Bob Shaw: The Wooden Spaceships

Toller leapt back well clear of Karkarand to gain some respite from the punishing contacts with the black sword and to give himself time in which to think. He could see now that Karkarand’s weapon was thicker and heavier than an ordinary battle sword—more suitable for formal executions than prolonged combat—and only one possessed of superhuman strength could use it effectively in a duel. The heart of the problem, however, lay in the odd fighting style which had been adopted by Karkarand. An unrelenting series of vertical strokes was probably the best technique, albeit chosen unwittingly, for countering the secret additional power of Toller’s steel sword. If he wanted to survive—and thereby prove his point—he would have to force a radical change in the style of combat.

Hardening his resolve, Toller waited until Karkarand’s sword was again raised above his head, then he went in fast and blocked the coming downstroke by locking the two blades together at the hilt. The move took Karkarand by surprise because it could only have been completed successfully by an opponent of greater physical strength—and such was manifestly not the case. Karkarand blinked, and then with a snort of gratification bore downwards with all the power of his massive right arm. Toller was able to resist for only a few seconds before being obliged to yield, and as his opponent’s drive gained momentum he was actually forced into an undignified backwards scramble which almost ended in a fall.

The onlookers, who had advanced to form a circle, raised some ironic applause—a sound in which Toller detected a note of anticipation. He played up to it by bowing towards Chakkell, who responded with an impatient signal to continue with the duel. Toller wheeled quickly on his opponent, now feeling satisfied and relieved, knowing that the upper sections of the two blades had been in contact long enough for Karkarand’s weapon to have been liberally smeared with yellow fluid.

“Enough of this play-acting, Kingslayer,” Karkarand growled as he drove forward with yet another of the swishing, murderous vertical strokes.

Instead of fending it off to the right, Toller—using smallsword technique—swept his blade over and around the blow, and concluded the movement by striking across the line of it. Karkarand’s sword snapped just below the hilt and the black blade tumbled away across the gravel. Running a few paces towards the ruined weapon, Karkarand emitted a cry of anguished surprise which was amplified by the stillness which had descended over the crowd.

“What have you done, Maraquine?” King Chakkell bellowed, his paunch surging as he strode forward. “What trickery is this?”

“No trickery! See for yourself, Majesty,” Toller called out, his attention only partially centred on the King. The duel would have been ended or suspended had the normal Kolcorronian rules been in force, but he had assessed Karkarand as a man to whom behavioural codes meant nothing, who would always go for the kill using any means at his disposal. Toller faced the King for only an instant, judging the time available to him, then spun with his sword held level in a glittering horizontal sweep. Karkarand, who had been running at him with the organic club of his fist upraised, slid to a halt with the point of Toller’s sword in his midriff. A crimson stain spread quickly in the coarse grey weave of his tunic, but he held his ground, breathing heavily, and even seemed to be pressing forward regardless of the metal which was penetrating his flesh.

“Make your choice, ogre,” Toller said gently. “Life or death.”

Karkarand stared at him wordlessly, still without backing off, eyes reduced to pale venomous slits in the vertically compressed face, and Toller found himself making ready for an action which had become foreign to his nature.

“Use your brains, Karkarand,” Chakkell said, reaching the scene of the confrontation. “You would be of little use to me with a severed spine. Return to your duties immediately—this matter may be concluded another day.”

“Majesty.” Karkarand stepped backwards and saluted the King without once allowing his gaze to stray from Toller’s face. He turned and marched away towards his quarters, the ring of spectators hastily parting to let him through. Chakkell, who had been happy to indulge his subjects as long as he had believed Toller would be slain, made a dismissive gesture and the crowd rapidly dispersed. Within seconds Toller and Chakkell were alone in a sunlit arena.

“Now, Maraquine!” Chakkell extended his hand. “The weapon!”

“Of course, Majesty.” Toller opened the compartment in the haft, revealing the shattered vial bathed in yellow ooze, and a pungent smell—reminiscent of the stench of whitefern— permeated the warm air. Holding the sword by the lower part of the blade, Toller passed it over to Chakkell for inspection.

Chakkell wrinkled his nose in distaste. “This is brakka slime!”

“A refinement of it. In this form it is easier to remove from one’s skin.”

“The form is of no account.” Chakkell looked down and nudged the discarded handle of Karkarand’s sword with his foot. The black wood of the blade stump was visibly seething and frothing under the action of the destructive fluid. “I still say you resorted to trickery.”

“And I maintain there was no trickery,” Toller countered. “When a superior new weapon becomes available only a fool stubbornly clings to the old—that has always been a precept in military logic. And from this day forward weapons fashioned from brakka wood are obsolete.” He paused to glance up at the looming convexity of the Old World. “They belong up there—with the past.”

Chakkell returned the steel sword and broodily paced a circle before again locking eyes with Toller. “I don’t understand you, Maraquine. Why have you gone to such lengths?Why have you taken such pains?”

“The felling of brakka trees has to stop—and the sooner the better.”

“The same old tune! And what if I suppress all details of your new toy?”

“It’s already too late for that,” Toller said, turning a thumb towards the line of military quarters. “Many soldiers saw the steel sword survive the worst shocks that Karkarand could inflict, and they also saw what happened to his blade. It is beyond the power of any ruler to restrict that kind of knowledge. Soldiers will always talk, Majesty. They will feel uneasy, and resentful, if required to go into battle armed with weapons they know to be inferior. If in future there were to be an insurrection—perish the thought!—the traitor leading it would ensure that his soldiers were equipped with steel swords of this new pattern. That being the case, a hundred of his men could rout a thous—”

“Stop!” Chakkell clapped his hands to his temples and stood that way for a moment, breathing noisily. “Deliver twelve examples of your damned sword to Gagron of the Military Council. I will speak to him in the meantime.”

“Thank you, Majesty,” Toller said, taking care to sound gratified rather than triumphant. “And now, about the reprieve for the farmer?”

There was a stirring in the brown depths of Chakkell’s eyes. “You can’t have everything, Maraquine. You overcame Karkarand by deceit—so your wager is lost. You should be grateful that I am not claiming the stipulated payment.”

“But I made my terms clear,” Toller said, appalled by the new development. “I said I could defeat the best swordsman in your army as long as I held this sword in my hand.”

“Now you’re beginning to sound like a cheap Kailian lawyer,” Chakkell said, his smile stealing back by degrees. “Remember you’re supposed to be a man of honour.”

“There is only one here whose honour is in question.”