon up in a nearly impossible arc—impossible for the angle as much as for the speed, since Nikomedes knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he could never maneuver the cumbersome weapon in such a way—and Nikomedes caught the blow on his left bicep as he nearly escaped it entirely by swaying out of the hammerhead’s path.
But by planting his feet, he had left himself open to another kick, which Kratos all-too-gladly delivered to his right thigh. The warlord’s armored shin slamming into his leg robbed him of every ounce of sensation from the hip down, but somehow Nikomedes managed to hobble away as the warlord ceased his forward movement to cast a piteous look his way.
As the sensation in his leg returned—making the limb feel as though it was bathed in white hot fire—Nikomedes felt his breaths coming deep and tight through the restrictive mask. Kratos was clearly pacing himself since any fool would know that, even with his impressive physical abilities, a fifty year old warrior would never equal a significantly younger one in the stamina department.
So Nikomedes knew that Kratos’ grandstanding was as much to give his muscles a chance to reload for the next attack as they were to demoralize Nikomedes—and every other would-be challenger standing around the dueling warriors. But Nikomedes had planned for that fact ever since fashioning the mask which, even now, made his lungs burn as they had done that day years ago with the kraken.
“This whelp gave you pause, Phobos?” Kratos bellowed, turning pointedly to face a warrior who had never made his dislike of Kratos—or Nikomedes—any kind of secret. “Pathetic,” he snarled before launching another brutal, lightning fast assault.
This time he feinted with Glacier Splitter’s butt, actually getting Nikomedes to bite on the ruse before the older warrior shoulder-charged him, sending him backpedaling a quartet of unbalanced steps before he narrowly managed to duck Glacier Splitter’s head as it sailed through the air where his head had been a moment earlier.
But by ducking the blow he opened himself to a vicious knee to the face, which Kratos delivered with bone-crushing force—literally.
His nose broken horribly, Nikomedes felt his hot lifeblood running down his face and knew that the warlord had just forced his hand. He would have to reveal the first of his deceptions earlier than he would have liked, but with the way things were going he knew it was unlikely that he would survive long enough to save it much longer anyway.
“You fight like a damned woman, boy,” Kratos roared, initiating another series of feints, swipes, and lashes of the hammer’s butt which Nikomedes managed to parry or dodge.
Kratos unexpectedly stopped his assault, prompting Nikomedes to reach up and undo the strap which held the mask tight against his face and draw an overly loud series of gasping breaths.
“Even your father put up more of a fight,” Kratos said piteously, causing Nikomedes to give him a surprised look. “Oh, aye,” the one-eyed warrior said knowingly, “I want there to be no room for misunderstanding between us now, lad: your father and your brother were part of the Red Dawn—an event which I finished avenging with my own two hands when I killed Felix. But before I visited retribution on my cousin,” he said, smirking triumphantly, “I killed your father, along with that bitch of a woman who let him into her bed.”
Before Nikomedes could fully process the revelation, Kratos launched another assault but this time Nikomedes had lost his focus. He parried the rapid series of attacks, which proved costly as Glacier Splitter slammed into his hip hard enough to cause his leg to briefly go numb and send him to the ground.
Roaring in rage, Nikomedes launched himself at the one-eyed warlord as Kratos prepared to deliver the coup de grace with Glacier Splitter. But Kratos reacted quickly, backing away from Ektor’s blade each time it came whistling through the air toward him.
“Finally,” Kratos barked, planting his foot and driving his knee into Nikomedes’ midsection, “some fight!”
But Nikomedes barely seemed to notice the impact, so enraged was he at hearing that Kratos had been responsible for his father’s death. He slammed the pommel of Ektor’s sword into Kratos’ elbow once, twice, and three times, forcing the warlord to back away or risk losing control of his heavy, cumbersome weapon.
Nikomedes realized they had nearly reached the door to the Main Hall. He had been backpedaling so much that, prior to his latest counterassault, he had almost backed completely into the door itself.
He stopped and backed toward that door, which was still closed, eyeing Kratos as he did so.
True to Nikomedes’ pre-fight predictions, Kratos’ breaths were coming labored now, but he knew there was still plenty of fight in the veteran of nearly a hundred proper battles and Men only knew how man duels and honor fights.
Nikomedes felt the flow of blood from his nose continue to run down his nose, making the armor around his neck slick yet abrasive.
“He fought like you might expect of a southerner,” Kratos said between deep breaths, “your father, that is; he died on his knees, begging for my blade.”
Nikomedes nearly launched another enraged counterattack, but then he realized that if he did so he would be playing into Kratos’ hand. Kratos had saved that particular revelation for this moment precisely so he could surprise Nikomedes and force him to abandon his plan. It was clever, and in a way it was like what Nikomedes had planned for Kratos.
Realizing this, it was as if a switch went off in Nikomedes’ head and the wave of animalistic fury he had felt a moment earlier was almost completely gone—almost.
“You talk…too much…Kratos,” Nikomedes spat between forcibly labored breaths drawn through his open mouth. Having his own nose broken had definitely not been part of his plan, but the mask had done its part to prepare him—and his opponent—for this particular fight as well as he could have hoped. After removing it, the fire he had felt in his limbs and lungs slowly abated just as it had done during his more rigorous, private, practice sessions over the last year. The mask had restricted his breathing, and with it doffed he drew what seemed like twice as much air with each breath.
Kratos’ eyebrows lowered thunderously, apparently realizing that Nikomedes had sniffed out his gambit. It actually seemed as though he had never been called out for the ploy, and Nikomedes took no small amount of satisfaction from that likelihood.
“Fine,” the one-eyed warlord growled, adjusting his grip on Glacier Splitter to a more traditional, slower-moving, but more powerful one just as Nikomedes had hoped he would do, “no more talk.”
The massive warrior spun his body as he gripped the weapon just above hip level, and he repeated the spin again, and again, and again, varying the height of the weapon’s path unpredictably as he did so. Nikomedes parried the first blow, but quickly backed away on fresher legs than his previous body language had suggested him to possess.
Seeming not to notice the change in Nikomedes’ movements, Kratos lashed out with the hammer in a long, savage arc aimed at his midsection just before Nikomedes rolled forward beneath the path of the mighty weapon.
The hammer’s head missed him entirely, slamming instead into the left door of the Main Hall with a thunderous crack as the timber split for several feet above and below the impact point. Wood chips went flying from those timbers, and the door itself swung open several feet from the force of the blow.
Surprised by Nikomedes’ speed, Kratos barely seemed to notice the small, neat wound which Ektor’s blade had made near his knee. Readying the cumbersome weapon, the warlord turned to face Nikomedes with something approaching grudging respect.
But, true to his word, he said nothing as he launched another series of attacks. These were more varied, switching between the quicker attacks he had started with and the slower, more powerful ones had just employed.
It was all Nikomedes could do to kee
p out of the mighty weapon’s path during the quick strikes. But once again Kratos employed a longer, more powerful attack and once again Nikomedes dove—this time above—a sweeping, upward arc of the powerful weapon’s rune-covered, stone head.
He lashed out with the jeweled blade as his body cleared Glacier Splitter’s haft and head, but Kratos leaned out of the sword’s arc and quickly squared his stance to Nikomedes’ own.
Nikomedes paused as Kratos regarded him with a hunter’s eye, and in that moment Nikomedes turned Kratos’ own ploy against him. Drawing a deep, measured breath through his mouth before returning his breathing to its normal rate rather than the forced, haggard breaths he had drawn as part of his ruse. Nikomedes allowed himself to smirk as he said, “What’s the matter, old man—trouble keeping up?”
Kratos bellowed in anger, taking the ruse as well as Nikomedes could have hoped, and he charged toward the younger, fresher man. Nikomedes parried, ducked, dodged, and countered for nearly a minute as the two held position near the door, circling each other in search of an advantageous angle. As they did so, he could see a look of realization dawn on the old warlord’s face, and that look filled him with more hope than he had felt since the battle’s outset—he could still win this, and it was in no small part due to the mask.
Nikomedes had fashioned it using local materials, but it was remarkably similar to one his brother had used in training. Father had told Nikomedes that he could not train with one before he was a fully grown man since doing so was overly difficult on the body’s ability to draw breath, but Nikomedes had known that it might prove instrumental to gaining his freedom from this accursed den of heresy.
It was an extreme training tool, but it had proven every bit as effective as his older brother professed it would. Nikomedes no longer felt drained, though his body was already battered more badly than he had hoped it to be at this stage on the duel.
The Forge of Men Page 16
