Prince of the Blood (34 page)

“What do you think this is about?”

Ghuda shrugged. “With an Isalani, who can tell? They’re mystics—seers, shamans, fortune-tellers, and visionaries; they are also the biggest bunch of thieves and swindlers in Kesh. He probably bilked those three.”

With a shout of frustration, one of the men drew a sword and swung in earnest at the Isalani. Borric jumped off the wagon, which was moving slowly as the road was gently rising into the foothills of the Spires of Light, and Janos Sabér, the caravan master, was keeping his horses to a slow walk to preserve them. Sabér shouted, “Madman, get back to your wagon! Leave this alone.”

Borric gave a vague, reassuring wave and hurried toward the odd game of tag, crying out, “What passes here?”

The odd-looking man on foot didn’t halt his dodging and ducking for an instant, but one of the horsemen—the one with the plumed hat—turned and shouted, “Stay out of this, stranger.”

“I know your temper grows short, friend, but using a sword against an unarmed man seems excessive.”

The rider ignored him and spurred his horse with a shout, riding directly at the Isalani. Another rider had begun a similar attack, and instantly the Isalani was moving between the two. The first rider veered, and realized too late he had made the wrong decision. As the Isalani danced away, the two horses collided, and as horses will, one decided it was time to bite the other, which resulted in the second horse deciding it was time to kick the first, the net effect of which was the second rider being thrown. Swearing an oath, the first rider waved the third back, lest the accident be repeated. Then he turned to discover the butt of the Isalani’s staff in his face and in a moment he, too, was on the ground.

The third rider—the one with the leather vest—didn’t hesitate, but came cantering toward the fray, and turned sideways at the last instant. He dodged in his saddle as the Isalani attempted to dislodge him with his staff. The rider avoided being dumped by the Isalani, who stood to his left, but suddenly found strong hands on his tunic, reaching up from the right side. Borric pulled the rider out of his saddle, and half tossed, half pushed him to where the other two were regaining their feet.

“That was a mistake,” said the first rider, who had a long sword out and ready. And from his expression as he advanced, he meant to have blood.

“Well,” said Borric, getting ready for the fight as the
other two riders turned their attention to the armed caravan guard, “it wouldn’t be the first one I’ve made.” Under his breath he said, “Let’s hope it’s not the last one.”

The first warrior raced forward, attempting to overwhelm Borric by surprise. Borric adroitly stepped aside, slicing the man across the back of the thigh—one of the few places unprotected by his leather armor—as he passed, sending him to the ground with a painful and incapacitating wound, but one which would eventually heal.

The second and third riders realized they faced a very skilled opponent. They split up, the man with the plumed hat circling to the right, and the man in the leather vest moving left, forcing Borric to guard two quarters from attack. Borric began talking to himself, a habit Erland had been poking fun at since they were boys. “If they have the brains of a pound of pepper, the lout on my right will feign an attack while the thug on the left comes at me.”

Suddenly Borric took the fight to them, pulling his parrying dirk and springing left, moving the off-side attacker back. He was instantly around as the man who had been on his right attempted to seize the opportunity presented by an exposed back. But at the moment he sought to strike a blow, Borric spun and took the blow upon his dirk, counterthrusting a second later, delivering a serious stomach wound to the man in the ornate shirt and cavalier boots.

As the man fell away, a gurgling cry of pain on his lips, Borric whirled and found the last remaining rider approaching him cautiously. Borric swore to himself. “Damn. This one knows what he’s doing.” The Prince had hoped the man in the leather vest would make the same mistake as the other two and rush him.

The rider approached the Prince warily. What he had seen told him he indeed faced a very skilled warrior. The two men circled one another, not sparing any attention for anything else. Then the Prince saw a pattern of steps.
Softly to himself, Borric said, “Step, slide, step, slide, cross over. Come on, you beauty, repeat it. Step, slide, step, slide, cross over.” Borric grinned, and when the man again cross-stepped, Borric leaped to the attack. The slight turning of the body was the opening Borric needed. He drove the man back with a furious combination of slashing blows and thrusts with the dirk.

Then the rider countered and took the offensive, and Borric found himself being driven back. Cursing the fate that put a long sword in his hand instead of a rapier, he attempted to parry and regroup. Muttering under his breath, he said, “This bastard is good!”

For what couldn’t have been more than five minutes, but seemed hours to Borric, the two men evenly traded blows, answered every thrust with a counterthrust, every parry with a riposte. Sweat drenched both men as they struggled under the hot sun. Borric attempted every combination he had learned, only to find his opponent equal to the challenge.

Then there was a lull, as both men stood in the hot afternoon sun gasping for breath, the only sound the buzzing of flies and the rustle of wind in the tall prairie grass. Borric gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, feeling fatigue begin to nip at him. Now the struggle was becoming more dangerous, for beyond issues of skill, both men were weary, and fatigue could cause a fatal mistake. Seeking to end it, Borric leaped forward with a high blow to the head, followed by a snap blow toward the man’s legs. But even with the advantage of being able to parry with his dirk and free himself from the need of protecting his left with his sword, he still could not gain enough of an edge to bring the contest to an end.

Back and forth the advantage swung, first to Borric, then the plainsman, but each man successfully took the other’s measure. Perspiration ran down the plainsman’s bare chest and drenched Borric’s shirt, making fingers
unsure on hilts. Breath came in ragged pants as the sun continued to be the most merciless opponent of all. Kicked-up dust clogged noses and made throats raw, and still neither man could end the fight. Borric tried every trick he had been taught since boyhood and came close several times to wounding his opponent. But close was all he got. And he narrowly avoided being wounded on as many occasions. Then Borric realized with a chilling clarity that at last he had overstepped himself; he faced as good a swordsman as he had ever seen, one perhaps with less native ability than the Prince, but one with a great deal more experience.

For a moment, they paused, each man facing the other, both crouched, panting for breath as exhausted bodies trembled with fatigue and tension. Both men knew the first to make a mistake would be the one to die. Borric drew in gasping breaths of air, trying to find one last reserve of energy. He stared at his opponent, knowing the man did the same. Neither man wasted breath on conversation, and each waited for the moment when enough strength would return to press the attack again. Then, with a loud intake of breath, the plainsman rocked forward on his feet, gave a cry of anger, and forced himself to a running charge. Borric sidestepped and brought his sword and dirk up to block the cut, then drove his knee into the man’s stomach. As the plainsman’s breath erupted from him, Borric pushed him away with a boot to his side, disengaging his sword. The plainsman fell over backward, hitting the ground with another explosion of breath. Springing after, Borric brought his sword down on the dirt as his opponent rolled away. Then he felt something behind his heel and his balance was lost.

Borric had gotten too close, and the man had hooked his heel with his foot. Now Borric was on the ground and rolling, seeking to get clear and regain his feet. Spinning around, Borric came to his knees, only to find the point of
a sword coming at his face. Then another sword interposed itself, and the first blade was knocked away.

Borric looked up into the bright glare of the sky and saw Ghuda standing with his hand-and-a-half sword interposed between the two combatants. “If you two boys are finished …?” he said.

The horseman looked up and the fight seemed to drain away from him. It was obvious that a fresh opponent stood ready to act if he continued being combative, and from Ghuda’s appearance and the size of the sword he carried, one willing and able to cause much damage. Borric relented by simply holding up his hand and waving it weakly. The rider backed away a few steps, then simply shook his head. “Enough,” he croaked, through a dust-caked throat.

Suli peeked out from behind the large warrior and came to give Borric a drink from a waterskin.

To the rider, Ghuda said, “Your two friends are in need of help. One of them is in some serious danger of bleeding to death. It would probably be to his benefit if you got him to a chirurgeon.

“And you,” he said, turning to Borric, “had better look down the road to see where you’re supposed to be instead of larking about with these silly children.”

Borric watched the other swordsman turn his attentions to his friends. The man with the leg wound he helped to his feet, and they both examined the man who was wounded in the stomach.

“Where’s that capering lunatic?” asked Borric, taking another drink of water.

“I don’t know,” said Ghuda quizzically. “I lost track of him when I stepped in between you two prodigies.”

“Well, he couldn’t have vanished, could he?” said Borric.

“Gods’ truth, Madman, I don’t know. Nor do I care.
Janos Sabér was less than amused to see you go scampering off like that. What if this lot had been a diversion for an ambush on the other side of that hill? Could have been a nasty turn, and that’s a fact.”

Putting away his large sword, Ghuda motioned for the younger swordsman to give him his hand, and as he helped Borric up, one of his big gloved fists struck Borric in the side of the head, driving him back to the ground.

Shaking his ringing head, Borric said, “What was that for?”

Ghuda shook his fist at Borric. “For being a stupid son of misery! Dammit, boy, it’s so you’ll learn to act like a responsible guard and do your job! It could have been an ambush, couldn’t it?”

Borric nodded, and said, “Yes, I suppose it could.”

Borric got to his feet unaided and Ghuda motioned for the Prince and the boy to come along. As they stepped onto the road, Borric said, “I just wish people would stop thinking the best way to teach is to beat the lesson into me.”

Ghuda ignored the remark and said, “You spent too much time with the rapier, Madman.”

“Huh?” said the exhausted Prince. “What do you mean?”

“You kept trying to skewer that fool, and with the long sword that’s a bit of a task. No damn point, and unless you grab the forte with your off hand and really drive the thing, all you’ll do with the point against an armored opponent is irritate him. You missed a half dozen chances to hand that bloke his head, if you ask me. If you’re going to live a long life, you’d better learn to use a sword with an edge on it, as well as one of those Krondorian pigstickers.”

Borric smiled. The rapier had never been a popular weapon until his father, as fine a swordsman as ever held a
sword, had become Prince. Then it had become fashionable, but obviously not south of the Vale of Dreams. “Thanks. I’ll practice with it.”

“Just don’t pick an opponent who’s quite so determined to kill you next time.” Looking down the road at the dust of Janos Saber’s wagons, he added, “Now that they’re heading downhill, it’ll be half the day catching up. Let’s get a shake on.”

“Oh, let’s not,” answered Borric, expended from the exertion in the heat. He had gradually been getting used to the savage Keshian midday sun, but he was still not as adept at moving about as those born to it. He drank lots of water and fruit juice, as did Ghuda and Suli, but still found himself weakening quickly in the heat. He wondered how much was due to his brush with death in the Jal-Pur Desert.

Cresting the hill, they saw the caravan of Janos Sabér moving sedately down the road. And sitting on the end of the last wagon was the Isalani, feet dangling off the tailgate, as he ate a big, bright orange. Ghuda pointed and Borric shook his head. “He’s the clever one, isn’t he?”

Ghuda started trotting down the road, and Borric forced himself to do likewise, though his arms and legs felt like damp cotton. After a few minutes, they overtook the last wagon and Borric managed to pull himself up on the tailgate, while Ghuda climbed up next to the driver, and Suli scampered ahead to the cook wagon.

Borric let out a long sigh, then took a good look at the man he had rescued from the three plainsmen. The Isalani was nothing to look at: a bandy-legged, short fellow, with the features of a vulture. His head was a thing of squat asymmetry, almost square, and perched oddly atop a gangly neck, giving him a comic appearance. A fuzz of hair sprouted around the base of his head and over his ears, showing he needed only aid nature a little in his depilatory duty. His eyes were arrow slits as he grinned at
Borric, and his skin was a golden hue, a color Borric had only seen a few times on some citizens of LaMut who were of Tsurani heritage. With a merry note in his gravelly voice, the Isalani said, “Want an orange?”

Borric nodded and the strange-looking man took one out of the rucksack he had been so fiercely hanging on to during the encounter with the three riders. Borric peeled back the orange and pulled out a wedge and sucked the sweet juice from it, while the odd man handed another one up to Ghuda. The old caravan guard asked, “What was all that about back there?”

The man shrugged, his grin staying in place. “They think I cheated them at cards. They were very angry.”

“Did you?” asked Borric.

“Perhaps, but it was of little matter. They were cheating me.”

Borric nodded as if this all somehow made sense. “I’m called Madman.”

The grin broadened. “So am I at times. At other times I am called Nakor the Blue Rider.”