Land and Overland - Omnibus (45 page)

"But all the same, Majesty, four royal lives for the price of one ord—"

"Silence! You are to plague me no longer on that point. Why are you here anyway?" Chakkell snatched a handful of papers from a stand beside his chair and riffled through them. "I see. You claim to be bringing me a special gift. What is it?"

Recognising that for the moment it would be unwise to press the King further, Toller opened the leather case and displayed its contents. "A
very
special gift, Majesty."

"A metal sword." Chakkell gave an exaggerated sigh. "Maraquine, these monomanias of yours become increasingly tiresome. I thought we had settled once and for all that iron is inferior to brakka for weaponry."

"But this blade is made of steel." Toller withdrew the sword and was about to pass it to the King when a new idea occurred to him. "We have learned that ore smelted in the upper part of a furnace produces a much harder metal, one which can then be tempered to form the perfect blade." Setting the case on the floor, Toller adopted a fighting stance with the sword in the first readiness position.

Chakkell shifted in his chair, looking uneasy. "You know the protocol about carrying weapons in the palace, Maraquine. I have half a mind to summon the guard and let them deal with you."

"That would provide a welcome opportunity for me to demonstrate the value of the gift," Toller said, smiling. "With this in my hand I can defeat the best swordsman in your army."

"Now you're being ridiculous. Go home with your shiny toy and allow me to attend to more important matters."

"I meant what I said." Toller introduced a degree of hardness into his voice. "The best swordsman in your army."

Chakkell responded to Toller's new note of challenge by narrowing his eyes. "The years appear to have weakened your mind as much as your body. You have heard of Karkarand, I presume. Have you any conception of what he could do to a man of your age?"

"He will be powerless against me—as long as I have this sword." Toller lowered the weapon to his side. "So confident am I that I am prepared to wager my sole remaining estate on the outcome of a duel with Karkarand. I know you are partial to a gamble, Majesty, so what say you? My entire estate against the life of one farmer."

"So that's it!' Chakkell shook his head. "I am not disposed to…"

"We can make it to the death if you like."

Chakkell leapt to his feet. "You arrogant
fool,
Maraquine! This time you will receive what you have so assiduously courted since the day we met. It will give me the greatest pleasure to see daylight being let into that thick skull of yours."

"Thank you, Majesty," Toller said drily. "In the meantime … a stay of execution?"

"That will not be necessary—the issue will be settled forthwith." Chakkell raised a hand and a stoop-shouldered secretary, who must have been watching from a spyhole, scurried into the room through a small doorway.

"Majesty?" he said, bowing so vigorously as to suggest to Toller that he had acquired his posture through years of deference.

"Two things," Chakkell said. "Inform those who wait in the corridor that I am departing on other business, but they may take consolation from the fact that my absence will be brief.
Extremely
brief! Secondly, tell the house commander that I require Karkarand to be on the parade ground three minutes from now. He is to be armed and prepared to carry out a dissection."

"Yes, Majesty." The secretary bowed again and, after casting one lingering and speculative look at Toller, loped away towards the double door. He was moving with the eager gait of one for whom a dull day had suddenly shown promise of memorable entertainment. Toller watched him depart and, having been granted time for thought, began to wonder if he had overstepped the bounds of reason in his championing of Spennel.

"What's this, Maraquine?" Chakkell said, his former joviality returning. "Second thoughts?" Without waiting for a reply he crooked his finger and led the way out of the audience chamber by means of a curtained private exit.

As he walked along a panelled corridor in the King's wake Toller suddenly glimpsed a mind-picture of Gesalla at the moment of their parting, her grey eyes deeply troubled, and his misgivings increased. Had some intuitive power enabled her to
know
that he was setting out to court danger? The meeting with Spennel and his captors had been pure coincidence, of course, but Toller lived in a society where violent death was not uncommon, and in previous years he had been unperturbed by reports of summary and unjust executions. Could it be that, in his mood of destructive discontent, he would have sought out a way—even without the chance encounter on the road to Prad—to place himself in a position of peril?

If he had been unconsciously trying to put himself in danger he had been spectacularly successful. He had never set eyes on Karkarand, but he knew the man to be a rare phenomenon—a gifted sword fighter, unhampered by any trace of morality or regard for human life, with a physique so powerful that he was rumoured to have dispatched a bluehorn with a single blow of his fist. For a middle-aged man, regardless of how well he was armed, to pit himself against such a killing machine was an act of recklessness bordering on the suicidal. And, as the ultimate flourish of idiocy, he had wagered the estate which supported his family on the outcome of the duel!

Forgive me, Gesalla,
Toller thought, mentally cringing from his solewife's level gaze.
If I survive this episode I'll be the model of prudence until the day I die. I promise to be what you want me to be.

King Chakkell reached a door which led to the outside and, in a complete reversal of protocol, pulled it open and gestured for Toller to precede him into the parade ground beyond. Some remnant of a sense of propriety caused Toller to hesitate, then he noticed Chakkell's smile and understood the symbolism of his action—he was happy to suspend the normal rules of conduct for the privilege of ushering an old adversary out of the world of the living.

"What ails you, Toller?" he said, jovial once more. "At this point any other man would be having second thoughts—are you, perhaps, having first thoughts? And regrets?"

"On the contrary," Toller replied, returning the smile, "I'm looking forward to some gentle exercise."

He set the presentation case down on the gravelled surface of enclosed ground and took out the sword. There was comfort to be gained from the balanced weight of it, the sheer
rightness
of the way it took to his hand, and his anxiety began to abate. He glanced up at the vast disk of the Old World and saw that the ninth hour was just beginning, which meant he could still reach home before littlenight.

"Is that a blood channel?" Chakkell said, looking closely at the steel sword for the first time and noticing the groove which extended down from the haft. "You don't go in to the hilt with a blade that long, do you?"

"New materials, new designs." Toller, who had no wish for the weapon's secret to be revealed prematurely, turned away and scanned the line of low military quarters and stores which bounded the parade ground. "Where is this swordsman of yours, Majesty? I trust he moves with greater alacrity when in combat."

"That you will soon discover," Chakkell said comfortably.

At that moment a door opened in the farthest wall and a man in line soldier's uniform emerged. Other soldiers appeared behind him and spread out sideways to merge with the thin line of spectators who were noiselessly materialising on the ground's perimeter. The word had spread quickly, Toller realised, attracting those who anticipated seeing a dash of crimson added to the dull monochrome of the palatial day. He returned his attention to the soldier who had come out first and was now walking towards him and the King.

Karkarand was not quite as tall as Toller had expected, but he had a tremendous breadth of torso and columnar legs of such power that he progressed with a springy gait in spite of the massiveness of his build. His arms were so packed with muscle that, unable to hang vertically at his side, they projected laterally at an angle, adding a touch of monstrousness to his already intimidating appearance. Karkarand's face was very broad, yet narrower than the trunk of his neck, its features blurred by a reddish stubble. His eyes, which were fixed on Toller, were so pale and bright that they seemed to fluoresce in the shadow of his brakka helmet.

Toller immediately understood that he had made a serious mistake in issuing his challenge to the King. Before him was a creature, less a human being than an engine of war, who had no real need of artificial weapons to supplement the destructive forces nature had built into his grotesque frame. Even if successfully disarmed by an opponent he would be capable of pressing the engagement through to a lethal conclusion. Toller instinctively tightened his grip on his sword and, choosing to wait no longer, depressed a stud on its haft. He felt the glass vial within shatter and release its charge of yellow fluid.

"Majesty," Karkarand said in a surprisingly melodious voice as he approached and saluted the King.

"Good foreday, Karkarand." Chakkell's tone was equally light, almost conversational. "Lord Toller Maraquine—of whom you will doubtless have heard—appears to have become enamoured with death. Be a good fellow and cater to his wishes at once."

"Yes, Majesty." Karkarand saluted again and in a continuation of the movement drew his battle sword. In place of standard regimental markings the blackness of the brakka wood blade was relieved by crimson enamel inlays in the shape of blood droplets—a sign that its owner was a personal favourite of the King. Karkarand unhurriedly turned to face Toller, his expression one of calmness and mild curiosity, and raised his sword. Chakkell moved several paces back.

Toller's heart began to pound as he made himself ready, speculating as to what form Karkarand's attack would take. He had half-expected a sudden onslaught which would have been designed to end the duel in a second or so, but his opponent was playing a different game. Moving slowly forward, Karkarand lifted his sword high and brought it down in the kind of simple direct stroke that might have been used by a small child at play. Surprised by the other man's lack of finesse, Toller automatically parried the blow—and nearly gasped aloud as the incredible shock of it raced back through his blade, twisting and loosening the haft in his fingers, causing a geysering of pain in his hand.

The sword had almost been struck from his grasp by Karkarand's first blow!

He tightened numb fingers on the still-reverberating haft just in time to counter an exact repetition of the first stroke. This time he was better prepared for the devastating power of it and his sword remained secure in his grip, but the pain was more intense than before, surging back into his wrist. Karkarand kept moving forward at his deliberate pace, repeating the downward blow without any variation, and now Toller understood his opponent's strategy. This was to be death by contempt. Karkarand had indeed heard of Lord Toller Maraquine, and he was determined to enhance his own reputation by simply walking through the Kingslayer like an automaton, annihilating him in a demonstration of sheer strength.
No special skill was required,
was to be the message to the onlookers and the rest of the world.
The great Toller Maraquine was easy meat for the first real warrior he ever encountered.

Toller leapt back well clear of Karkarand to gain some respite from the punishing contacts with the black sword and to give himself time in which to think. He could see now that Karkarand's weapon was thicker and heavier than an ordinary battle sword—more suitable for formal executions than prolonged combat—and only one possessed of superhuman strength could use it effectively in a duel. The heart of the problem, however, lay in the odd fighting style which had been adopted by Karkarand. An unrelenting series of vertical strokes was probably the best technique, albeit chosen unwittingly, for countering the secret additional power of Toller's steel sword. If he wanted to survive—and thereby prove his point—he would have to force a radical change in the style of combat.

Hardening his resolve, Toller waited until Karkarand's sword was again raised above his head, then he went in fast and blocked the coming downstroke by locking the two blades together at the hilt. The move took Karkarand by surprise because it could only have been completed successfully by an opponent of greater physical strength—and such was manifestly not the case. Karkarand blinked, and then with a snort of gratification bore downwards with all the power of his massive right arm. Toller was able to resist for only a few seconds before being obliged to yield, and as his opponent's drive gained momentum he was actually forced into an undignified backwards scramble which almost ended in a fall.

The onlookers, who had advanced to form a circle, raised some ironic applause—a sound in which Toller detected a note of anticipation. He played up to it by bowing towards Chakkell, who responded with an impatient signal to continue with the duel. Toller wheeled quickly on his opponent, now feeling satisfied and relieved, knowing that the upper sections of the two blades had been in contact long enough for Karkarand's weapon to have been liberally smeared with yellow fluid.

"Enough of this play-acting, Kingslayer," Karkarand growled as he drove forward with yet another of the swishing, murderous vertical strokes.

Instead of fending it off to the right, Toller—using smallsword technique—swept his blade over and around the blow, and concluded the movement by striking across the line of it. Karkarand's sword snapped just below the hilt and the black blade tumbled away across the gravel. Running a few paces towards the ruined weapon, Karkarand emitted a cry of anguished surprise which was amplified by the stillness which had descended over the crowd.

"What have you done, Maraquine?" King Chakkell bellowed, his paunch surging as he strode forward. "What trickery is this?"

"No trickery! See for yourself, Majesty," Toller called out, his attention only partially centred on the King. The duel would have been ended or suspended had the normal Kolcorronian rules been in force, but he had assessed Karkarand as a man to whom behavioural codes meant nothing, who would always go for the kill using any means at his disposal. Toller faced the King for only an instant, judging the time available to him, then spun with his sword held level in a glittering horizontal sweep. Karkarand, who had been running at him with the organic club of his fist upraised, slid to a halt with the point of Toller's sword in his midriff. A crimson stain spread quickly in the coarse grey weave of his tunic, but he held his ground, breathing heavily, and even seemed to be pressing forward regardless of the metal which was penetrating his flesh.