The Death of Nnanji (32 page)

Yes! Just for an instant, the Fifth left himself open. Vixini nicked his shoulder. Malaharo lowered his blade and examined his cut, which was barely bleeding.

“Yield!” Ozimshello shouted.

“Offer refused,” Pollex responded. “Fight on!”

Vixini slammed his sword against the side of Malaharo’s head. Although he did not put anything like his full strength into the blow, it was quite hard enough to cut into the man’s brain—had he used the edge instead of just the flat. Malaharo dropped and lay still. He might have a nasty bruise, but he was faking his coma.

Total silence. No one quite knew what to make of that performance. Vixini shrugged. Too weary even to sheath his sword, he dragged himself over to the Fex spectators in search of water. The laughter and jeering began.

“Yield now?” the reeve of Fex inquired.

“Refused,” replied the reeve of Plo. “Master Malaharo, get up and kill that man, or I will sentence you to death for cowardice.”

“You,” Vixini shouted, “are a bloody turd! No one else here can tell you so, but I can, and do. As a swordsman, you aren’t fit to clean out a barracks latrine. Murderer and child killer!” Gasping for breath, he sagged down on one of the stools that marked the boundary between spectators and fencers. The World was spinning, and he knew he was very close to his limits. He could not possibly expect to win a serious sword bout now. Any First could thrash him.

“This is becoming interesting!” Reeve Pollex announced, his face scarlet with rage. “Somebody drag that carrion away, and we’ll deal with him later. A Third, now a Fifth! How high can Babyface the Terrible go? Honorable Impendoro, are you willing to obey my orders and kill that brat?”

“Are you scared to try it yourself?” called out a familiar voice practically at Vixini’s back.

Pollex spun around to glare across at the speaker, who was the sorcerer Seventh, undoubtedly the grand wizard of Kra. “That would spoil the fun, my lord. If you aren’t enjoying this, go away.”

Vixini struggled to his feet, although it felt like bench-pressing an ox. He had just had a better idea. Why should he wait until the detestable Pollex found a willing executioner? While he had the chance, why not avenge Addis’s kidnaping and the atrocity at Soo? Why not die to some purpose? With the last of his strength and one mighty backhand slash, he cut off the sorcerer’s head.

Chapter 7

Krandrak’s head dropped and rolled. For a moment the rest of his corpse stood there, spouting blood high from the severed arteries, spraying everyone near. Then it collapsed.

Pollex cried, “Krandrak!” and ran forward a few steps. “That was murder!” The rest of the company was shocked into silence.

Well, yes, but it had felt good. What now?

“Justice, I’d say,” roared the other reeve. “Not murder. Good riddance. Swordsman Vixini, we’ll give you a fair trial and acquit you on the best excuse we can think of.”

“You’ll do no such thing!” Pollex roared. “That killer has to die now.”

Ozimshello whipped out his sword.

Pollex drew his.

“You dare to draw against your liege?” Pollex shouted.

“You are not my liege,” Ozimshello shouted back. He might be older, but he was equally loud. They were bellowing across the killing ground, like challenging bulls. “I gave you only the first oath, and that reserves my honor. My honor was vomiting at what you were doing to Shonsu’s son. I withdraw from your command and your war, and I take all the men of Fex with me.”

The men of Fex roared their approval at the top of their lungs.

The men of Plo jeered uncertainly.

“Treason!” Pollex said.

“Swordsman Vixini,” Ozimshello said without turning to look at him, “son of Shonsu, will the Tryst of Casr accept my allegiance and that of my liegemen in the garrison of Fex?”

Vixini had no ready answer for that. In his wildest dreams he could never have imagined such a question ever being put to him and he was too tired to think straight.

“Who massacred the people of Soo, my lord? Who slaughtered the men of the Tryst at Cross Zek? Who killed the two heralds? Who had our courier swordsmen killed, and who burned eight swordsmen alive in Arbo?”

“Not me and none of my men. Reeve Pollex and his sorcerer friends.”

“Then,” Vixini said in what he suspected must be the most outrageous usurpation of authority in the history of the World, “I accept your allegiance to the Tryst of Casr in the name of my father, Liege Lord Shonsu, swordsman of the seventh rank.”

With a roar of anger a sorcerer Third emerged from the crowd about eight feet along from Vixini and aimed a pistol at him with both hands. Before Vixini had time to accept that he was about to die, three swords came slashing down and another sorcerer died. His gun fired a shot into the ground.

That noise seemed to break the spell. Suddenly it was sorcerer-killing time again. Yells, shots, and screams of terror drowned out the seniors’ shouts for order. Even among the men of Plo, men and women in hooded robes were being struck down. Honorable Impendoro grabbed Vixini and dragged him into the crowd.

“Keep your head down, you great numbskull. You want it shot off?”

Silence fell when there were no more sorcerers to kill, quickly followed by a great yell of triumph.

Pollux bellowed, “To me!” His men flooded forward.

Ozimshello began barking orders to his own forces. Then the fight was on. Vixini lacked the strength even to draw his sword again, let alone fight anyone, but his arm was seized again by Impendoro, Malaharo’s mentor. “Come with us! You’ve done enough fighting for one day.”

Staggering wildly, Vixini tried to run with him, being dragged along in a mob of about a hundred swordsmen. Another hand gripped his other arm, and between them they rushed him forward.

“Great sword work, lad,” said his second supporter, a Third much older than himself. “Saw your dad years ago. Knew you the moment I set eyes on you. You fight like him, too.”

Vixini lacked the breath to reply. The moment they were clear of the tents, he realized that they were heading for the picket lines where the horses were tethered. The fastest runners were there already, starting to untie them. There would be no time for saddles.

“Stay out, you hear?” the Sixth repeated, releasing him. “That’s an order.”

Vixini was sworn to the Tryst, so it was doubtful that he had to take orders from anyone who wasn’t, except he had just claimed to swear all these men in… The truth was that he had no choice. He found a rail to drape himself on, accepting the fact that he was almost out on his feet. He was young and strong and, he believed, tough, but every man has limits.

Horses were rampaging everywhere. The men of Fex were scrambling aboard bareback, sometimes falling right off again. Already Plo men were arriving to dispute possession, swords clashing. No shots rang out, for any sorcerers left alive must be frantically seeking cover. If the gun crews managed to turn their canons around, of course, they could do enormous damage, but how would they tell friends from foes? How did anyone? Only by shoulder tags and Vixini didn’t have any. His bloodstains and bandaged arm made him conspicuous; Pollex’s men would kill him on sight.

Even without saddle or stirrups, a swordsman on a horse had a slight advantage over one on foot, but the men of Fex were outnumbered. The civilians had all fled in the direction of the River. There was a lot of dust and shouting: Plo! Fex! Plo! Fex! Plo! Fex!…

Dad had always said that the epics made it sound simple, but real battles would be very confusing places. Fortunately Ozimshello had been the first to see the importance of the horses, so he had more cavalry while the cavalry lasted. Now he was trying to make a fighting withdrawal to the dock. Vixini doubted that there would be many left alive to board ships, even assuming there were any ships left to board. Smart captains would have cast off the moment the fight broke out. But he had better stay ahead of the fighting, so he heaved himself off the rail and began dragging his feet down the slope, struggling to stay upright. If he lay down he would pass out cold, and then what?

Then… Surely a hallucination? Men singing? Yes! They were singing the anthem of the Tryst at double time:

The swordsmen in the morning come with glory on their brows,

With justice on their shoulders borne,

And honor in their vows.

Evil they will overcome and righteousness espouse.

Her swords go marching on!

Several hundred swordsmen were running toward him, and Vixini knew the burly, beetle-browed Seventh in the lead. He stopped and stared as the Seventh detoured to reach him.

“Vixini!”

“Lord Joraskinta!”

“Goddess! What is going on?”

“Violet tabs good, red ones bad. Tryst and counter-tryst.”

“Right. Healer! Come and take this man. Violet shoulder tabs are our lot, men… Pass it on.”

For a moment longer Vixini just stood there, resisting the efforts of a healer to pull him away, acknowledging waves and grins from the army running past him. Poor Dad! After all the work he had done in the last half year, it looked like he had missed the war.

BOOK FIVE:

HOW SOME SWORDSMEN

FAILED TO RETURN

Chapter 1

At about the same hour of the morning as Adept Malaharo and his men were taking his mentor into custody, Novice Addis was standing on the deck of a smelly little freighter, anchored just offshore of Plo. His ankle was still tethered, his hands tied behind him, his arms badly cramped. He was staring up at the city and the great mountains behind it.

Plo was a very big city. Addis had not lived all his life just in Casr. He’d already traveled more than most men did in all their days. For the last two summers he’d worked as a sailor on Grandma Brota’s
Sapphire II
, going all the way around the RegiVul Loop as far as Ov. In the last half year he’d seen many great cities on the journey here, but Plo topped every one of them. The docks went on forever, all full of ships. The temple near the waterfront was humongously big, and its seven spires were plated with gold. That enormous castle on the hill must be where the king lived, the king who wanted to listen to him dying. That did not feel like a good idea at all.

His head had stopped aching and life would be good again if he could just escape from the sorcerers.

“Hungry?” Capn asked, appearing with a basket and a large beaker. There were sausages and fruit in the basket.

“Starving, thank you for asking.” Hard to speak when his mouth was watering so much.

“You can have this if you’ll swear not to make any trouble or try to escape.”

The part about not making trouble was all right. But not trying to escape was not.

“Stuff it.” Addis went back to admiring the view.

“You’re a stupid, stubborn brat.”

“You’re an asshole.”

Capn laid down the food and drink and untied the prisoner’s hands.

“No promises,” Addis said, flexing his arms at last.

“No promises at the moment, but you’re going to find the trip up to the palace a lot less comfortable without them.” The sorcerer leaned back against the rail to watch the prisoner eat, as if he thought Addis might untie his tether and leap overboard.

Addis sat. He ate greedily, being careful not to look at the nail. It was a large, rusty nail, almost a spike, but not so big that he couldn’t hide it in his fist if he got the chance. It was bent. Someone had thrown it away in disgust and it lay in a corner of the deck, out of reach as long as his ankle was tethered. If he could get that, he would have a weapon—not much of a weapon, but better than bare hands.

He ate everything, which wasn’t very much. Capn tied his hands behind him again before removing the basket and mug. Sly assholes were the worst sort.

A man in a dinghy hailed the ship and then came alongside. He bore sailor facemarks, but the way he and Capn spoke to each other suggested that they were well acquainted. There was no use asking him for help, but when Capn dropped him a rope ladder and he climbed up, he left the boat tied but unattended. That looked promising.

Capn went below. Another of his gang came to untie Addis. He was a big man, probably more blubber than muscle, but the bigger they are, the harder they fall. It was a long time since Swordsman Helbringr’s martial arts lesson, so Addis didn’t try anything fancy. He rammed two fingers at the man’s eyes and kicked the back of his knee. The man went down with a crash, but he caught hold of Addis’s ankle as he tried to run. Addis fell headlong. He tried to bring a foot around to kick his opponent’s nose in, but the man was too strong for him, and no stranger to roughhousing. He dragged Addis to him and slammed a fist in his face, knocking all the fight out of him.

“Stop that!” Capn said, coming up the ladder.

“Little slug tried to get away from me.”

“Of course he did. Put this on him.” He had brought a white sorcerer robe.

Addis didn’t try to resist as they dressed him up as a novice sorcerer. He didn’t have to open his hand, though—the one now clasping the nail.

“Look down there,” Capn said, pointing at the dinghy.

Addis looked. “What about it?” But he could guess that he was supposed to see the barrel in it.

“That’s how you’re going to travel unless you promise to behave yourself. We’ll gag you, bind you, and nail you up like salt fish. And when we get you to the palace we’ll roll the barrel down off of the cart, just as if that’s what you are, understand?”

“What do I have to promise?”

“Swear on your honor as a swordsman that you won’t cause any trouble.”

Addis thought about it. “On my honor, I so swear,” he said reluctantly. Escape hadn’t been mentioned this time. What the sorcerer thought of as making trouble, he would consider to be getting out of trouble, so they disagreed on what had just been agreed. And if Capn was so worried that he might escape, then there must be a reasonable chance that he could.