by Tim Pratt
They made it back to the main road without encountering thieves, thugs, spies, or mad wild beasts. Alive and walking with coins jingling in his pocket—what a pleasant sensation. Hrym was back in his sheath, keeping quiet. People tended to notice talking swords made of living ice. They gaped, or plotted to steal said magical sword, or just asked far too many tedious questions, so Hrym seldom spoke in public. There was also the element of surprise to consider. Discovering that your enemy was armed with another enemy had given many an opponent pause over the years.
Rodrick stopped by the gates to greet Chumley, the night guard he'd befriended on his first day in the city. That was one of Rodrick's little rules: if at all possible, get on friendly terms with the fellows capable of opening a gate and letting you slip out unnoticed in the middle of the night. The guard helped him tie Hrym's hilt to the scabbard with a bit of rough twine. In Tymon, ordinary people had to bind up their weapons or leave them with the guards while they were inside the walls, while full-fledged gladiators could use bare daggers for jewelry if they liked.
Rodrick strolled through the gate, nodding at the few familiar faces he saw, especially the heavily scarred ones. These were not people you wanted to have for enemies.
Most of the wooden and stone shops along the central thoroughfare were still open, though soon only the bars and betting parlors would be doing business. Off in the distance, the roughly palatial Champion's Fortress loomed above almost all the other buildings, overshadowed only by the Arena of Aroden, by far the largest structure in town. Rodrick had gone to a couple of the fights there—the ones he'd bet on most heavily—but his seats were so terrible he'd barely been able to see anything except the head of his "sure thing" rolling off across the sand at the match's conclusion. Blood sports weren't really his preferred game. Give him a nice bit of back-alley gambling instead, especially if he could provide the dice.
"Aroden." Rodrick paused to gaze at the arena. "Some god he turned out to be. Greatest scam ever perpetrated, don't you think? He claimed he was going to come back from the heavens and deliver us all from evil, and when the time came, he was a no-show. How many times have I pulled the same trick at an inn? ‘Oh, I'll come back tonight and settle my bill.' Ha! Of course, they say Aroden died, which is a fairly good reason to miss an appointment, as these things go."
"I met Aroden once." Hrym voice was low and muffled.
Rodrick frowned. "What? The Aroden? Didn't he stroll away from our mortal plane ten thousand years ago?"
Hrym was silent for a moment. "Maybe I'm thinking of someone else," the sword mumbled. "You humans all start to look the same after a while."
Rodrick shook his head. "He was Azlanti—the last Azlanti. I doubt he looked much like the rest of us—"
"Bipedal. One head, with hair on it. Two arms. Close enough."
Rodrick snorted. It was often impossible to tell if Hrym was boasting, lying, deluded, or genuinely ancient. Even the sword himself often seemed unsure of his true history. But what mattered now was their future. If they were off on a long, harsh journey tomorrow, they'd better enjoy tonight.
Their current home was a room above the Bloodied Flail, close enough to the arena to hear the screams of the crowd if the wind was right. Despite the tavern's name, and the sign bearing an image of a multi-headed whip dripping crimson paint, the Flail wasn't a particularly violent or rough tavern. That was just the aesthetic in Tymon, the city of gladiators: blood, weapons, severed heads dangling by their hair, and so forth. For all that the place was founded on blood, it was one of the more polite places Rodrick had spent time. Something about the fact that every third person you met was a seasoned arena fighter bristling with weapons prompted people to mind their manners.
Rodrick kicked the mud off his boots before pushing through into the Flail's common room—the owner had given him the rough side of her tongue the first time he tracked in muck, and he believed in staying on good terms with one's landlady, at least until it came time to skip out on the final bill.
It was only just nightfall, so the place wasn't too full yet, and he got a spot next to the bar. The prettiest waitress, Sonya—the one he'd propositioned, getting a slap complete with fingernails for his trouble—narrowed her eyes at him and disappeared into the back, but Sweet Jill approached with a smile and poured him a mug of beer. He took a sip and smacked his lips. "Much obliged. Have I told you how your hair reminds me of the embers of—"
"Save it." She kept smiling, but he saw now that her eyes were serious. "Flirt with me tomorrow, if you're still alive."
Rodrick raised one eyebrow in what he knew to be a charming and suggestive way. "Unless you're planning to ride me to death—"
"It's Sonya," she said. "She didn't like the way you talked to her."
"I suppose I could apologize, though I can't imagine why her feelings should be hurt. I would hardly seek the company of a woman who wasn't beautiful and exceptional and amazing, present company most definitely included, so really it was a compliment when I asked—"
"You're from out of town." Jill sounded sad, which was worrisome. "You didn't know any better. I tried to tell her that, but she's still upset. Most of our patrons know better than to try and have it off with her."
"I didn't know she was married," Rodrick said. "Let alone newly married. I would have held my tongue if I'd realized." Not entirely true, but he would have approached things differently. "Why are we talking about such tedious things when I have a bag of gold and—"
"You should probably leave town." She tried to nudge him off his barstool with her hip.
"But why? Her husband is a fine man, I have no doubt, but he runs a shop, and it's not even something frightening like a weapon shop or a butcher shop. It's a general goods store. The man isn't likely going to challenge me to a—"
"No," said a voice from behind him, a deep bass rumble full of amusement. "But her brother might."
Chapter Two
Beast and the Beauties
Jill turned on her heel and walked away, and Rodrick regretted not heeding her warning. Now he had complications, when all he'd wanted was ale and company. He turned, not too quickly, leaning back against the bar to look up, and up, and up into the face of Sonya's brother.
"Forgive me," he said. "But you're related to Sonya? By blood? I mean no offense, it's just—"
"I was as pretty as her, before I took a maul to the nose, and a sword cut across my face." The towering figure bulged with an abundance of muscles, and wore a sort of leather chest harness with built-in sheaths that held a number of knives, hilts pointing up and down and off to every side. Rodrick really couldn't see any family resemblance at all, except that both had rather beautiful blue eyes. This man was deeply tanned by the sun, only his scar tissue as pale as the delectable Sonya's skin, and his face was like a mask of abused meat. "My name is Black Skell."
"Sonya and Black Skell. You were named by the same parents?" Rodrick picked up his mug of ale and brought it to his lips, only to have Skell dash it from his hands, spattering alcohol (and water—mostly water) across the bar, stools, and floor. Rodrick looked at the puddles. "The landlady is a stickler for cleanliness," he said. "She won't like that mess, and she can be ferocious in her displeasure. If you'd ever met her in the arena you'd look even worse than you do now."
"I am a bloodied gladiator of Tymon," Skell said. "I—"
"Oh, that's a tremendous relief!" Rodrick made a great show of wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. "I was afraid for a moment there."
Skell frowned, probably, though it was really just scar tissue shifting around. "You are new to Tymon. Perhaps you don't know, but gladiators who win ten fights in the arena are considered bloodied, and the bloodied here have special—"
"Special rights, yes, indeed, permission to carry bare steel, and being able to own property and so on—" Rodrick snapped his fingers. "You must own the shop Sonya's husband operates, yes? How nice, a family affair. But you bloodied also have special responsibilities, don't
you? If you were just an ordinary, unbloodied sort, we could have a lovely bar fight here, and both be hauled before the magistrate, and both be duly punished. Why, you could even kill me, and flee to the woods one step ahead of grim justice. A bit of an overreaction for my supposed crime, but the option would be available to you." Rodrick ran his finger through a puddle of his ale on the bar and sucked a drop from his finger. "But you're bloodied. You can't kill me, because for a warrior of your stature to go around slaughtering nobodies like me would be an embarrassment to the Champion and the arena and other noble people and places and things. What's the punishment for a bloodied gladiator murdering a man at random in a bar? Being tossed naked into the arena with starving dire bears, isn't it?"
"You seem to know our customs, then," Skell said after a long moment.
"I make it a point to peruse the rules of any new city I visit," Rodrick said. "I find it saves difficulty later. Now, I have no intention of striking you, and I assure you I can't be goaded into a fight. If you attack me, it won't reflect well on you. You can't have me hauled in front of the magistrate, even if you are bloodied, because I broke no law. I never touched Sonya, and if she's so honorable that the very suggestion of impropriety causes her to unleash her brute of a brother on me, I can't imagine she'd lie to the law about the nature of my transgression."
"Perhaps not," Skell said. "But I can invoke the Law of Grievance."
Rodrick squinted, as if consulting a mental codex, though in reality, he knew very well what the man meant. "Ah. Yes. In the case of irreconcilable dispute, a bloodied warrior can challenge anyone, bloodied or not, to a duel in the arena."
"Don't worry," Skell said. "I won't insist on a duel to the death. I'll give you a good thumping, and then run you out of town."
"All this over a careless remark? Truly? I can't apologize to Sonya and buy you a drink and let bygones be themselves?"
Skell shrugged, his muscles rippling. "She's my baby sister. I've protected her my entire life. She takes honor seriously."
"Mmm," Rodrick sat back down on the bar stool. "I don't. Take honor seriously, I mean. I'm afraid I can't join you in the arena. I have to leave Tymon tomorrow afternoon."
The gladiator showed his teeth, many of which were filed to points. "I'm sure we can schedule something for tomorrow morning, then. Or even tonight. It's not as if our bout will take long—the fight manager can fit us in."
Rodrick sighed. "I don't fight for the amusement of others, Skell, any more than I dance like a monkey on a leash. I decline."
Skell put his hand on Rodrick's shoulder and squeezed. "You cannot decline. I am bloodied. I invoke the Law of Grievance."
"I hate that it's had to come to this," Rodrick said, truthfully. "Are you sure we can't settle this amicably?"
"I've made myself clear."
"Hmm. I see you're devoted to this path. Where I come from, if you challenge someone to a duel, the challenged party is generally given the choice of weapons. Do you think that's a fair practice in this case?"
Skell snorted. "You want to choose the weapons? Fine. I am a master at all forms of arms. I'm happy to bash you with a mace, or whip you with a flail, or lop off one of your feet with a battleaxe—"
"No, I'll fight with my own sword, if you don't mind. It's the weapon I'm most comfortable with. You can have a sword as well, of course, the best one you can lay your hands on."
Skell frowned, which meant he wasn't quite as stupid as Rodrick had assumed. He thought there was some trick here. "If you were an Aldori swordlord, I would have heard some rumor about it ..."
"No, nothing so fine. I'm a good enough swordsman—I can hold my own—but nothing fancy, no."
"Very well, then. Swords it is. I'll schedule our bout—"
"If you must." Rodrick raised a finger. "But you should know. If you insist on meeting me in the arena, I will kill you."
Skell snorted laughter, and the rest of the crowd chuckled too. "You?" the gladiator said.
"Well, me, indirectly. More directly, my sword will kill you. Please reconsider, Skell. If you die, who will defend sweet Sonya's honor?"
"I have never been bested in the arena! I have won fifty bouts, fool. I have strength and speed. I weave a net of steel. I—"
"I have a magical talking sword named Hrym," Rodrick said, and turned back around on the barstool, beckoning the bartender, who just stared at him. "A drink would be nice," he said mildly. "I think we're just about finished here."
Skell grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. "A talking sword? That's your threat? Do you take me for—"
"Let's have the fight, Rodrick," came Hrym's voice, muffled by the sheath. "He talks too much. I'd like to taste his guts."
"That's disgusting," Rodrick said, over the general murmurs in the room. "Why would you want to taste anyone's guts?"
"I'm speaking metaphorically," Hrym grumbled. "I can't really taste anything—"
"It's a trick." Skell crossed his arms and frowned. "He's throwing his voice, like that bard we had here last winter."
Rodrick rolled his eyes.
"His sheath is steaming," the bartender said. "Look."
"Ah, yes," Rodrick said. "I didn't mention? Hrym is a sword of living ice. When he gets perturbed—that means ‘annoyed,' Skell—he gets colder, and, yes, there can be a bit of steam. Nothing like the whoosh of white vapor when he pierces a man's guts, of course. Apparently all that ice hitting so much warmth—"
"I don't believe you," Skell said. "There are magic swords—we have some at the arena for special bouts. But swords that talk? They're the stuff of legend. Why would a smirking nothing of a man like you have a weapon of such power—"
"He rescued me from the hoard of a linnorm," Hrym said. "We've been together ever since."
"I don't like to boast." Rodrick caught Jill's eye and winked. "But, yes, it's true. I crawled into a linnorm's lair and came out with great treasure."
"Show me this blade, then," Skell demanded.
Rodrick shook his head. "That was almost clever, Skell, but I don't go around breaking rules for no reason. I'm not bloodied, so I can't carry open steel in Tymon. Or open ice, as it were. That's why poor Hrym is sheathed and bound up with twine so I can't draw him easily. Don't blame me—it's your law."
"I'm a magistrate," rumbled one of the men who'd gathered around. He was older, and had only one eye, and looked like a prosperous ex-pirate. "I'll give you a special dispensation to show us this sword of yours."
Rodrick glanced at Jill, who nodded and said, "It's true, he's an authority."
"Stand back, then," Rodrick said. "I'd hate for anyone to get frostbite." The circle of watchers obligingly shuffled back. After a moment's hesitation, Skell moved away too. Rodrick reached behind him and tugged free the knotted threads that bound the sword's hilt to the scabbard, then smoothly drew Hrym, who took advantage of the moment: steaming, shining, glittering like a scepter of diamonds.
"Oh, yes," Hrym said. "Look upon me. I am the icy death. I am the cold that freezes your heart. I am—"
"Yes, all that and more." Rodrick put the sword away. "Now, Skell, let us fight no more. We'll have a drink together and put all this business behind us—"
"Put that sword aside when we duel," Skell said. "Fight me as a man should—"
Rodrick snorted. "Oh, and will you put aside your fifty bouts' worth of experience? Your superior reach, and speed, and strength? Arming myself with a magical sword makes it just about fair. Besides, you agreed to let me choose the weapons. I choose magic swords at dawn. I'm sure you can get some sword that drips electricity or sweats poison or something—that would give you a sporting chance."
"Not really," Hrym said. "I'll freeze him where he stands, and then you can snap off his limbs like you're breaking icicles off a tree branch."
"That's true," Rodrick said, "but I was trying to make him feel better."
Skell looked at the magistrate. "The sword talks," he said. "Surely it counts as a combatant, not a weapon?"
> This gladiator was much cleverer than Rodrick had assumed, though still too stupid to back down from a pointless fight. Rodrick could almost admire Skell's sheer bloody-mindedness. He could certainly relate to it. Nothing made Rodrick want to do something more than worrying that he couldn't. "Oh, talking swords are people, now? So if Hrym wins a few bouts he can buy property in the city?"
"Equal rights for sentient weapons is a dream that will never die," Hrym said solemnly.
The magistrate stroked his beard. "Hmm. Does the sword move? Fly, like? Can it fight of its own volition?"
"I wish," Hrym said. "Rodrick has terrible form. I'd do much better on my own."
Rodrick shook his head. "No, Hrym can't move. Speech and ice magics are more or less the limit of his capabilities. If he could move on his own, I imagine he wouldn't have chosen to lie unmoving underneath a linnorm's ass for all those decades before I rescued him."
The magistrate shrugged. "Magic weapons are allowed in the arena, Black Skell, and if the sword cannot move without its wielder, I see no reason to claim it as a combatant."
"Of course magic weapons are allowed," Rodrick said. "They make for a better show, don't they? Listen, I'll fight you if you insist, schedule permitting, but I'll feel terrible if I kill you, so—"
Skell snarled. "This isn't over, scum. Your sword can't save you from a knife in the back—"
"Magistrate, I realize I have very few legal rights here, but I'd just like to note that, if I show up with a knife in my back—not very sporting—then you might consider Skell a prime suspect, as all these witnesses can attest."
"Sporting!" Skell shouted. "You with a magical sword claim to be sporting—"
"I'd never claim such a thing!" Rodrick said. "I am a pragmatist, never a sportsman. But, you see, I am not a bloodied warrior of the Arena of Aroden. I am a mercenary. Honor is not a requirement for my chosen profession—but it is for yours. Now. Do we still have a date to duel?"
Skell hesitated. He was in a tough position, and Rodrick felt a whisper of sympathy for him. To back down now would be to show weakness, but being killed by an outsider's magical sword in the arena would hardly cover him in glory, either. The one advantage of showing weakness now was its basic survivability.
