John Carr - Kalvan Kingmaker

Several of Alfgar's fellow chiefs had to restrain him from trying to kill Ulldar with his bare hands. When the uproar had subsided, Alfgar had found his voice again. "I will fight with the handspear against your ax, you godless son of a she-bitch who weaned you on stinkcat piss!"

"Let it be done, then," Sargos pronounced. His rage was already fading, and in its place were doubts that he was really in the hands of the gods after all. If he fell-and Alfgar promised to be a formidable foe-neither he nor his son would ever see the Tymannes great longhouse again.

Why not be hopeful? he thought. If I win, it will prove the gods' favor and my own prowess as well. Then all the chiefs and clan headmen assembled here will proclaim me Warlord, and those lesser chiefs who are not here will quickly follow. Cast the bones and let the gods see to where they fall-by Thanor's Hammer!

Sargos led the chiefs and headmen out to the square in the middle of the longhouses. The rain was still falling and what had already fallen made the square a sea of foul-smelling mud. Sargos judged this would be to his advantage: Alfgar, a plainsman, could seldom have fought on foot, on a slope and in mud up to his ankles.

Sargos' hopes quickly faded, as Chief Alfgar lost not a moment in charging-his spear point passing only a few fingers from Sargos' thigh. Mud splashed high, but Alfgar seemed as fleet as a boy. Again, Sargos avoided the Alfgar's jabbing spear thrusts, While Alfgar danced away from his return strokes with the ax.

So it went for a half-score of passes. Sargos quickly realized that he had one advantage. Alfgar was so confident of his greater youth and strength that he was careless of what fighting in mud would do to them. If the time ever came when Alfgar could not move away in time-

As if to warn Sargos against hopefulness, on the next exchange Alfgar drew first blood. It was barely more than a thorn prick and on Sargos' left arm, but it held an arrogant message: I can do this at will. The next time, who knows where it will be?

Both warriors' friends had been shouting threats and promises. If Alfgar won, there would be a permanent broach between the Grassmen' and Sastragathi chiefs. At this first blood, all fell silent and remained so. Althea watched with a stubborn set to her jaw and one hand on her knife's handle. At that moment he knew, that even if Alfgar killed him, his rival as Warlord would not be far behind in going to Wind.

Sargos said nothing at all. He had better uses for his breath.

In time the rain stopped. Both men now bled in five or six places, though nowhere seriously. Sargos began to wonder if he would have breath for any use at all before long. Beyond any doubt Chief Alfgar was spending his strength freely. Alfgar's feet began to slip, and Sargos used this opportunity to bring his axehead down to Alfgar's torso. The plainsman used his spear butt to ward off the blow, but at the cost of two of his fingers-taken off at the second joint.

Alfgar's hand was bleeding and his energy was slowing, but he'd had rather more than Sargos to begin with. The mud, it seemed, might not be the gods' way of saving Ranjar Sargos. Nor could he trust to his luck in avoiding a crippling wound much longer. Alfgar made a thrust that would have disemboweled him had he not jumped in time, slipping in the mud. Sargos had to use all his arts in war while he still had the strength and speed to use them.

Silently he prayed to the gods, Aram One-Eye, Thanor, Fryga, Yirtta, Tyron, Myrr: Guard my folk and my son. Send them wisdom and courage, if there is justice in you. And if you sent Kalvan to be as a wolf to the flocks, then you are not the true gods and my spirit will tell my sons to worship something else!

"Pray for an honorable home for your spirit, old man," Alfgar sneered. "It will soon need one."

Then he sprang forward so fast that if Sargos had not been prepared, both in mind and body, for the final grapple he would have been doomed. As it was, he had already begun to turn when Alfgar closed, presenting his left thigh to the thrusting spear.

Offered a target, Alfgar thrust hard, forgetting that his target was mostly bone. As his spear point grated on that bone, Sargos' long arms whirled His left gripped the spear, jerking it from Alfgar's hand. In the blink of an eye, Alfgar slipped his knife out of its sheath.

Sargos' right arm brought the ax down hard on Alfgar's knife hand, as it leaped toward Sargos' groin. For an instant the gods might have turned both men into stone. Then the knife splashed into the mud.

The spear whirled in Sargos' hand, then struck Alfgar's belly, which instantly sprouted a curious red bloom. The knowledge of what had just happened was just dawning in his eyes when Sargos' ax came down upon his head, crushing his left cheek and jawbone.

"The gods have spoken," Sargos gasped. He hoped if more needed to be said, the gods would say it themselves. Neither his wits nor his wind seemed to be fit for the task, and, as for his legs, he prayed they would not tumble him into the mud beside his foe.

Ranjar, son of Cedrak, you are too old for this and so you will learn the next time not to confuse the voice of the gods with the memories of your own youth.

Egthrad and Old Daron, chiefs of his own Clan, ran forward to aid him, but were pushed aside by Althea. "Stop treating me as though this was my first wound!" he growled. "It's more like my tenth, and one of the least." In truth, it would need some care, and he would be riding more than walking for the next moon quarter. But only the flesh hurt.

In his ear, Althea whispered, "You own them now. It was a magnificent victory."

Meanwhile the crowd around him had grown and was beginning to chant, "Sargos! Sargos! Warlord Sargos!" He wasn't sure if his own Clansmen had started the chant or if it was a spontaneous outburst; regardless, he knew how to grasp the moment and squeeze it with both hands. He stepped back and raised his arms.

Together, Headman Jardar Hyphos and his son stepped forward and lifted Alfgar's motionless body.

Behind them came Chief Rostino. He knelt before Sargos and pressed his forehead against Sargos' hands. "The gods have truly spoken. What do they wish, Warlord Sargos? That we swear to you?"

Had it been a Sastragathi chieftain making this pronouncement rather than a Plainsman, there might have been jeers and catcalls-as it was there was naught but silence.

"The gods ask little," Sargos panted. He took several deep breaths until he found that he could hope to speak instead of gasp. At least I will ask little. The gods will not help a man who asks for more than those who follow him are willing to give.

"Little indeed," Sargos repeated. "Only that you follow me in war and peace, save when I ask for war against blood-brothers or peace with blood-enemies. And that you yourselves are bound by this oath until I release you or Wind take you."

"I swear-" Chief Rostino began, but Sargos stopped him, extending his hand to help him to his feet.

"Rise. I will have no brave warriors swearing anything to me on their knees. That is more pride than the gods allow."

There was a boisterous round of oath-taking as many of the assembled chiefs, who had not already done so, swore their allegiance to Ranjar Sargos as Warlord.

After all the oaths had been given, Sargos said, "Let us take a visit to the bathhouse, while the women heat us some beer. Or there is wine if any of you wish it."

Sargos could not tell what drew more enthusiasm, the gods'judgment, the baths, or the prospect of a good drinking party.

Present-aaarrrmmmmsss!"

Fifty bayoneted muskets snapped into position across fifty Hostigi breastplates. A hundred sabers leaped to the vertical. Even in the watery spring sunlight, the reflection from all the steel made Kalvan blink.