Dragon Weather (50 page)

“You would risk overthrowing humanity's freedom, then?”

“I have no intention of killing the Duke unless
you
carry out your own vile threats,” Arlian retorted. “If this legend is genuine, then whatever comes of it will be as much your responsibility as my own.”

“Charming,” Enziet said through clenched teeth. “So you propose to continue our stalemate, then?”

“By no means,” Arlian said. “I would be pleased to meet you outside the walls in a duel, fought fairly and to the death. I would need your word that there will be no treachery, that none of your hirelings will strike me down from hiding…”

“
I'll
fight you,” the man in brown interrupted. “An even match, as you say. Better that than listening to you rave!”

“Iron, remember,” Toribor said. “He killed Kuruvan.”

“Kuruvan was a mortal,” the man in brown answered, his eyes locked on Arlian. “He's a dragonheart—but just a boy, for all that.”

Toribor glanced at Enziet, who stroked his chin thoughtfully.

“That might well solve the entire problem,” Enziet said. “If you want to, Iron, I am not inclined to object.”

“Lord Iron, are you?” Arlian asked. “Also known as Horim?”

“I am,” Horim replied. “Do you dare face me, child?”

Arlian smiled.

“I would be delighted,” he said.

42

Swords Beyond the Gate

The city gates stood open, and Arlian marched steadily down the cobbles toward them. Horim walked in parallel several yards to Arlian's left. The normal street traffic parted before them, and their assorted companions trailed behind.

Black broke from the little crowd, trotted up behind Arlian, and whispered, “You know this is a trap, don't you?”

Arlian glanced over his shoulder at Lord Enziet and the rest of the party, coming along to observe.

“No, not them,” Black said. “It's Lord Iron. How do you think he got that name? He's killed at least a score of men, and probably a few women as well. He's one of the deadliest swordsmen in the Lands of Man. I suspect Lord Enziet set this whole thing up to get rid of you.”

Arlian glanced at Enziet again, then at Horim. He saw no sign of fear or even nervousness on either face.

“You're probably right,” he said. His mouth tightened into a frown, and his stomach knotted at the realization that he was striding boldly to near-certain death. “Then it seems I'm to die with my revenge incomplete,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “I trust you to tend to my business and household, and see the women and the Aritheians to safety.”

“You could still turn back,” Black suggested.

Arlian smiled sadly. “No,” he said. “I couldn't.”

“Idiot,” Black said.

“Maybe I am,” Arlian said. “I'm trusting in Fate, I suppose. I couldn't live with myself if I turned back now.”

“Ah!” Black threw up his hands in disgust. “Fine. Have it your way.” He turned aside, and Arlian marched alone through the city gates.

He was scarcely past the outer edge of the wall when the sound of a sword leaving its scabbard warned him; he spun to find that Horim, also now just past the gates, had already drawn his blades and was charging across the cobbles toward him.

Women screamed and the travelers and tradesmen in the gateyard scattered.

The sword was in Horim's left hand, swordbreaker in his right—Arlian had less experience against left-handed foes. He noted that detail even as he dodged sideways and unsheathed his own sword, barely in time to parry the attack. He recovered quickly; by Lord Iron's second lunge Arlian had his own swordbreaker out as well.

Oddly, he was not surprised or unsettled by the attack; in fact, he was relieved. He was committed now. Perhaps Black's warning was responsible for his calm acceptance. He felt none of the sick uncertainty he had felt in the duel with Kuruvan; Horim had challenged him and was seriously trying to kill him, whereas Kuruvan had been bullied and goaded into fighting.

Horim's left-handedness was an inconvenience; using the swordbreaker for anything other than parrying Horim's became problematic. Arlian had practiced this sort of asymmetric swordplay, but not as much as he now wished he had—he had known Lord Dragon was right-handed, and had not anticipated finding himself in his present position.

Horim knew that, of course, and was trying to take advantage of it, making circular attacks that would have been stupid against a fellow left-hander, but which got handily around Arlian's guard. Arlian dodged, but felt the sword blade tug at his velvet jacket.

One of the watchers gasped. Arlian was only vaguely aware of the wide ring of people that surrounded the two of them; his attention was entirely on his foe.

He remembered one ruse Black had shown him—parry and lock blades, but unevenly, so that his opponent would have an opportunity to use his swordbreaker in the way that gave it its name. Except while he was doing that, Arlian would be able to plunge his own swordbreaker into Horim's side or belly, more or less as he had struck Kuruvan.

It was a risky maneuver, but he was at a disadvantage here—he had the greater size and reach, but Horim was strong and quick, with far more experience at cross-handed combat. He made the attempt, deliberately parrying too far along his blade …

Horim laughed aloud; he dropped his swordbreaker to guard even before Arlian moved to strike, and used the deliberately faulty position of Arlian's sword to force the blade aside and launch an attack of his own. Arlian had to turn and bring his swordbreaker up across his chest to deflect Horim's sword.

That left him in an awkward, half-twisted position, his swordbreaker locked with Horim's sword, his own sword turned uselessly off to the right, and Horim's right hand and swordbreaker free. Lord Iron tried to take advantage of this, plunging the swordbreaker toward Arlian's side, but Arlian rammed his left elbow down and knocked the blade away, ducking under Horim's sword. That left his shoulder open to a slash, but that would not kill him, where the point of either the sword or swordbreaker might.

And it gave him a chance to bring his own sword back into position.

That put the two men back on even terms, and too close together to fight effectively; both stepped back, almost simultaneously.

Arlian saw that Horim was grinning; he was obviously enjoying himself.

Arlian was not.

Horim feinted, and Arlian parried. Horim slashed, and Arlian dodged.

He needed a plan, Arlian thought. He needed to do something more than react to Horim's attacks. His own stunt hadn't worked at all; Horim seemed to have expected it. He was obviously familiar with the usual tricks used to counter a left-hander's advantage.

Arlian tried to think through the situation without distracting himself from the fight. He was younger, maybe faster, taller, with a longer reach; Horim was stronger and more skilled.

Horim also wore that peculiar brass tube around his right arm. That puzzled Arlian; if it were meant as armor, shouldn't it be on his
left
arm? And why did a man called “Iron” wear brass?

Attack, parry, riposte, counter, feint, parry, in a lightning exchange.

Horim was vastly older than Arlian, and it might be possible to tire him out, wear him down—but he was a dragonheart, so it might not be.

Feint, lunge, parry.

What
was
that thing on his arm? Arlian could see that it was made in two pieces, hinged together on one side and overlapping in a sort of latch on the other.

The two men circled each other, there on the pavement, in an open area roughly fifteen yards across encircled by the men and women watching the duel.

That damnable brass gadget fascinated Arlian; it gleamed in the sunlight and he almost missed a parry. Angrily, he reversed his grip on his swordbreaker.

Horim's wolfish smile faded at that, and he looked puzzled. A swordbreaker held point-down was of no use in any normal fight.

Then he shrugged and went into a high attack. Arlian parried it readily enough, but instead of a riposte or disengagement he charged in closer, locking the swords together so that they crossed at face-level.

Horim's right hand came up to block an attack with the swordbreaker, but Arlian's short blade was pointing
down,
not at Horim's throat or chest, so the block missed, and Arlian was able to ram the point down toward Horim's arm and into that latch.

He pried, and the brass tube snapped open and fell away with a tearing sound.

Horim's right hand spasmed, and his swordbreaker dropped from twitching fingers; he screamed, then retreated, tearing away as quickly as he could, giving Arlian a chance to slash the tip of his sword lightly across Horim's chest as they separated.

Arlian did not pursue immediately; instead he took a good long look at his foe.

Horim had gone pale; he was obviously in pain, unable to control the fingers of his right hand. His right forearm was a thin, sickly-white thing, nothing like the strong, tanned left; it was misshapen, gnarled and twisted.

And Arlian saw why. Half of it was missing, and what was left was largely scar tissue, bearing the badly healed marks of gigantic teeth. Like so many members of the Dragon Society, Horim still bore the signs the dragons had left upon him. He had braced his ruined arm with metal—but that had probably weakened it further in some ways, as the flesh received no air or sunlight and the muscles could not move freely, could not exercise properly, did not support their own weight. With the brace in place he could use it—his grip was probably as strong as ever when his wrist wasn't spasming—but without the supporting metal he was crippled.

No sensible opponent would ever have bothered to attack the one place Horim was armored, as Arlian had; it had been a mad curiosity, rather than any conscious reason, that had prompted Arlian's action. Still, it had worked very much to his advantage.

Arlian kicked Horim's dropped swordbreaker away and advanced.

Horim still fought, but now he was on the defensive, and he was obviously unaccustomed to fighting without a swordbreaker. His right arm twitched and his empty hand flopped up whenever Arlian attacked on that side.

His sword hand was still strong, though, and his skill had not deserted him; he parried attack after attack, retreating across the pavement. The audience retreated as well, pulling away as Horim approached.

Arlian was careful to keep Horim moving
away
from the gates; he was not about to lose this opportunity for vengeance to his Society oath.

The duel dragged on for what seemed like hours, and both men began to weary. Swords flashed back and forth, darting at throat and chest but always turned aside. Arlian pressed forward on his left, Horim's right, more than would have been wise ordinarily—but this was no longer an ordinary match, and Horim responded by twitching away.

And then finally Arlian lunged in with his swordbreaker, and Horim brought his sword over to counter, and Arlian's sword punched up under Horim's jaw, through the soft flesh beneath his beard and up into his brain.

Horim made an appalling gurgling noise; his eyes flew wide and blood spat from his open mouth, blood that seemed to shine unnaturally in the summer sun. Then he slumped to his knees, his head falling back, and as Arlian withdrew his reddened blade Horim crumpled lifelessly to the ground. Blood ran from his mouth and throat, pooling on the paving stones and shimmering as if blown by a faint breeze.

Arlian felt no breeze; he thought that trace of movement must be from Horim's fading pulse. He stepped back and waited, arms tingling with fatigue, as Lord Toribor dashed forward into the circle to attend to the fallen Lord Iron.

Arlian could not imagine how even a dragonheart could have survived that thrust, but he did not leave, nor clean and sheathe his blades, until he heard what Toribor found.

For that matter, he could scarcely trust Toribor not to carry on the fight himself so long as they were both outside the gates; he stood with steel still bare in each hand, waiting.

“He's dead,” Toribor said, kneeling over the body, his hand behind Lord Iron's ear feeling for a nonexistent pulse. “He's cooling already; he must have been dead as soon as he hit the ground.”

Arlian let out his breath in a long, wavering sigh. Then he turned and marched toward the city gates, his weapons sagging but unsheathed.

As he did he listened carefully for any hint that Toribor was coming after him, and he scanned the crowd for Lord Dragon. He would not have been at all surprised to find one or both of them attempting to finish off the job Horim had failed at.

No one moved to stop him, and no attack came. When he set foot on the threshold of the gates Arlian let out another sigh and slowed his pace. He sheathed his sword-breaker and groped for a handkerchief as he walked on into the city.

Then Black was there beside him. “Not bad,” he said.

Arlian let his breath out with a shudder and mopped his face with one end of his handkerchief. He sat himself heavily down upon the edge of a stone horse trough, then set to wiping his sword clean with the side of the cloth that was not already moist with sweat.

Black stood beside him, watching the crowd warily. No one came near them; apparently no one wanted to congratulate the victor. Toribor and three others were hauling Horim's corpse across the plaza and into the city, and the crowd was beginning to disperse; Lord Dragon was nowhere to be seen.

“The women,” Arlian said. “Horim had two of the women. Who are his heirs? We'll want to buy the women free.”

Black didn't reply; instead he remarked, “We have company.”

Arlian looked up to see Lady Rime hobbling toward him, cane and peg leg thumping and wobbling on the cobbles. He stood and sheathed his sword.

“My lady,” he said.

“Lord Obsidian,” she said. “My congratulations on your victory. An impressive performance—did you know about Iron's arm, or was that luck?”