Korval's Game (19 page)

The Liaden returned the bow with fluid grace, then brought his fist to his shoulder in a proper salute.

“As you say,” he agreed, and climbed back atop his crate. “Let us now consider technicalities.”

Together,
they pushed the storage crates in front of the door. On them went: a rifle, a pack, a long-knife, boots, another pair of boots, several more knives—including one sheathed in fine black suede, the handle of which gleamed like polished obsidian.

They stood, toe-to-toe and barefoot, scout and explorer.

The Yxtrang looked down on his toy-like opponent, a line from a camp-song echoing briefly in his head:

A soldier’s opponent is more than might—

Little Jela was a demon to fight. . .

For clarity they went over the agreement, first the Liaden and then the Yxtrang, each speaking in the other’s language to be sure there was no difficulty in translation.

“Thus shall it be,” came the Liaden words from the Yxtrang: “should I prevail in this contest, I shall pursue my duty as I see it, you subordinate. Should the win be yours, I shall pledge myself and my services to you and your line until released.”

“The win,” said the Liaden in Troop tongue, “goes to the first able to count three on a vulnerable opponent; the loser yielding at once.”

They backed away, then, each looking the room over, perhaps measuring the luck of this or that corner, or seeking an advantage of light, or filling their mind with a last living vision, each already distant from the world.

***

The timer on
Val Con’s watch beeped.

He moved forward slowly, accepting both the necessity for motion—from the L’apeleka stance,
Desiring Difficult Desires
—and the need for caution.

From the other side of the large room came the Yxtrang. The face behind the tattoos had gone distant: intention hidden deep within the eyes while the huge body came forward gently, gracefully, inevitably. Val Con noticed that the Yxtrang’s feet, like his hands, seemed disproportionately delicate.

L’apeleka demanded the right elbow forward now; the Yxtrang answered by crouching a shade lower. Val Con pulled the arm in, saw his opponent’s shoulder rise in proper reaction.

They were beginning the dance with caution: both testing responses or lack of, until at once they were in and close, arms in motion, knives the honest threat. Could-be threats were of this, that, or the other throw or kick, a punch hidden behind the placement of elbow or flick of wrist.

Nelirikk feinted, saw the feint ignored, the threat parried before execution.

Val Con’s Loop evaluated the situation: a clear 43 percent Chance of Mission Success.

The Loop flicked away, lost in the sudden hugeness of the explorer, looming above, knife held so—

Val Con ducked, twisted—heard the hum of blade passing over—close to his ear, saw the big man recover a trifle slowly, used the heartbeat to barely touch an ankle with the blade—

And was past and behind, where he needed to be, but the foot placement warned him and he whirled away just ahead of the kick, Nelirikk grimacing with the effort it cost him to keep balanced.

The wall was barely an arm’s length from Val Con, forcing him to dart in close again. He found the move in L’apeleka:
The Blizzard Swirls
.

Hands, arms, legs, knees, feet blurred with the sequence—he got a kick in on a solid thigh, a knifeless punch high on a shoulder—and tried to dance away—too late!

The answering blow caught his shoulder, he spun with it, tumbled, whipped around to find the Yxtrang in full charge, leapt, kicked solidly at the face—and caught the ear as the other’s knife slashed his tough combat leather leggings.

Disengage.

The room was silent but for their breathing, and they backed away, each searching for signs of damage. The Yxtrang’s ankle had a small spot of blood; his ear was dark red. Val Con felt a slight sting; shrugged it out of consciousness—damage to his right leg was minor—no more than a scratch.

Nelirikk adjusted his belt with a quick hand.

Val Con tried to move in; was held off by the other’s long reach. He moved left; found himself faced. Right—and again the move was there, checking him, boxing him, trying—

Nelirikk was trying to get him into a corner, arms low and spread.

Val Con feinted right, feinted left, went straight in for half-a-step, then dove for the right arm, blade nipping out as he tucked—rolled—and felt the force of the blow on the floor behind him, gained his feet and whirled in time to see the Yxtrang’s blade bounce, once.

He was too slow: the knife was recovered.

Both were sweating now; the floor was slick with it and with dripped blood, making a slip or misstep all too likely.

As if by common consent they moved downroom to a drier patch of floor. It seemed neither wished to be on the right side of uncertain footing.

CMS flashed behind Val Con’s eyes: 41 percent.

He grimaced, and the Yxtrang started moving in, perhaps taking it as a sign of despair.

Val Con drew back as if to throw the blade; Nelirikk glided casually away, adjusting his belt as he came back again, hands protecting face but leaving shoulders and thighs vulnerable. Val Con glanced at the unbladed hand—empty.

Three seconds! How many times had they already threatened each other with—

Val Con tried again to close; was fended away. Nelirikk lunged, Val Con twisted, avoided, skidded on dampness—snatched a moment to recover his balance.

A moment was too long—a heavy arm swung out, slamming him off his feet and into the wall. He bounced, rolled and came up, knife in hand, shoulder aching, but unbroken. There was blood on the floor from his leg.

This time he feinted a slip as the Yxtrang closed; wrapped himself around that massive knife arm and punched his blade into the upper shoulder.

Nelirikk grunted, shook—and Val Con was airborne again, flung loose like a hound from a bear. He came up and around as his opponent tossed his knife to the undamaged left hand and charged.

Val Con gave ground, saw the trap—

Nelirikk slipped on a smear of blood—and Val Con raced by, elbow lifting to fend off the descending blade—which was sharp, gods; a proper soldier’s knife, fit for slashing leather, flesh, bone . . . The blood was quick. Hot.

CMS flashed; he ignored it. What did the Loop know about necessity?

He slipped.

The Yxtrang nearly fell on top of him: he scrambled away in time to avoid the lunge, jumped to his feet, wiped the blood off his arm, saw the depth of the cut, shuddered—and moved in.

Move in. Move in. Move in. He needed to be inside that long reach if he had to kill the Yxtrang, if neither would yield—

He ducked back, avoiding a fist. Saw the curiously graceful hand move toward belt and check as he feinted in.

So he charged. Straight at the huge man, blade ready to slice or cut and—

He skidded, lost his knife, slid behind the Yxtrang, who snatched—and Val Con’s good hand flashed out, snagged the ring of metal on his opponent’s belt, and yanked.

Nelirikk saw the scout’s knife on the floor, bent, grabbed—

But Val Con had it now: a thin strand of cutting wire as long as his arm. He hugged the giant’s leg, pulled the wire loop hard—twisted, half-avoiding the hammer-blow of a huge fist—and hung on,
hung on
to the wire cord while oceans roared inside his ears and his vision went gray, ebbing toward black and Miri was there, terror sheeting her face, her hands overlaying his own on the wire . . .

The explorer went down. Val Con hung on grimly; clawed back to sense, pulled his knife to him with his bloody leg.

“One, two, three . . .” he gasped—let go the wire and came to his feet, as he must, knife in hand.

The Yxtrang lay half-sprawled on his side, knife held at throat-level, eyes distant. He sat up slowly, knife still high, eyes on Val Con’s face. With his free hand he fingered the bloody loop around his legs, mouth tight.

Val Con stood back warily, wondering if he could dodge a thrown knife, or avoid a sudden desperate lunge.

Nelirikk explored the place where the wire lodged in his right leg. A spasm of pain crossed his face, eloquent despite the tattoos. Carefully, he turned the knife in his hand, holding it by the blade as if to throw, weighing its balance—

Then held it farther out, toward Val Con.

“I neglected to ask,” he said in neutral Trade, “what language I should use when speaking to your captain.”

Val Con sighed, slid his knife away, and accepted the offering. He cleaned it carefully against the sleeve of his fighting leathers, inspected it, and found its edge undamaged. He extended a hand to the Yxtrang, who hesitated before using the assistance to stand.

“You have accepted a brave challenge, Explorer,” Val Con said in Yxtrang. “I must have the rest of the pledge before I may present you to my captain.”

The big man half-lifted a fist to salute, caught the gesture, and made a ragged bow. “As you say.” He paused a moment, either to recruit his resources or to puzzle out the most proper phrasing.

“I, Nelirikk . . .
I
, Nelirikk Explorer, pledge myself on Jela’s honor to the person and line of Val Con yos’Phelium. My blood is yours, now and until my death. May your orders bring glory to us all.”

Val Con bowed and held the heavy knife out across both palms.

“Your blade, Nelirikk Explorer. Wear it and use it as required, by my consent. The Tree and Dragon is now your shield also: I trust you will bring honor to us all.”

Nelirikk took the blade in wonder.

“Can you walk?” Val Con asked him.

“If required, my leader.”

Val Con shook his head. “Scout is sufficient for now, I believe. Do you rest while I go to bring my captain.”

***

Miri whirled
from the monitor as he came through the hatch, slamming her gun home with one hand and unclipping her belt-kit with the other. Behind her was Jason—and behind him were tel’Vosti and Erob.

“It is done.” Val Con said. “Miri, you will need to—”

“Hold him, Jase.”

Val Con stiffened; heard as if it had only now begun the song that was Miri within him—heard the terror and the beginning of the metamorphosis into anger. He sighed and leaned back into Jason’s bulk, muscles shivering with reaction.

Miri slashed the ruined sleeve to expose the knife wound, sprayed it with antiseptic; reached for a pain bulb—

“No! Miri, you must talk to—”

She looked at him straight, gray eyes wild, and wiped the sweat from his face with an antiseptic cloth.

“You’re mostly OK.” Half question, half accusation.

“Yes. Some pain, some wounds that will heal, but—”

“What in hell were you trying to pull?” she yelled, terror abruptly sublimated into rage. “Next time you want yourself dead, try a step off a hundred meter cliff! Whatever gave you—”

She bent over the arm, still yelling, slipped for a moment into an argot that made even Jason cringe and slammed back into Terran for, “Jase—gimme a double staple patch outta your kit.”

“Miri,” Val Con said.

She swabbed his face again—hard; leaving the bitter taste of antiseptic in his mouth.

“Miri?”

“You ain’t answered me, soldier! I wanna know where you got permission to pull such a damn fool stunt!”

“Necessity. Miri, please. It is done.”

“Done is it?” she snorted, and knelt to get at his leg. “You look it.”

“Attend me!” Val Con insisted, voice rising. He heard a faint pop as a sweat bubble broke in his ear.

She came up fast, eyes blazing. “Don’t you lose your temper at me, you scruffy midget!”

For one searing moment, Val Con thought she might actually strike him, so exalted was her fury. Apparently Jason thought so, too, for he dropped his grip and stepped back.

Miri took a deep breath, hurled her free hand into the air and leaned close.

“So tell me,
partner
,” she said, so sarcastically Jason retreated another step; “what’s the plan? Huh? What’m I supposed to do now? What’s the new gag? Yours all the way—so tell me about it.”

The sarcasm hurt; his arm hurt and every other bit of him, too. Ridiculously, he regretted the warm solidity of Jason to lean against, and took a breath, pitching his voice for neutrality.

“Miri, my Captain, I request that you also give aid to the man inside this room, who is waiting to see if you will accept him as a recruit.”

Her fear flared and his own anger melted. He reached to touch her cheek, which caress she allowed, shoulders losing some of the tension fury had lent.

“I said that I would sponsor him to you,” he murmured. “Do me the honor of at least speaking with him before he bleeds to death.”

She stared at him, anger and terror evaporating into wonder. “You want me to accept an
Yxtrang
as a recruit in a Terran-Liaden unit?”

“If the captain judges it wise,” he said carefully.

She considered him out of wary gray eyes. “And if the captain thinks it’s the worst idea she’s heard since she left Surebleak?”

“That is the captain’s right,” he acknowledged. “But you will still wish to speak to this Nelirikk and show him some care, cha’trez.”

“Why should I care a plugged bit what happens to him?”

“He is pledged to serve us, Line yos’Phelium,” he explained. “There are—obligations. Such as seeing that one’s servant has proper medical attention and does not needlessly suffer.”

She flung hand out toward the sealed hatch. “We
own
that?”

“Certainly not,” said Val Con. “One cannot own a sentient being.”

“Right.” She closed her eyes. “Other people,” she said, apparently to the room at large, “give their wives flowers.”

She spun on her heel, eyes snapping open. “Open the door,” she told the door-corporal and glanced back at Val Con and Jason. “The two of you got me into this; the two of you can tag along.”

Nelirikk stood,
awaiting the return of the scout. He dared not sit on one of the crates, for fear his wounded legs would fail when it came time to rise to the captain’s honor. He had made scant effort to clean himself, for it was no disgrace, that a captain might see a soldier fresh from soldier’s duty.