Empire Of Blood rb-23

by Джеффри Лорд

After it was all over, Blade was never quite able to sort out the details of the negotiations with the Seven Brothers. The negotiations lasted three days. After the first few hours, everything became a blur in Blade’s mind, and he retained only a few clear impressions.

  There were the four Steppemen, observers who sat in on all the negotiations, the first Blade had ever seen in the flesh. They were short, squarely built men, with skinny legs spectacularly bowed from a lifetime on horseback. They wore leather vests and trousers; their main weapons were long, curved, two-handed swords worn slung across the back. Their dark hair was braided into two pigtails and they wore beards trimmed into points and stiffened with strong-smelling grease.

  The seven Brothers of Nongai, along with Emass, sat at a long table of waxed driftwood pegged and tied together. All wore faded tunics, most wore fur jackets over the tunics in spite of the warmth of the room, and all were armed to the teeth. No two of them wore their hair or beards in the same style, but all had one other thing in common. All were in deadly fear of the attack Emperor Kul-Nam was preparing to launch against them.

  They concealed it well, of course. The Steppemen did not appear to notice it, but Blade and Prince Durouman were more experienced observers, with keener eyes. They knew that they were negotiating with men desperate for aid against a dreaded enemy, and not much caring from where it came as long as it came.

  They were also negotiating with men who tended to think more in terms of ships at sea than of horsemen on land. That was an advantage. The Seven Brothers would more readily accept an alliance that offered them a fleet than one that offered them an army. Now all that remained was to convince the Seven Brothers that Prince Durouman would indeed bring a fleet to their aid.

  That was the hardest part of the whole job of negotiating. Once more Blade felt like a door-to-door salesman. The customers were even more stubborn, and this time the sales talk went on for days instead of hours.

  The Steppemen listened intently, their dark eyes switching from Blade to the Seven Brothers and back again. They seldom spoke, and when they did, it was usually through an interpreter. When they spoke themselves, their accents were so thick that neither Blade nor the prince nor the Seven Brothers could understand more than about half of what they said.

  Eventually the Seven Brothers and Emass declared that they had heard all they needed to hear from both sides. They would go forth, speak to all the Free Brothers, and return with their decision.

  It was two days before that decision was announced. Blade and Prince Durouman were too busy catching up on lost sleep and missed meals to have time to be nervous during those days. But they were still surprised at the decision of the Seven Brothers.

  «We have decided,» Emass said solemnly, «that we shall make no decision at this time. That which we have heard and seen is not enough for us to decide with the wisdom that is needed for the safety of the Free Brothers.»

  Emass looked at Prince Durouman. «Lord Prince. Have you in your company a warrior of great strength and skill, fit to serve as your champion?»

  Prince Durouman hesitated a second, then nodded. «I have. He is Prince Blade, who stands here before you.»

  «Good.» Emass asked the same question of the Steppemen’s envoys. Their champion was not among the four envoys, but they could produce one-or even a dozen-if necessary.

  «It will be necessary,» said Emass drily. «We have decided that a champion of Prince Durouman and a champion of the Steppemen shall do battle to the death. They shall do battle tomorrow, on horseback, before all those present here. That side whose champion gains the battle shall be permitted to enter into alliance with us, according to our laws and customs. This is our decision. Go forth and prepare for battle.»

  If Blade had indulged in his first impulse, he would have drawn his sword and started hacking off the heads of the Seven Brothers, one by one, until he was killed. That impulse did not last long. But rage and incomprehension were still bubbling inside him when he and Prince Durouman returned to Kukon.

  «This is as mad as anything Kul-Nam himself might have done!» he exploded.

  Prince Durouman pulled at his beard, his face screwed up in a particularly intense frown. Then he shook his head. «I wonder. There may be a good reason for this-or a reason that seems good to the Brothers.»

  Blade laughed. «For the moment, that’s the same thing. All right, I’ll believe just about anything at this point. What is their reason?»

  «It helps conceal the fact that they’re frightened. Would frightened men let a major decision rest on something so frivolous as a battle between champions? Of course not. That’s what they hope we and the Steppemen will think. Then they can drive a harder bargain with the winner.»

  Blade grimaced. The reasoning of the Seven Brothers made a good deal of sense, if Prince Durouman was right about it.

  Unfortunately, that reasoning was going to put him squarely in the middle of a duel to the death!

  Chapter 22

  Blade slept well that night. Before going to bed he spent a couple of hours with Prince Durouman discussing the fight tomorrow.

  «You must strike at the man, not at the horse,» the prince said. «You can only strike at your opponent’s horse if you yourself are dismounted and somehow survive long enough to launch an attack.»

  Blade nodded. «Perhaps I shouldn’t even bother mounting a horse in the first place.»

  «I doubt very much if they would allow that, Blade.»

  «Very well. The swords are designed for use from horseback, certainly. I have used such before. I see no problem.»

  That was not entirely true. If he was not on foot, he would be riding a Steppe horse. There was no other kind on hand. The Steppe horses were tough, strong, and extremely agile. The battle tactics of the Steppemen made full use of these qualities.

  Blade knew that he could manage any horse and use any kind of weapon from horseback. What he doubted was the ability of the horse to stand up under what he might have to make it do. The average Steppeman was six inches shorter than Blade and sixty pounds lighter. How long could even a Steppe horse twist and turn under a load so much greater than normal?

  The morning dawned dry and bright, with scattered clouds and a brisk west wind. As Blade stepped ashore from Kukon’s boat, all the banners and flags stood out bold and stiff in the breeze-the horsetail banners of the Steppemen, the great rayed flag of the Seven Brothers, the pine branches of the tribesmen, the personal flags of the pirate captains, the truce flags still flying aboard Kukon.

  The dueling ground was a marked-off square three hundred yards on a side, lying exactly between the house of the Seven Brothers and the tents of the Steppemen. Blade walked up and down across it while his horse was prepared, checking the footing. The earth was hard and the grass just long enough to keep down the dust. Neither side would have much advantage from the ground today.

  Now they were leading out his horse, and on the opposite side of the field his opponent was mounting up. Blade examined his horse and its gear from nose to tail and from mane to hooves. He tested the fit and strength of every piece of harness with all his knowledge and all of his muscles. Emass watched him, a skeptical frown on his face.

  «Prince Blade, is this needed?»

  «I do not know that it is. I do not know that it is not, either. Therefore I shall do it.»

  «We would permit nothing that might do you harm or make the duel less than fair.»

  «Emass, I believe you. Yet not even the Free Brothers of Nongai can prevent that which they cannot recognize. There is nothing you do not know of the ships and the sea. Horses and what may be done with them are another matter.»

  Blade swung himself up into the saddle. Although the stirrups were let out to their maximum, he still had to keep his knees bent to keep his feet in them.

  Prince Durouman approached and handed Blade the great two-handed Steppe sword. Then the trumpet calls started-the brass signal trumpets of the pirate ships and the long wooden trumpets of the trib
esmen. Drums joined them-the horse drums of the Steppemen and the deeper-toned rowing drums of the ships. All joined and swelled into a continuous uproar, calling all the men of all the peoples gathered here on the shore to come and watch the duel. Blade gently urged his horse forward, out into the middle of the dueling ground. He wanted to be there waiting when his opponent rode out, to watch the man and his horse in movement.

  The mass of Steppemen at the other end of the ground churned and broke apart, and Blade’s opponent came trotting out. Like Blade’s mount, his horse was fully equipped for the field, with bags and pouches and water bottles dangling from odd places on the harness.

  Two Steppemen rode out into the middle of the grounds and two pirate captains walked out from the other side. Apparently the captains had decided it would be less embarrassing to walk than to try riding. Blade agreed. He’d seen some of the pirates try to ride Steppe horses and seen most of them fall off within minutes.

  The two duelists reined in their horses ten yards apart and sat listening while the rules of the duel were called out.

  The fight would be to the death. Neither might strike at the other’s horse unless they were dismounted or use any weapons at all other than the great swords and their bare hands. At the end of each half hour, each contestant might receive a fresh horse. This would continue until the end of the duel.

  The fresh horses might be to his advantage, Blade realized. On the other hand, would he have the same chance to inspect each new one as he’d had with the first? He doubted it.

  All the trumpets and drums sounded again; the four referees drew back and motioned the duelists to do the same. Blade could not help noticing that as the referees drew back far enough to be out of the way, they also drew back far enough that they would not be able to see very well. It would be entirely up to the two duelists to keep an eye on each other’s conduct.

  That didn’t bother Blade. Somehow, no matter how many rules well-intentioned people tried to make, a fight to the death usually ended up at the level of a barroom brawl. People who forgot that fact in a fight usually didn’t get out of it alive.

  Blade hefted his sword. His opponent did the same. Both men whirled their weapons over their heads, so that the watery sunshine gleamed along the polished steel. Then the Steppeman threw back his head until his beard seemed to be pointing at the clouds, filled his broad chest, let out a tremendous yell

  «Niiiliyaaaaarrrrggggg!»

  — and spurred his horse into motion.

  Blade did the same. As his horse swept forward he swung his sword down from a striking position into one for blocking. The other horse moved up from a walk to a trot. Blade heard the thud of hooves on the hard ground and the wsssssh of air as the other man whirled the sword around his head.

  At the last moment the Steppeman swerved his horse and swung his sword sideways. He obviously expected Blade to keep on course, straight into the deadly arc described in the air by the slash of the sword.

  Instead Blade dropped one hand from the hilt of his sword to the reins of his horse. He pulled back hard on the reins, jerking the horse to a sudden stop. His other hand locked tightly on the great sword and swept it forward and down from the vertical position. Halfway down it met the Steppeman’s sword. There was a terrific clang and the Steppeman’s sword was deflected downward so violently that the point nearly struck the ground. The Steppeman raced past as Blade whirled his sword up and out at the other’s head, still using one hand. With his own horse motionless, Blade could launch his attack as precisely with one hand on his sword as the other could with two.

  The Steppeman went by just a little too fast. Blade saw the tip of his sword whistle by the back of the man’s neck close enough to cut off one pigtail. He also saw a look of amazement burst onto the other’s face. The man had just seen the impossible-or at least what all Steppemen had thought to be impossible until now!

  If there was fear behind the Steppeman’s amazement, it did not last long. With the pressure of his knees he swung his horse into an incredibly tight turn. It seemed to practically spin around on its hind legs. Then he was coming in at Blade again. This time he held his sword vertically and well out in front of him.

  Blade did not move. He simply swung his own horse around on the spot, bringing its head and his face toward the Steppeman’s attack. This time when Blade raised his sword he had both hands locked on the hilt, and this time it was he who struck first, swinging from the waist with all of his enormous strength.

  If there had been any flaw in the other man’s sword it would have split apart like a stalk of bamboo. If there had been any weakness in his grip, the sword would have flown out of his hands. If there had been any fault in his seat on his horse, he would have gone sailing over its rump and crashed to the ground. Steel and grip and seat on the horse were all sound. The clash of swords sounded like a stamping machine coming down on a sheet of metal, but the Steppeman rode on past Blade, still in his saddle and his sword still in his hands. He was shaking his head at the jolt Blade had sent up his arms, but he seemed unhurt.

  Blade instantly swung his horse and kept it swinging as the Steppeman rode around him in a tight circle. He knew now that he faced a first-class opponent, strong and quick and tough. He would need to put all his own strength and skill and endurance into this duel and hope for good luck as well. He could not be certain of the good luck, but he could be certain of one thing.

  This was going to be a long fight.

  It was. The minutes followed each other in grim succession, until the first half hour was gone. Each of the duelists used every one of those minutes to do what he knew he had to do to win. The Steppeman circled and passed and backed and charged, trying to come in from an angle Blade could not hope to guard and get a stroke home. One stroke with the great two-handed sword would be enough.

  He never succeeded.

  Blade also circled and backed, but within a circle no more than a few feet across. He was happy to let the Steppeman ride around and around, working both himself and his horse into a sweat. Blade could stay where he was, meet each attack as it was launched, and try to get one of his own strokes home. He was not sure that one would be enough. Blade’s enormous strength made it possible for him to wield the great Steppe sword with one hand, something that drew awed gasps from the spectators. He could not put all his power into a one-handed stroke, and half the time that was what he had to use. Still, one good cut sent home would be a good starting point toward his own victory and the victory of Prince Durouman.

  Blade didn’t succeed either.

  Eventually the first half hour was gone. The Steppeman raised a hand to signal the trumpeters and drummers. They blew for a truce, and the Steppeman spurred his lathered horse to a trot, away from Blade.

  Blade was tempted not to change horses. That would be a grand gesture, certainly. It would also be a dangerous one. His horse was sweating and beginning to lose speed. No doubt it would help his side if he put on a good show in this duel, but not at the risk of getting his head cut off.

  So he rode back, inspected the harness and gear on his new horse, and rode out onto the dueling ground for the second round. As the Steppeman approached, Blade scanned every detail of his clothing and horse. There were no changes that he could see. So far the Steppeman seemed ready to play this game by the rules.

  The second round went by in the same way as the first. By now both sides were shouting in amazement at the skill of both riders, so loudly that Blade could barely hear the drums and trumpets that signaled the end of the round.

  The third round began and passed. So did the fourth round. Two hours in the saddle, two hours with the sword in his hand, two hours of split-second alertness.

  By now the sun was well up, the wind had dropped, and a blanket of stifling, sticky heat had fallen over the dueling grounds. Blade felt his body pouring sweat until he swore he could feel and hear it sloshing around in his boots.

  When he rode back out for the fifth round, he noticed that one
of the bags on the Steppeman’s saddle now bulged and bounced. Apparently the man had decided to fill it with water so that he could take a drink from time to time, whenever he moved out of Blade’s range. Not a bad idea. Blade made a mental note to hook a water bag onto his own saddle at the next change of horses.

  The duelists settled into the same grim, deadly routine as before. Blade forced himself to remember the danger and forget about the routine. Otherwise, he knew he might forget that things could still change drastically and murderously at any second.

  On and on. The Steppeman’s horse seemed to be losing speed, though. He was also looking down more and more often at his water bag, although he hadn’t yet taken a drink from it. Blade wondered if he would, or if his warrior’s pride would make him fall out of the saddle first.

  Blade also wondered how long this duel could go on. Perhaps one or the other of them would get lucky. Perhaps one or the other would collapse from the heat. And perhaps they would go on and on, round after round, until all the horses in the Steppemen’s camp were dead or exhausted. Then they would go on fighting on foot, still circling round each other, still swinging at each other, until the stars went out and the sun turned cold and the universe itself came to an end.

  Blade knew that couldn’t possibly happen, but it was hard to fight off the feeling that it might.

  He forced himself back to alertness as the Steppeman rode in again. He seemed to be going more slowly than before, and Blade got ready to launch an attack that might finally get through. He allowed hope to rise in him. This might be the moment. This had to be the moment. This-In a sudden explosive movement, the Steppeman shifted his sword to one hand. The other hand plunged down and snatched at the mouth of the water bag. A jerk, and it sagged open. Something long and dark and writhing spilled out, seeming to fly through the air to land with a hiss almost under the feet of Blade’s horse.

  Blade had only a split second to realize what was happening. As fast as his reflexes were, they were not fast enough. His horse’s instincts about snakes took over. It reared with a scream, so high that no one who wasn’t tied to the saddle could have stayed on its back.