Defiant Swords (Durlindrath #2) (13 page)

Aranloth spoke. “I cannot see the future. I’m weak, and
foresight comes and goes to rhythms of its own. The choice, O king, is a hard
one. I discern the potential for great harm, but also the chance of great good.
It hangs in the balance.”

Gilhain thought about that for a moment and then raised an eyebrow.

“They say a lòhren’s advice can be two edged. Now I know
what they mean.”

“Advice is a serious business, my King. It’s easy to give,
but harder to get right.” The old man sighed. “But since you press me, I’ll add
this. I cannot foresee the outcome of a fight between Lornach and Hvargil, and
without that I can offer nothing that you don’t already know. And
yet
, Brand chose the Durlin. He chose all of them, and
whatever twist of fate made
him
who
and what he is, made him someone to whom you would entrust the fate of the kingdom,
may well
also
touch
those he chose to surround himself with. Luck gathers luck unto
itself.”

Gilhain considered that. He was not sure if it added
anything to the lòhren’s previous comment, but time to decide ran out on him.

“Gilhain!” his half-brother called. “Enough of this! Will
you gossip and talk all day like an old washerwoman with her cronies? Fate
waits for no man. Decide, and be done with it!”

Gilhain grinned at him “I’m in no hurry, Hvargil. There’s
nowhere pressing I have to go, and fate, like death, comes when you least
expect it. So you will discover when you’re older – if fate is kinder
to you than you deserve. But as it happens, I’ve made my choice.”

Shorty wore the white surcoat and armor of the Durlin. He
looked resplendent, as they all did in the uniform. But he did not feel like
it, nor did he care to be. They all insisted on calling him Lornach now, even
Brand when they were not alone, but he had been Shorty all his life, and there
was an attitude that went with his true self even if it did not match his true
name. He did not give a damn for wealth or position or influence. What excited
him was adventure, and that was something that he felt now. Adventure, risk and
exhilaration
all
coursed
through his veins. He felt alive.

He was outside the Arach Neben, the west gate of the
Cardurleth. The steel emblem that decorated it, the representation of the
Morning Star, was the last thing that he saw before he turned to face the
horde. The entire mass of the enemy, and the single man that for just a moment
embodied it – Hvargil, was before him.

Nothing stood between him and the great mass of foes who
would like to tear him to pieces, and never had he felt more alive.

But they would not tear him to pieces. At least not just
yet. And he would do his best to ensure that Hvargil did not either, for the
king had agreed to make him his champion, and he therefore represented, at
least for a little while, the entire city of Cardoroth.

He felt
alive
, and he intended to stay that way.

The Durlin never wore any special ornament or insignia, but
for this occasion Aranloth had tied about his waist a cloth
belt
in the colors of the king, and the Eagle of Cardoroth
was
blazoned upon it. It felt strange
to wear it, for none but the king were allowed to bear that
emblem
on
their
person
,
and even Aranloth, who had watched
him
all
the
while
with tired
eyes
,
had given him a strange look at the end.

Hvargil strode to meet him. The small band that had come
with the traitor to the wall withdrew. The two men faced each other between the
city wall and the dark mass of the elug horde.

“You?” the man who would rule Cardoroth said. “You’re the
king’s champion? Why don’t you come back when you’re full grown?”

Shorty grinned at him. “I’m short,
my King
, he said
sarcastically, but I’m not stupid. You’re trying to upset me so that I fight
rashly, and that means that you’re scared. And well should you be, for you know
nothing of me, but I know all about you.”

“Well, I know this much. You’ve learned a few Durlin tricks,
for just now you’re trying to insinuate doubt into my mind. But enough of these
games. Let our blades speak.” 

Hvargil donned his helm that he had carried under his arm.
It looked to Shorty much like Brand’s, only it was perhaps more
beautiful
, for the wings on it flicked back like a graceful
hawk in flight. But the horns on Brand’s spoke of mad battle and a will of
adamantine determination that would never falter.

And then Hvargil drew his sword with a flourish. It nearly
seemed to leap from the sheath of its own accord, and the pattern-welded blade
shimmered and caught the light from jewels and precious stones on the hilt and
threw it into the air like a mist of light. Shorty had a sudden sense of what
it would be like to face Brand in battle, and it was not a good feeling.

But it was not Brand before him. It was an enemy. An enemy
of Cardoroth, and someone that Shorty despised. He held his own grudge against
this man, and he would now seek to repay him for past treachery. Justice called
for no less.

And he who stood before him did not have Brand’s quiet but
strong presence. Nor was the sword the same. Brand’s was plainer, for this was
covered in strange runes of victory. Shorty had seen their like before, though
he could not remember where. But he realized that the runes were an addition
made well after the sword’s ancient forging, and probably ordered by Hvargil
himself. No, he was not like Brand at all.

Shorty donned his own helm. It was unadorned, but of good
quality. Yet no helm would protect him from a full-blooded blow of a Halathrin
blade. Skill alone would see him through this situation, if anything could, and
not armor.

He drew his sword. It did not ring as it came from the
sheath. It did not glitter as though cold flame burned inside it. It was not
pattern-welded nor marked by runes of power. Yet it was well made, and he kept
it sharp. And though it had none of the long history of a Halathrin blade that
was forged before the Camar migrated west, it had a history for
him
, for
he had used it since he was little more than a boy, and before that it had
belonged to his father. There were thousands like it in the city, but it was
his
,
and he knew the feel of it in his hands with surpassing familiarity.

Hvargil gave the customary bow before a duel. He bent at the
waist, but not low, and the point of his sword touched the ground. That was an
insult, and though Shorty was not of the nobility he knew it. A dirty blade was
more likely to lead to infection, and it was a mark of disrespect.

Shorty gave his own bow. He kept the point of his sword low,
but it did not touch the ground. He bowed his head also, as was the custom. But
he dropped it a little lower than he was supposed to, and he squeezed his eyes into
slits.

Hvargil did not surprise him. The man-who-would-be-king
straightened and flicked dirt up and into Shorty’s face. It was intended to
blind him, and so it might have if not for his precautions.

Shorty kept his head low and sunk into a fighting crouch.
The dirt flew about his face and some pebbles rang against his helm, but it did
not affect him.

Hvargil was poised to attack, but he saw that his trick was
of no avail and did not move in.

“A low ploy,” Shorty said. “But further proof that you’re
scared. If you really believed in your superiority you wouldn’t bother with the
like.”

Hvargil grunted. “And nor would you with your continued, but
nevertheless futile, efforts to seed doubt into my mind.”

They began to circle each other. Hvargil moved with grace
and balance. Shorty stayed lower and moved less.

Hvargil struck the first blow. His blade flicked out, and it
was met by Shorty’s. Steel on steel rang through the air like the one-off peal
of a small bell. And then they separated once more. It was nothing more than a
first test, and yet they both learned much from that single touch.

Shorty knew Hvargil had a reputation as a great fighter. Yet
still a shiver of fear ran through him. He now knew that reputation was well
founded, for his opponent was incredibly quick and also strong. It was not a
common combination. And to make matters worse, Hvargil had the greater reach.
Yet Shorty was used to fighting taller men, and he had his ways to deal with
that. He began to wonder if they would be enough though.

Gilhain leaned on the battlement, his hands gripping tight
the stone. “Lornach is outmatched,” he whispered.

Taingern answered him. “That man has been outmatched all his
life, but he’s still alive. His is a heart that does not give up.”

Aranloth did not speak, and Gilhain turned to him for an
opinion.

“What do you think?”

A long while the lòhren took to answer and it seemed as
though a great weariness was on him, or perhaps he was in some sort of trance.
But at length he replied.

“I do not see what you see. I perceive from afar the
elùgroths. They sit together, their minds bent upon the battle. They are near
the elug war drums. Those drums beat. Sorcery joins the sound, twines with it,
yet it is subtle and I do not see its purpose. I see Hvargil, full of pride,
but also of doubt. He has cast all he has in a desperate gamble by joining the
elùgroths and making this challenge. He is desperate and deadly dangerous.
Lornach is fearful. But he knows in his bones that live or die this fight buys
time, if nothing else. It buys time for Brand, and every hour that we survive
is another hour in which Brand may yet prevail. And he senses something else.
He senses it in the air, even as do I.
Sorcery
.”

Shorty felt sweat run down his back. His arms ached and his
wrists were sore. But he was untouched by his opponent’s blade. And yet Hvargil
was also untouched. They circled and fought and delivered blows and retreated.
All to no advantage. Not yet. But it could not go on like this. One of them
must soon land a blow.

His hands were clammy. He had a sense of impending doom, and
that was not like him at all. But he fought on, the sound of steel on steel
ringing through the air and the thrum of the blows running up his arm.

Suddenly, he saw a gap in Hvargil’s defense. He made to
strike, but even as his weight shifted he heard the war drums of the elugs
change beat and it seemed as though the very earth beneath his feet buckled.

Instead of striking a blow he staggered sideways, struggling
to keep upright. Hvargil had no such problem. His eyes gleamed within the
shadow of the helm and he seized his opportunity to attack.

The Halathrin blade darted like a tongue of lightening.
Shorty saw it come. He tried to withdraw, but he merely stumbled further, and
yet it was that which saved him. For instead of taking the blow to his neck,
the glittering edge missed
that
death
mark. Yet still it caught him a glancing blow on the
arm.

He leapt back. The sword fell from his grip, and red blood
dripped down his fingers. Pain stung him, sharp and deep.

Shorty stepped further away from his opponent. He drew his
knife, but he knew that he was a dead man. Not from his wounded arm: that would
need many stiches, but from lack of a real weapon. Hvargil stood between him
and his sword, and the sword was his only chance at life.

There was only one thing that he could try. He must somehow
distract his opponent and retrieve his weapon. But Hvargil looked at him with
cold, unblinking eyes. He was not a man to give such chances, and he stalked
forward now, confident and poised.

Shorty saw no reason to draw things out. He flung the last
weapon he had. The knife spun through the air. It was no defense against a
sword, but in this way he might be able to use it to throw his opponent off
balance for just long enough to get passed him and reach his blade.

Hvargil saw the blade coming. Whether his reflexes were
excellent, or he guessed the move in advance, Shorty did not know. But his
enemy merely lowered his head and the knife struck sparks off the helm and
clattered away. Hvargil barely moved, and there was not one chance in a
thousand of getting past him. Shorty did not even try.

“Ready to die, little man?” Hvargil asked.

Aranloth stiffened. “Too late I understand the foul
sorcery,” he said.

“Can you help him with lòhrengai?” Gilhain asked.

“No,” the lòhren answered. “It takes time to do something
like what the sorcerers did, and anything more obvious would only work against
us in the end. Lornach is on his own.”

“Then he is doomed,” Gilhain said. “A weaponless man cannot
beat the likes of Hvargil.”

Taingern, standing close but not taking his eyes off the
battle, spoke.

“A Durlin is never weaponless,” he said.

Shorty looked for some sort of an opening, for anything. But
Hvargil gave him nothing. Worse, he had decided out of spite to move backward
and pick up Shorty’s own sword. That was his best opportunity to attack, but
Hvargil was waiting for him to do it. Shorty could feel his expectation, and
let the moment pass because of it.

Hvargil flung the blade far behind him. Shorty had the
strange feeling that he would never again hold the familiar hilt in his hand,
the same hilt that his father had gripped. A slow anger began to burn inside
him.

Hvargil advanced. Shorty retreated. It occurred to him that
he could run back to the gate, but that was not in him. He could also beg for
mercy, but that was not in him either. Nor did he think it would be granted.
Hvargil did not understand the concept of mercy.