Robert Adams - The Witch Goddess

At the first crash of mailed fist upon the door to the princely chamber, Bili sprang up with such force that he almost threw the lighter Rahksahnah off the other side of the broad, long bed. Extending a hand unerringly in the dark, he gripped the wire-wound hilt of the unsheathed battle brand he habitually kept beside his bed of nights.

Swiftly and silently on his bare feet, he crossed the room from bed to door, the sword held at low guard, ready to fend off, to thrust or to slash. The heavy fist slammed against the thick door again, this time accompanied by a voice that Bili at once recognized, so he drew the bolts and opened the massive portal to see in the now-lit hallway Gy Ynstyn, his bugler.

The stocky young man with the full brown beard—all Middle Kingdoms buglers wore beards, that among the generally clean-shaven hosts of warriors they might be easily recognized by commanders at a distance—was obviously very perturbed. His eyes were wide and his lips actually trembled as he spoke.

“Please, my lord duke… they, she… they’re going to fight! Arming even now… won’t listen to me or anyone… she… no chance, the lieutenant will kill her!”

Bili leaned the sword against the doorjamb, grabbed both of Ynstyn’s upper arms in his big, hard hands and shook him savagely. “Make sense, man! Who’s fighting? And where?” But not even this seemed to help, so Bili soundly slapped the face of the bugler, then snapped in command tones, “Bugler Ynstyn, report !”

That worked. Years of professional soldiering in the condottas of the north brought the burden of ingrained discipline to order the turmoil in the man’s mind. He came to attention and spoke in a controlled voice. “Your grace, Bugler Gy Ynstyn begs to report that Lieutenant Kahndoot and Trooper Meeree of the sub-squadron of Moon Maidens are in the process of arming to fight a duel, this night, in the main armory of the tower keep. Full-armed Maidens guard both the stairways and forbid entry to all men or Kleesahks, declaring that it is Maiden business and will be handled by them and only them.”

“All right, then,” said Bili brusquely. “You and those two guards bring a light in here and help me and the lady to arm. I’ll put a halt to this duel foolishness, and that damned quickly, too. If they’re so hot to see blood flow, there’re still thousands of Ganiks out in the hills for them to put steel into.”

Sir Bili, Thoheeks and chief of Clan Morguhn, with the Brahbehrnuh Rahksahnah by his side, and closely trailed by his bugler, Gy Ynstyn; Acting Captain of Freefighters Frehd Brakit; and Vahrohneeskos Gneedos Kamruhn of Skaht, strode purposefully across the expanse of lea separating the hall of Sandee’s Cot from the grim old tower. His armor and weapons clanked and jingled to his stride, and the look on his face was as cold and menacing as the honed edge of the massive axe he bore in one powerful hand.

Up the outer stairs he went, then across the thick plank into the recessed doorway. The door swung open before him and he clanked on, wordless, through the first-floor entry foyer to where a flight of stairs led upward around the inner curve of the tower.

From somewhere above came the clash-clang of hard-swung steel on steel, along with the shuffle-stamp of combatants’ bootsoles and the rattling-jingling of their armor as they moved. He did not pause, but put foot at once to the stone steps and started upward, trailed by his entourage, as well as quite a few more men from the first floor.

But around the first turn, his way was barred by a Moon Maiden. Armored, she stood, helmeted, a small, gleaming target strapped to her left arm and her shining saber held diagonally across her chest. “No man passes until we be done with Maidens’ affairs, above,” she grated in a tone that brooked no argument. But then, finally recognizing just whom she now faced in the dim flare of the torches, she stuttered, lamely, “I… I… sorry, Dook Bili… not even you, you man.”

Rahksahnah pushed around Bili. “And what of me, Ahbee? Am I, too, denied?”

Before the young woman could frame an answer, Bili simply reached his right hand forward and upward, gripped her right wrist and began to squeeze, easily fending off her attempts to use the edge of her targe, ignoring the kicks of her booted feet against his armored body.

Encased in that pitiless grip that could—and had—warped steel plates of armor, Ahbee withstood the pain, the grating of bone against living bone, as long as she could, then she was compelled to let go the worn hilt of the saber. At the ring of the weapon upon the stones of the steps, Bili released the Maiden’s wrist and, pushing her ahead of him, climbed the stairs toward the sounds of combat.

It had been while Meeree, with the aid of two of the Maidens, had been arming that Gy Ynstyn had entered the small tower room they two shared. Still wearing his gambeson and helm, with his gauntlets thrust under his dirk belt, he reached up for his scaleshirt, where it hung from a wall hook.

“What is it, Meeree? An alarm? Where is my bugle?”

Impatiently, she shook her head and stamped a foot “Fool, keep you out of this affair. None of your man-silliness, this. I go to fight for my name, my honor.”

He just stared at her for a brief moment, then lifted down the scaleshirt, worked arms and head quickly through the openings and began to do up the side lacings with sure and rapid fingers.

“What do you, stupid man-thing?” she yelped. “Hear me do you not?”

Having done up the laces of the scaleshirt with the speed of the veteran warrior he was, Gy took down a plate cuishe and began to buckle it in place over his high boottop, speaking even as he worked. “You it is, lady, who said that your honor now is mine own, and mine yours. Has that honor been offended, we redeem it together. For are we not battle companions, now?”

“Senseless piece of masculine offal,” Meeree hissed in rage. “ Maiden duel, this is to be. To fight Kahndoot I go, and not even to see will you or any other man be allowed, so your armor take off… mow!”

Gy’s effort-flushed face abruptly paled above his beard. “Kahndoot? You… you go to fight Lieutenant Kahndoot, Meeree? No ! You must not, my lady. She is bigger and stronger than some men. She will kill you ! I will fight her, if one of us must; she and I are more of a size.”

Both of the assisting Maidens were touched by the bearded man’s obvious concern and unquestioning offer to take his lover’s place against the undeniably dangerous opponent. But not the bitter, bloodthirsty Meeree.

“Filled with horse turds your misshapen head assuredly is, you fatherless cur-dog!” With deliberate malice, Meeree threw the secret—which he had imparted only to her—of his bastardy at him. “To fight Kahndoot, I go! No help I need, not from such as you, man-thing.”

But Gy stepped forward, looking hurt and worried. “Meeree, are you ill? Feverish?”

“Get you out of my way!” she snarled at the concerned man, pushed past him and strode to the door. When he made to follow, one of the other two Maidens spun about, drew her sharp-honed saber and held the deadly edge bare millimeters from his throat.

Her voice firm, but her tone gentle, she said, “Good and most faithful you are, man-Gy, as any woman could be; true you are. But hold—custom served must be, even here. Please, to slay you do not force Ortha.”

“Mad!” Gy raged in impotence. “Meeree must have, assuredly has, gone mad! You… I… we must stop her!”

Ortha sighed. “Perhaps mad she truly is become, man-Gy. But forced this fight she did on Kahndoot, so to be it now must.”

The main armory, on the second floor, was big and high even for the outsized tower—which had been built by Teenéhdjook and Kleesahk, few of whom stood less than eight feet tall and all of whom were of a proportionate breadth and girth. Had it been lower to the ground, in fact, it was of a size to have been almost large enough for a riding hall.