The Destiny of the Sword (29 page)

“I think I got all you need, brother,” he said. “Zoariyi wouldn’t accept that your sword belonged to the Goddess, but he agreed to put ‘coward’ in, although he claims that his principal never used the word.”

“Great! How about child abuse and nose,picking?” Wallie snapped. “Let’s not leave any stone unthrown.”

Nnanji smiled courteously and glanced around as if wanting to sit down and cross his legs. Then he straightened and proceeded to recite the draft proclamation, word for word, in a voice that shadowed the booming tones of the chief herald.

“Hear ye, my lords, your honors, masters, adepts, swordsmen, apprentices, novices, and all this good company assembled —whereas the valiant Lord Shonsu, swordsman of the seventh rank, has appeared before the council of the noble tryst of Casr, and whereas the said valiant lord has represented to the said council that the legendary seventh sword of Chioxin has been given into his hand by a god in order that he may drive the abomination of sorcery from the cities of Aus, Wal, Sen, Cha, Gor, Amb, and Ov, and whereas the said valiant lord represents that he is the best swordsman here present and ought therefore by right of prowess be liege lord of this exalted tryst, and whereas the valorous Lord Boariyi, swordsman of the seventh rank, liege lord of the noble tryst of Casr, has responded that the said valiant lord has previously failed in battle against the sorcerers, and whereas the said valorous lord has further represented that the said valiant lord was disgraced by sorcerers in Aus, thereby showing himself to be without honor and a coward, and whereas the said valorous lord has further represented that the said valiant

lord frustrated and impeded a victorious group of swordsmen in battle at Ov, and whereas the said valorous lord has further represented that the said valiant lord is an imposter, being an agent of the sorcerers and enemy of the tryst, and whereas the said valorous lord represents that he is by prowess in combat by due form established rightful leader of this noble tryst, and whereas these two intrepid lords have agreed that the matter between them shall be settled by honorable passage of arms, according to the ancient rubrics and sutras of their craft, the said valorous lord having waived and negated onus of vengeance by his vassals, and the two audacious lords having agreed upon mis time and place for their meeting, now therefore you are bid approach and witness this illustrious encounter, and may the Goddess judge between them and grant victory to the right!”

Wallie had him repeat it.

“I don’t like that ‘driving the abomination of sorcery’ bit,” he said. “The tryst was called to restore the honor of the craft; let’s stick with that.”

“Right!” Nnanji said. “Good point.”

It was easy enough for him to treat all this lunacy as an exercise in heraldic pomp, Wallie thought.

“Another thing—I thought this was a naked match and I heard something in there about Boariyi waiving the onus of vengeance. How about you, brother?”

Nnanji smiled at him as if sharing a joke. “None of them seem to have thought of that! The fourth oath is pretty obscure, remember.”

“So what happens if I lose?”

Nnanji laughed. “You soften him up, and I’ll finish him off.”

“Think you can take him, do you?”

Then Nnanji guessed what he was thinking and recoiled. “Of course not! I’m no Seventh. He’d spit me in a flicker, brother. You don’t think I’d... that I want...”

“Then put it in the proclamation!” Wallie barked, feeling guilty for doubting him. “I also waive the onus of vengeance.”

“You can’t!” Nnanji said, recovering his good humor and chuckling. “Remember the words of the sutra: paramount, absolute, and irrevocable**. You can’t release me and I can’t escape it. If he does you, then I’m up right after. Don’t make me mention

it, please, because then they might wriggle out of this somehow!”

So it was not hypothetical to Nnanji! It was a matter of life and death to him, also. It just happened to be fun, as well. Ka,tanji was standing in silence, his eyes going from one face to the other, and it was not fun to Katanji.

But Nnanji was right. The fourth oath was irrevocable, so Wallie could not release him. He was going to be fighting for two lives. He grunted that the proclamation was fine. Nnanji nodded, gave him a worried sort of look, and then went striding off back to the heralds, his ponytaif wagging happily.

Was it possible? If Wallie died and Nnanji challenged Boariyi, and by some miracle won, would the tryst accept him as leader? This was not the formal combat for leadership. The onus of vengeance had not been waived for anyone, only for this match. Wallie puzzled it out and concluded with a curious relief that it would not work; the other Sevenths would counterchallenge one after the other, then the Sixths. Of course Nnanji could not beat Boariyi... except by a miracle. Nnanji was trustworthy, but the gods were not.

“Will you kill him, my lord?” Katanji had stayed behind.

Wallie snapped out of his gloomy thoughts to reply. “Not if I can help it. Why?”

“Nanj is worried. He says you’ll try for a flesh wound, but Lord Boariyi will be going for a kill, to win the sword. He says it will be like the time you fought the captain with foil against blade.”

“I don’t need your advice on swordsmanship, novice.”

Katanji dropped his eyes and was silent.

This time the conference was brief. The heralds and seconds all seemed to be nodding. The rain had stopped. The meeting broke up and Nnanji came striding over the windy court again.

“The Goddess be with you, my lord,” Katanji whispered. He turned and headed for the perimeter.

“All agreed!” Nnanji announced. He fixed Wallie with a stern look. “You realize that he’s got to kill you, don’t you?”

“I don’t need your advice on swordsmanship!”

Nnanji looked repentant. “I’m sorry, brother!” He studied Wallie carefully and put on an encouraging grin. “You’re not seriously worried, are you? You have the seventh sword!”

“And he has the arms of a gorrilla!” Wallie said softly. “Nnanji, I’ve never fought anyone taller than me. Perhaps Shonsu never did, either!”

“He must have been smaller when he was little, mustn’t he?”

“Yes, of course.” Wallie managed a chuckle. “You’re right. Thank you, Nnanji.” He hesitated. “You did very well in the negotiations, brother!”

Nnanji grinned. “I smothered him in sagas! Precedents, you know? The epic of Xo, and the epic...” He reeled off a dozen, counting on his fingers.

Wallie laughed aloud, but before he could comment, the proceedings began. A roll of drums echoed off the temple and the bullfrog herald made his proclamation in a voice that the thunder god might have envied.

There was another roll of drums. “Good!” Wallie said. “Now maybe they’ll let us get on with it.”

No. The herald, having spoken in the direction of the River, now wheeled about and made the same proclamation, complete with drums, toward the temple; and when he had done that, he had to repeat it again both upstream and downstream. The final version was applauded by a peal of thunder. Even if the gods had forsworn miracles, Wallie thought, they were not giving up on dramatic effects. The rain started again.

The herald beckoned, and the two parties approached him to take up their stations. Wallie eyed his gangly opponent carefully. Boariyi was similarly eyeing him, his big jaw set tight in concentration, his continuous bar of eyebrow pulled down in a frown, no trace of a sneer. What was he—cautious or rash? Serious fights between unfamiliar adversaries usually began with a little careful testing. Wallie decided to try for a quick decision.

“You may proceed, my lords.”

Wallie lunged recklessly. He was parried instantly and jumped back with blood streaming from his upper arm.

The crowd roared.

In any normal match Zoariyi would have called “Yield?” at mat point. He said nothing. Shonsu was not to be given that option.

It was a shallow cut, but a terrible beginning, and it must give the tall man more confidence, showing that the possible sorcerer

or possible hero could bleed. It also hurt. Boariyi lunged. Parry, riposte, recover. Wallie felt a faint beginning of the bloodlust and suppressed it at once. Berserkers would not feel pain, would fight until chopped into cutlets. He had no wish to win and then discover that he had been mortally wounded in the process.

Lunge. Riposte. He was being driven steadily back. His opponent was grinning at him. How did one fight a human gorilla? He remembered Hardduju and tried dropping his guard a fraction, waiting for the outside cut to the wrist. It came instantly. He parried and tried a riposte, but Boariyi covered just as fast and it was Wallie who barely escaped.

Tivanixi had been correct. Shonsu had met Ms match.

Forward and back they danced, but it was more back than forward for Wallie. How far was he from the River?

Dimly he could hear a continuous roar from die spectators. His right arm was streaming blood. He must rest it to stop the flow. Lunge. Recover. Taking a dreadful risk, he whipped his feet around and transferred the sword to his left hand. Boariyi flashed an instant attack, countering his left,hand riposte as easily as before, then mockingly performed die same tactic, so they were southpaw to southpaw. The crowd noise exploded—that was one for the legends.

Lunge. Parry. Riposte.

Wallie tried every trick in his book, even some he had not thought to teach Nnanji. Boariyi countered them all and responded with some that were new to Wallie. They were evenly matched.

The swords rang like a smithy. It was an endurance test. The spindly Boariyi had the build of a marathon runner. The man’s reach was incredible. Wallie could not get near him. His sword must be a fingerlength longer than even the seventh sword. Parry. Parry. Parry...

Long swords could be weak. The seventh sword? If Shonsu could not win this, then perhaps Wallie Smith could? Perhaps Chioxin could? Riposte. He had the better blade. Dare he try something so unorthodox against such a supreme opponent?

How long could flesh keep this up? He was tiring. Lunge. Slowing down. Parry. Boariyi had noticed. He switched on his sneer—and again Wallie’s temper flared up at the sight of it.

He changed tactics, turned his attack from the man to the sword, hacking as hard as he could at Boariyi’s blade. Just maybe Wallie could treat it as Tomiyano had treated Wallie’s foil, so very long ago. Parry. Cut. Parry. Cut...

The tall man was surprised at the unorthodox assault and yielded a little before the brute force. Then he began to react and Wallie found he was being led off balance. Again and again that deadly blade whipped within a hairsbreadth of his skin. He persisted. Clash, clash, clash. Boariyi had guessed his purpose. He was parrying more carefully, turning Wallie’s blade at an angle. Parry. Wallie saw with despair that he had been driven back almost to the water’s edge. The crowd was screaming continuously at this spectacular display of swordsmanship.

Clash. Clash.

Snap.

The seventh sword sliced through the other blade and swept on past Boariyi’s face. For a moment it seemed to have missed him, but the razor tip had slit along the line of swordmarks on his forehead, and a curtain of blood fell over his eyes. He dropped his sword hilt—beaten!

“Yield?” Nnanji screamed, his voice cracking with excitement.

“Yield!” Zoariyi agreed. His nephew fell to his knees, gasping and panting, blinded by the blood pouring over his face.

Wallie himself was in little better shape; his chest heaving with its fight for air, breath rasping, heart hammering like a woodpecker inside his skull. For a moment he was incapable of thinking, wrapped in drapes of nauseous black fog. He had come very close to his limit. The heralds came running forward, followed by healers and minstrels, and the council of Sevenths. Then the ranks broke, and the whole assembly flooded in to form a tight circle around the combatants, cheering, jostling, and finally falling silent once more in some sort of order.

Slowly Wallie’s head began to quieten. He wondered why no one was assisting the wounded Boariyi, then remembered that the fight was still incomplete—the victor must state his terms and sheath his sword before anyone else could intervene. Now he could demand the third oath: Blood needs be shed; declare your allegiance.

He hesitated, puzzled by something, fuzzily studying Boariyi. The kid was on his knees, his bony rib cage pumping like bellows, soaked with mingled blood and rain and sweat, eyes shut against the sheen of blood covering his face and streaming down his chest to soak into his kilt. Yet... there was something wrong. Nnanji? Something like Nnanji? Wallie looked helplessly around for his second, but he had disappeared. Boariyi’s expression was unreadable through that red mask, but the comers of his jaw were knotted, his arms were locked into vertical rods above clenched fists—his head was back, blind face upturned, every sinew in his neck tensed. Normally a panting man held his head down.

Boariyi was waiting for the victor’s demand. Then he was going to refuse. And when he did that, Wallie would have no choice at all except to execute him.

That rigidity he had seen before: Nnanji, facing death before dishonor. Well, give him a minute to brood on it, take a moment more to recover. Still gasping, Wallie glanced at Zoariyi. His evident dismay as he stared at his nephew was all the confirmation anyone could need. The three of them, one kneeling, two standing, were walled in by a silent circle of onlookers. Fearfully the sun uncovered its face, and the blood shone more brilliant red.