Robert Adams - Swords of the Horseclans

“That was a pirate trick, Lord Paulos,” Alexandros panted. “Now, with your help, I’ll show you another.”

“Keeping the Vahrohnos’ blood-gushing right arm skewered on the sword, Alexandros stepped closer and began to strain upward on his buckler, forcing Paulos’ higher … and higher, as the weakened, throbbing left arm began to fail. The knife-edged rim of Paulos’ buckler drew closer and closer to his own throat. Closer, still, blood from his gashed chin dripped onto it.

When it was bare inches away, Paulos gasped, “My lord, please, I beg you!”

“Thirty-six men,” hissed Alexandros. “Thirty-six slain, and how many more dishonored because they feared you?”

Up came the rim of the buckler, and so still had it become that they might have been alone. Up, closer, ever closer.

Tears joined theisweat pouring down Paulos’ face. “As you love God, my lord, if you’re going to do it, do it quickly! You have a sword. Why must you torture me so?”

Savagely, Alexandros jerked his blade from the useless right arm and Paulos tensed, then raised his chin. But the Sea Lord did not thrust. “As I recall, you intended to emasculate me ere you killed me. I am not so crude, but perhaps I’ll take an eye or two. Eh?”

The cursive rim of the buckler was now pressed hard against Paulos’ flesh. As the dripping sword point neared his eyes, he jerked his head to the side . , . and cut his own throat!

Paulos remained briefly erect, the two bucklers dangling from one limp arm. His lips moved, but only a gargling sound issued from him. Then his knees buckled and he pitched onto his face.

The cool, dry air of the guards’ armory was as refreshing to Alexandros as a cool swim, after the mugginess and heat of the practice yard. Furthermore, its thick granite walls muted the laughter and shouted conversations of the crowd to a dull muttering, so that the long, narrow room seemed a place of peace, despite its rack upon rack of weapons.

The Sea Lord sat slumped in a camp chair, his cuirass replaced by a thick cloak, that he might not chill and stiffen, while Djeree Pahtuhr sponged his head and face with a mixture of warm water and wine. Feeleepos dragged over a low chest and lifted the young victor’s booted feet, now filthy with blood and dust, onto its top, then started to unbuckle the greaves.

Alexandros opened his eyes, raised his head enough to see the officer, and shook it, saying, “No, Fil, leave them on. They don’t bother me. And, remember, I’ve another match this morning. Don’t let that sword I used get away, either; it’s nicely balanced.”

“Small chance of that, Alex,” chuckled Djeree, whose broad grin had never left his face since the gory demise of Vahrohnos Paulos. “I entrusted your steel to a couple of my lads to clean it and restore its edge.”

Drawing up another chest, Feeleepos seated himself and commenced to knead the twitching thigh muscles of his charge. Djeree laid aside his sponge and applied his powerful hands to the neck, shoulders, and upper back. Since both were veteran warriors, they knew just where their ministrations would be most effective, and soon had their subject completely relaxed, his arms and legs no longer trembling.

There was a tentative rap on the heavy doors. Then one opened enough to admit one of the guards’ officers. Feeleepos arose. “What is it, Stahvros?”

Smiling, the officer rendered Alexandros a formal salute. “My lord, that was a beautiful piece of work out there! I am sorry to disturb you, but another of the late Vahrohnos’ pack is in the corridor. He demands audience.

When the doors were opened, in came Lord Shaidos, flanked by two men who had also been guests at Paulos’ ill-starred party. The Vahrohnos’ former second was very pale, his lips had become a thin, tight line, and a tic spasmodically jerked at his cheek. But Alexandros could detect no panic or fear in the black eyes, only a dull resignation.

Old Djeree straightened and chortled, “Hawhaw, Alex, boy, look who’s come to try and weasel out!” If the visitor heard Pahtuhr, he gave no indication of it, addressing Alexandros directly. “Lord Alexandros, I must confess that I was not expecting this outcome. I have sent some friends to my home for my panoply, but it may be as long as an hour before they return. If you wish to fight me immediately, however, it is your option; if so, sir, I am sure I can be fitted out from the arms in this room.”

The Sea Lord shrugged and spoke in flat, disinterested tones. “Lord Shaidos, I’ll not force you to fight with unfamiliar weapons. Take all the time you need or wish. Also, why don’t we change our meeting to a blood match? I’ve no real reason or desire to kill you.”

Shaidos’ lips twisted wryly. “You are most magnanimous, sir, and I thank you. But, no, I’d as lief be dead as live in penury; you see, I wagered all I owned on poor Paulos.”

The Sea Lord shrugged again, then pushed to his feet. “As you like, sir. But should you experience a change of heart, your gentlemen can find me in the guards’ officers’ baths. I feel the need for a hot soak.”

As he walked toward the door, he heard old Djeree grate, “I’ll expect my twenty-five hundred thrahkmehs to be paid me before your suicide, lordy-boy Shaidos. I dislike collecting from widows!”

Once again, Senior-Captain Nathos soberly recited the rules and procedures, but added, “Lord Shaidos, I am informed that Lord Alexandros is willing to settle for a blood match. Is this agreeable to you?”

The gold traceries on Shaidos’ enameled helmet flashed to the shaking of his head.

Nathos sighed. “Very well. You may retire to your squares, gentlemen.”

Alexandros’ doubts that the dispirited Shaidos would fight were speedily dispelled. The garishly attired man trotted forward at the first tap of the drum roll and, without preliminaries, launched a lightning attack, his sword a silvery blur.

The Sea Lord -managed to catch or turn every slash and thrust on his target and sword blade, but the contacts jarred him to the very bone. Shaidos was obviously stronger than he appeared. Doggedly, he remained on the defensive, staving off attack after precipitate attack, knowing that his opponent must soon burn himself out—no mortal man could maintain such violent exertions for long.

And so it proved. Gradually, Shaidos’ blows and stabs were delivered with less force, his foot and shield work perceptibly slowed. As the target involuntarily fell enough to disclose his strained, streaming red face, Alexandros stamped into the offensive, sweeping aside Shaidos’ blade with a swing of his shield and thrusting, straight- armed, for his foeman’s eyes.

He very nearly made it! Shaidos raised his target barely in time to save his eyes; even so, the hard-thrust weapon took him just under the rim of his gaudy helmet, sinking two inches into his forehead. Not realizing what had happened at first, Alexandros jerked with all his might to free his blade from whatever was locking it. Reluctantly, it came free with a sucking noise … and Shaidos’ lifeless form pitched face-down on the sand at his feet.

That he bent to turn over Shaidos’ body was all that saved Alexandros’ life. The throwing-ax meant for his face caromed off his helmet, filling his head with flashing light and a red-black roar, and driving him to his knees. He neither saw nor heard Hulios, who followed his ax with a leap over the barrier and dashed toward the dizzied Sea Lord, shrieking and sobbing, the ax’s twin held over his head. The slender boy managed two strides before a pair of black-shafted arrows thumped into his heaving chest. Still, dead on his feet, he essayed throwing the ax, but it flew far wide, striking the hot sand at almost the same time as Hulios’ fine-boned body.