A Man Betrayed (34 page)

Nabber squawked
indignantly. "Are you trying to kill me? Of course it hurts."

Tawl laughed.
"You'll live. That arm will be back to normal in a few days."

"Better had
be, my friend, that's my pocketin' arm." Nabber was feeling a little
annoyed at being poked and prodded. Tawl was taking the physicianing too far.
"Thanks to you I'll be needing to do even more prospecting when I'm better.
How could you save me and not my sack?"

"What was in
your sack?"

"Why, loot of
course. Gold, coinage, jewels-all good stuff."

"No,
Nabber," said the knight softly. "Not all the good stuff."

"What d'you
mean? Was anything saved?"

"Something
more valuable than gold." Tawl sat down in the hay. Nabber prayed that he
wouldn't reach for one of the skins, but he did. He took off the cap, but
didn't bring it to his lips. "What you did in the brothel was worth more
than the greatest treasure: you risked everything to save a friend." The
knight looked Nabber in the eye. "Nothing matters in life as much as
protecting the people you love."

The words burned
Nabber like a flame. He couldn't look any longer into the knight's face. The
truth of Tawl's pain was too unbearable to see. It was too naked, too
revealing. Nabber suddenly felt very small. His first reaction was to deny
himself: he didn't deserve any praise. "I was the one who got you into the
whole thing in the first place. If it wasn't for me, you would never have been
poisoned-"

Tawl shook his
head. "None of that matters. What counts is that you were there."

"If doing one
good thing can cancel out a hoard of bad stuff, then why aren't you trying to
find the boy?" The second the words were out of his mouth, Nabber knew
he'd gone too far. With one simple sentence he'd raised Bevlin from the grave.

The knight
surprised him with his gentleness. "No longer a boy, Nabber. Five years is
enough to make a man." Gaining courage, Nabber persisted: "Then why
don't we find him? I'll help you-you know, with coinage and the like. It will
be just like old times."

"There's no
going back to old times."

"But-"

"You know
nothing," Tawl was becoming angry.
"Nothing. A
world of good
deeds isn't enough to cancel out what I have done."

The desperation in
the knight's voice was enough to stop Nabber's tongue. He should never have
spoken so carelessly in the first place.
A
small part of him wondered
what else Tawl had gone through, for the pain he was experiencing seemed to
have more than one source. Nabber wanted to reach out to him, to help him, to
put his arms around him. Swift would have frowned on such softness, though. So
he spoke instead. "You should put some of that ointment on your arm.
A
burn
like that could get infected."

"It'll be all
right. It's more than a few weeks old now." Nabber stood up. "No, I
insist. If you're going to fight tomorrow night, there's a chance it might
reopen if it's too dry and stretched." He went over and knelt beside the
knight. Expecting to be brushed aside, he was surprised when Tawl held out his
arm.

"I suppose if
you're going to be my second, you might as well start now."

The memory of
Swift's disapproving face was the only thing that stopped Nabber from giving
away his joy. Tawl's second! It was the greatest, the highest, the best and
only honor he'd ever been given. Pride swelled in his heart as he unwound the
knight's bandage. His hands shook with excitement over his newly bestowed
title.

What he saw
beneath the linen put a stop to his elation. Close up, the burn was appalling.
The surface was puckered and raised, and there was a slit of weeping flesh
where the skin had been burned away. It took all of Nabber's considerable
talent for stoicism to keep the shock from his face. Down the length of the
burn, cutting through the circles like an arrow through a target, ran Tawl's
old scar. Only it no longer looked old. It looked bright and biting and newly
given.

A full moon shone
down on the city of Bren. The wind sent the mist from the lake northward to the
frozen wastes. The stars were set in a clear sky, yet five thousand people
hardly noticed. A ring of torches sent smoke into the crowds, and their
brightness formed the center of the night.

A halo of light
surrounded the pit. Casting outward, it grazed across the faces of all who had
come, drawing everyone under its thrall. People were quiet, subdued, dressed in
their best with rings on their fingers and jeweled daggers at their belts. Not
one hawker plied his trade. The only noise was the whip of the wager, and never
had Bren been so anxious to bet.

Maybor drew his
furs close. Spring might be on its way, but tonight, in this city, winter was
king. The duke would be here soon. The court waited in their gilded enclosure
anxious for him to arrive. Baralis was here, standing alone, dressed in black,
his features masked by shadow. Maybor was well pleased that the man had decided
not to take his official seat; it meant he would have the Hawk to himself.

He had a good view
of both fighters. The duke's champion had bared his chest for the benefit of
the crowd. Grease was being worked into his muscles, and bound around his
forehead were the colors of Bren. A fine specimen, broad and thickly muscled, a
bit like he'd been in his youth. Maybor glanced toward the other man: tall and
golden haired, he stood alone. There were dark circles under his eyes and a
bandage about his arm. There was no doubt in Maybor's mind which of the two his
money would be on.

It was a good
thing, not allowing women to the pit, he thought as he surveyed the all male
crowd. Fights were men's affairs and there would be no feminine flapping to
spoil the night.

People kept
looking his way. He must cut a fine figure with new fur-trimmed cloak and his
gift from the duke at his side. A fine, gray boarhound lay at his feet. Its
small eyes never rested, its flattened ears moved with every sound, and its
huge jaws waited like a trap ready to be sprung. Maybor stroked the creature's
head absently. It was quite an honor to be given one of the duke's own hounds.
The Hawk had brought it himself soon after he'd been told about Kylock's
invasion plans. A suitable payment for such privileged information. Maybor
smiled. The duke had doubtless enjoyed flaunting that particular morsel in
front of Baralis.

And here he was
now, walking across the courtyard escorted by twelve armed guards. The duke of
Bren's appearance set the crowd buzzing. No fancy ceremonial robes for the
Hawk. He was dressed, as always, in military blue. Maybor couldn't quite keep a
disapproving glint from his eye: the man had no sense of show.

The duke made
straight for the court enclosure. He bowed first to Maybor and then Baralis. He
stepped upon the raised dais and waited for the noise of the crowd to stop.
Every eye was upon him. Silence came and the duke raised his right arm. Both
fighters made their way forward. Positioned as they were on opposite sides of
the pit, they arrived in front of the Hawk at exactly the same time.

Maybor, who was
sitting behind the duke, saw everything clearly. The champion presented his
knife first. The Hawk took it and measured the size of the blade against his
forearm. Satisfied, he gave it back: "May Borc bring you glory," he
said. He repeated the ritual with the blond stranger, but his blessing lacked
the power of the first.

Both men had their
seconds with them. Behind the champion stood a man who could only be his
brother. Not quite as handsome or as well muscled as Blayze, he walked with a
pronounced limp. He was currently whispering to his brother, and his inward
slanting teeth caught the light. On the other side was a boy, barely old enough
to hold a sword, his right arm resting in a sling. A poor choice for a
fighter's keeper.

The fighters and
their seconds withdrew. They wasted no energy exchanging glances. Once they had
taken up their positions by the pit, a cry went up:

"Fighting
tonight for the honor of Bren is Blayze, duke's champion." The crowd
cheered loud and long. Finally, when they stopped the crier began again.
"And his challenger is Tawl, knight of Valdis."

Before the crowd
could react, the golden-haired fighter raised his arm. "No, my
friend," he said. "Not from Valdis." Wisps of excitement raced
through the crowd. "But I have been told-" began the crier.

"I tell you
that I am from the Lowlands."

Maybor had to
admit that there was a compelling force to the man's words. He rubbed his hands
together. Things were taking an interesting turn. A little drama before the
match was salt for the meat.

"Very well,
sir," said the crier. "In Bren we take a man on his word." He
then turned and addressed the crowd: "And the duke's challenger is Tawl,
from the Lowlands." The announcement met with more whispering than
cheering.

Both men jumped
into the pit. A red scarf was raised and the crier looked to the duke for a
sign. Still standing, the duke raised his right arm. He made a fist, and then
with one sharp movement, he brought it to his chest. The scarf dropped into the
pit.

Nabber watched as
they circled around each other. No chance of Tawl spotting any weaknesses with
Blayze. There was every chance that Blayze would notice how pale and drawn the
knight looked, however. The burn on Tawl's right arm was vulnerable, too, but
he hid it well. Most people assumed the bandage was there to hide his circles-even
now, after he'd stated that he wasn't from Valdis. Nabber guessed it had cost
Tawl a lot to deny his knighthood.

Blayze lunged
forward with his knife. Tawl feinted to one side, but just as quickly he was
back. Knife arm now down, Blayze was vulnerable. The knight drew back his
weapon as if ready for a strike and then punched Blayze square in the face with
his left fist. The crowd was stunned. They hissed at the indignity of the move.

The champion went
reeling backward. Tawl pounced, trying to floor him, but he hadn't counted on
the sheer physical strength of the champion. The man hardly swayed. He pushed
Tawl away with such force that the knight had to struggle to keep his footing.
Nabber could clearly see the sweat on Tawl's brow. The crowd was frantic,
betting with the frenzy of locusts on a field of grain.

Blayze sauntered
over to where Tawl was recovering. The torchlight gleamed on the grease. He
raised a finger to his chin and prodded the flesh. A small gesture, designed to
provoke. A challenge to
Tawl
to try punching him again. The knight leapt
forward. Blayze was ready for him. Up went his elbow, smashing into Tawl's jaw.
It was a risky move, for the knight's blade was close to his flank. The force
of the blow was so great that all Tawl could do was rake the blade down the
champion's side. It was barely enough to draw blood.

Blayze gave Tawl
no time to recover. Altering the grip on his knife, he stabbed at the knight's
chest. The two fighters were so close it was impossible to see what happened. Then
Blayze backed away and the light fell on Tawl. His linen undershirt was stained
with blood. The crowd cheered wildly. A huge knot twisted in Nabber's stomach:
the stain was growing larger.

Glancing toward
the court enclosure, Nabber looked upon the face of the duke. He was a man well
pleased with what he
saw.

There was no
respite for Tawl. Blayze hounded him, and Tawl was forced to back away. Nabber
wanted to shout out,
"He was poisoned!"
but he knew the
knight's sense of honor would prevent him from making it known. Nabber
respected that. It was what set
Tawl
apart from every man he'd ever
known.

It was hard to
gauge just how bad the wound was. More telling than the blood was the fact that
the knight had slowed down. He was in the center of the pit and Blayze was
circling like a vulture. The champion kept making quick feints and lunges,
hoping to entice
Tawl
into letting down his guard. He was taunting him,
too, saying that from what he'd heard he wasn't surprised that Tawl no longer
wanted to be known as a knight. Nabber felt truly ashamed.
He
had given
Blayze that particular weapon.

The blood reached
Tawl's waist. His breathing was sharp and fast. Sweat ran down his nose and
cheeks, and still he managed to keep the champion at bay. The crowd was not happy
with this lull in the fight; they hissed and jeered at Tawl for taking evasive
action rather than attacking.

Blayze was losing
patience. He was anxious for an exchange to show off his skills. He shouted
loudly, "I say you are a knight and I'm the one to prove it!" A cheer
went up from the crowd. A series of fast moves dazzled the audience and served
to confuse Tawl. Blayze's knife traced intricate patterns in the air. Each
flash of the blade was a warning.

He made his move.
A quick strike with the knife caught Tawl's right arm. The bandage was slit
down the middle. Blayze stepped back and
Tawl's
bandage fell to the
ground.

"Aah!" A
sharp intake of breath united the crowd. The circles were there for everyone to
see. The circles, the burn, and the scar. Nabber felt a deep pain in his chest;
he could hardly bear to look at Tawl. His vision thinned and blurred. Tears
streaked down his face unnoticed. It was all his fault. Tawl raised his eyes
from his circles and faced the crowd. People who had been jeering stopped.
There was something in the knight's face that compelled silence. Golden hair
gleamed in the torchlight and the bloodstained tunic became an emblem. His
voice, when it came, rent through the fabric of the night, changing its very
texture: "I no longer count myself a knight," he said softly. "I
am not worthy of Valdis."

The words brimmed
with truth and anguish. The crowd shifted nervously-one man's tragedy had been
revealed and they were unsure how to react. Blayze decided for them. Unhappy
with the shift of emphasis from himself to the knight, he attacked.