Robert Silverberg - Sorcerers of Majipoor

“Would you wrestle again, my good lord, or shall we have it out with broadswords?” Gialaurys asked. “For now is your last moment at hand, one way or the other.”

Farholt’s answer was a harsh grunt and a great sweeping downward blow with his sword that Gialaurys barely managed to block as it emerged at him out of the dark; but Farholt struck again and again and yet again in devilish heat, three great clanging strokes that Gialaurys managed somehow to defend against, and then a fourth that rang against his helmet and knocked him staggering, as he had staggered that day when he wrestled with Farholt at the games in the Labyrinth. His mind was sent awhirl and he wentwandering afew paces away, so that Farholt lost sight of him, and called out in the strange midday night, “Where are you, Gialaurys? Come: we have old business to finish here. For this is the final bout, and your carcass will feed the milufta-birds tonight.”

“Business to finish indeed,” said Gialaurys, still dizzied and awry, but inflamed now with red fury as never ever before. “Your corpse or mine, Farholt, meat for the miluftas in all truth. We will not both walk away from here.” And went lurching back to the place where he thought Farholt to be, and grasped his sword with both hands and swung it around sideways through the air in the darkness with such force as can be mustered only once of a lifetime, for he was riven through and through with hatred and loathing and contempt for this man who had dogged his days so long. And felt his blade connect with the sword of Farholt that was trying to parry, and turn it And went driving onward in that same single motion, and onward still, slicing through the armor about Farholt’s waist as though it were mere paper, and cutting deep into Farholt’s side and almost to his spine. Farholt made a single liquid sound and fell doubled up, and Gialaurys, standing over him, raised his sword up high again, but then even in the darkness came to understand there was no need to strike, for he had cut Farholt nearly in half with that one maddened swing.

In another part of the field Duke Svor, who had entered the battle because he saw no decent way to remain out of it, found himself jostling up against someone no taller than himself, and without pausing to think caught the man by his shoulder with one hand and pulled him up close against him, so that he could see into his face. And by the hard glint of his eyes he knew him to be none other than the icy-souled High Counsellor Farquanor, whom he had always detested more than any man in the world.

“I would not have thought to find you on this battlefield,” Svor told him. “For you are no warrior, are you, Farquanor?”

“Nor you either, I would say. And yet we are here. Why is that, do you think?”

“I because I am loyal to my friend. And you, I suppose, because you hoped to win some further advantage from Korsibar by displaying your valor to him, such valor as there may be within you. Is that it, would you say?”

All this while Svor continued to hold the squirming Farquanor by the side of his collar, pressing down on the collarbone beneath.

“Let go of me, Svor. We have no quarrel, you and I. Let these great belching animals here slaughter each other, but why should we fight? We are natural allies of the spirit.”

“Are we, now?” Svor laughed. “Tell me this, my dear beloved ally: was it you put Gonivaul up to pimping Thismet to me in the parley as the price of my defection? For that had the marks of your hand all over it.”

“Let me go,” said Farquanor again. “We can discuss these things some other time in some other place. Come, Svor, let’s flee this field, and leave these madmen to their destruction.”

“Ah, no. I will be a hero at last, I think. For the time has come for me to show that I can be valiant, at least when dealing with the likes of you.”

With that he drew the sword that he had used so infrequently in his life and took a step backward to run it through Farquanor; but just as Svor came lunging forward, Farquanor produced a poniard that he had worn at his hip, and brought it upward at Svor’s belly in a quick swift jab. It was only to be expected, Svor thought sadly, that Farquanor would have a little hidden weapon to call upon. But there was no avoiding it, and so he took the sharp point in his unguarded middle and felt the fire of it coursing like a river of molten metal through his vital organs. “Well done,” Svor murmured. “You are yourself to the very last, Farquanor.” And, saying that, drove his sword through Farquanor’s gut so that its tip emerged on the far side, which drew them together in a close embrace. They fell to the ground together, still locked in that strange hug, and their bloods mingled on the battlefield.

Prestimion had lost his second mount, the one given him by Gialaurys, slain out from under him as he wheeled through the black noontime calling to his men. He continued on foot, slinging his bow across his back and taking his sword in hand. Some light now had begun to come through once more as the spell of darkness weakened, and he saw all about him on the battlefield men dead and dying, and little battles going on here and there within the broader melee, and it seemed to him that his side had all the tide running with it. There was no sign any longer of that wall of men with shields Korsibar had stationed atop the hill, nor any fixed formations in back of them; the two armies had come together in mid-slope, muddled and chaotic, and the rebel forces appeared to be forming themselves in a circle around the shaken loyalists, pushing them ever tighter into a trap from which there was no escaping.

He sought for Septach Melayn, for Gialaurys, for Abrigant, for any familiar face. None of those could he find, but indeed shortly found someone familiar indeed, though not one to give him any joy. Coming up toward him out of the thinning darkness was Dantirya Sambail, in splendid armor somewhat marred by mud and scratches. He carried a bare sword in one hand and some rough farmer’s axe in the other. First the lackey and now the master, thought Prestimion. He was meeting with a surfeit of evil this day.

In the midst of that gory field Dantirya Sambail let forth a cheerful whoop.

“Well, cousin Prestimion, here we are! Shall we fight? Winner gets to be Coronal; for surely Korsibar has choked on his own bile by now, seeing his certain victory turned to ashes by your Triggoin sorcerers, and that leaves only you and me to contend for the crown. Sorcerers, Prestimion! Who would ever have thought it of you?” And the Procurator laughed his most raucous laugh, and lifted the axe up on high, and swung it through the air.

The strong sweeping blow would have cut through Prestimion’s arm at the shoulder, had it landed. But quickly Prestimion stepped forward and in and put his sword up so that the hilt of it clanged against the handle of the descending axe and turned it aside; and then thrust his face up against that of Dantirya Sambail, with his eyes staring deep into the beautiful, treacherous amethyst eyes of that ugly diabolic man.

In a low voice he said, “Put down the axe, cousin, and let there be an end to war between us. It is not in me to take your life; but I will if you force me to it.”

“You are a generous man, Prestimion. Your soul is very large,” said the Procurator with another boisterous guffaw, and his eyes became orbs of fierce purple fire. He leaned forward and down with his shoulder against Prestimion, intending to throw him to the ground, for Dantirya Sambail was half a head taller than Prestimion and had perhaps twice the bulk. But Prestimion leaped swiftly back. His sword, a light rapier to the Procurator’s heavy saber, had the same disadvantage of size that he himself did; but it was what he had, and he would use it.