Lord of Blood, page 17
Most rattled harmlessly off the stonework; but three became stuck in his tunic, stopped by the mail beneath.
He sprang back up onto the stone railing, to gasps from the crowd. “What next, Athandur?” he called.
A few more arrows wobbled up at him but did not come close; he made no move to avoid them.
Athandur now peered around the side of the throne, screaming, “Take him! Take him! A gift of Xindurbil to the man who brings him to me!”
There was great visible hesitation in the ranks of the Free Companies, and most of Valzar’s Company held fast.
But then, with many shouts of mutual encouragement, the other three companies broke, swarming toward the balcony, while the commoners struggled mightily to get away from them and from Jamnar’s terrible weapon.
And Jamnar began firing at the soldiers.
First he cut a wide swath from side to side, along the middle of the mass of men struggling to cross the square to him.
Then he began running the beam from front to back at angles, varying a pattern-less design almost as the whim seized him; and always as the beam ran along them men fell to the ground without protest.
Yet this took time; and many of the soldiers in front were getting dangerously close to the balcony. He began concentrating on them, as stray arrows began falling around him once more. Briefly he wondered why the bowmen did not try harder; but his reputation for invulnerability from assassins’ daggers, and the three arrows, deflected by his mail shirt and hanging in the fabric of his tunic, must be sapping their wills, he decided, while still he played the stungun beam along the front ranks of attacking soldiers.
Then… all movement toward him seemed to shudder, then stop.
At least half the free companions lay motionless on the paves of the great plaza.
Now the remainder stood suddenly irresolute, in silent confusion, looks of horror full on all faces.
Athandur’s voice came distantly from behind the Bloodjewel Throne. “Kill him! Kill him! Yuun and Dalvar as well to the man who brings him down!”
Behind the dais there was commotion; the courtiers were beginning to withdraw from the safety of its shadow, while the king’s voice ranted on.
A voice from somewhere cut very clearly through the murmurs of horror waving through the awed masses.
“Single combat! Single combat!”
There was a flurry near the dais. Crimson fluttered, and two Free Captains began clambering up the clumsy structure.
“Is that Turtunnull with Nurab?” asked Kasul, from behind Jamnar, and Jamnar nodded, a frown of concentration on his face.
“Captain Valzar,” said Hai’jorth Nurab, voice shaking, as he and Turtunnull reached the Bloodjewel Throne. “It has been proposed that this ghastly slaughter be ended honorably. I propose, then, that you join in the traditional device of single combat.”
“Your safety before the engagement is guaranteed,” added Turtunnull. “But you must fight with your sword, not that murderous slaughter-machine.”
“Single combat with whom?”
There was a struggle behind the throne, and several short-caped lieutenants came around it, bringing with them King Athandur.
“Why, with the king, of course,” said Turtunnull.
Jamnar nodded, a little startled. “Very well.”
“Foolish, foolish,” muttered Kasul, as they entered the villa to go down to the street level. “You could have safely done in the king from here. Why risk yourself?” But he did not seem to expect an answer; not did one come.
“What stakes are there, besides our lives?” asked Jamnar conversationally as they came down into the plaza.
“Single combat with the king?” said Kasul, and as they walked by the bodies of the soldiers, the crowds murmured and kept out of their path. “The stakes? Why, if he wins, he takes everything of yours—including that very dangerous stungun, and, of course, your life—for which reasons I devoutly hope the king’s prowess is less than is vaunted. For you must know he is considered an excellent swordsman, having been taught daily in the arts by the greatest masters he could attract to Khaldiriam.”
“And if I win?”
“Why, you shall become Valzar the First, King of Larger Khaldir,” said Kasul, and now he struggled to keep his tone calmly conversational to match Jamnar’s own coolness. “In charge, I might add, of the greatest army seen since the time of Rokhul—primed and moving already to the conquest of Old Akanar and, I doubt not, the whole Flanage!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Jamnar and King Athandur stood facing each other on opposite sides of the dais, from which the Bloodjewel Throne had been unceremoniously hauled off.
“There are no rules here,” said the king softly. “Afterwards, I shall have your hide flayed from your body and cut into small pieces which I shall in future distribute to those I wish to mark particularly with my favor.”
Jamnar listened calmly, seeking to broaden hunter’s mind and keep away extraneous thoughts. If the king were a good enough swordsman, Jamnar might survive; but he could not allow that to matter to him or he would never remain sufficiently in hunter’s mind.
Only one anxiety assailed him. Could he kill the king if opportunity showed itself? Could he kill so coldly in hunter’s mind? He had never thought about it before, but the prison days of almost fruitless struggle with himself, with his own mind, had made him begin at last to realize what it was that had made his self-control so difficult. Hunter’s mind required a more simple life than that of a slave turned Free Captain in the Flanage; there were simply too many distractions.
And now the king was moving slowly to the center of the dais platform. It was about five paces by seven—scarcely larger than his cell, Jamnar realized.
The king smiled mockingly at him from the center of the dais, and made a court-bow. “When you are ready to die,” Athandur said, “simply step forward and begin fighting. Take your time; courage is not always easy.”
That would surely enrage me or anyone, were my mind not under control, thought Jamnar, and then he cleared his mind with an almost desperate surge of will.
Now in hunter’s mind and sure of himself, he drew his sword, held it at ready, and moved slowly out toward the Lord of Blood.
The tips of their blades touched for a moment; then with ferocious speed the king launched his attack.
Jamnar moved back under the press of Athandur’s blade, meeting each thrust and slice very precisely with his own. In hunter’s mind it was far easier to judge which of the king’s strokes were real and which were feints; and thus he kept himself alive the first few minutes, moving slowly away from the king’s vigorous attacks all the while, turning as he neared the platform’s edge, keeping always away from the king’s blade.
Suddenly the crowd roared. Athandur stepped in close, locking swords, and the king’s knee jerked convulsively upwards into the barbarian’s crotch.
Jamnar avoided the full force of the blow, but groaned involuntarily and staggered backwards, leaning slightly forward with the pain.
For the first time in the fight he felt real uncertainty—and the pain had knocked him loose from hunter’s mind!
The king moved forward to the attack again, though he appeared to be breathing somewhat harder than Jamnar.
At the end of the next exchange of blows, a line of blood appeared on Jamnar’s chest, drawn there by the tip of the king’s sword.
The crowd roared again.
For a moment Jamnar closed his eyes, then he turned the new pain to use and was in hunter’s mind again.
And now he knew it was time to attack.
The king launched a swinging heavy blow at Jamnar’s left side—and instead of stepping away or merely fending the blow off in a crude parry, Jamnar swung his own blade as strongly as he could.
The two blades met—and Jamnar’s snapped off at mid-length!
The crowd screamed and screamed at that—and immediately after, screamed even louder.
For, his mind now clear and resolute, Jamnar had understood what had happened to his weapon before the king did—and he leaped full at the astonished Lord of Blood, grasping his sword-wrist in one mighty hand while with the other, dropping his own ruined blade, he aimed a blow at the side of the king’s head that felled him to his knees.
His sword fell from the king’s lax hand, and while the crowd howled on and on, the tableau held, briefly frozen: the king kneeling motionless in front of Jamnar and obviously bereft of his senses.
Then in a fluid motion the king launched himself upwards at Jamnar, and his teeth sank into the flesh of Jamnar’s throat, and he worried and struggled at the throat to get a better grip while Jamnar, forced backwards and off balance, stumbled and fell heavily to his back. Momentarily stunned, he realized the king’s teeth had lost their hold.
The crowd howled its disappointment, since few now could see what was happening on the platform floor.
As they wrestled together on the floor, closely struggling, the advantage began to go to Jamnar’s strength of youth, until at last Athandur lay gasping on his back, Jamnar kneeling on his chest.
“I want no more kingdoms,” Jamnar panted. “I wish only to return to my people.”
And he rose, somewhat stiffly, and stood quietly by the king, who raised himself up on his hands, panting for breath, and glared upwards with a pure hatred burning in his eyes.
“You will let him live?” screamed a voice from the crowd.
“Kill him! Kill him!” others called hysterically.
“His life is as valuable as yours,” Jamnar said calmly in a loud voice, “or as worthless.”
The crowd murmured irresolutely.
“They expect a more bloody conclusion,” Kasul said from just below, the top of the dais, a step away from Jamnar and the king. He held the stungun and was carefully watching a group of the king’s more loyal personal retainers. Behind him were the men of Valzar’s Company. “Their lord has brought them into prosperity, but already they have become used to prosperity. He has given them gory shows for their delight, and their delight in that has paled also. They are nothing for him. Kill him and be done, Valzar!”
Jamnar looked down at King Athandur, who still glared up at him with hate-filled eyes; then Jamnar looked up again at Kasul and started to speak. “No, friend, I shall…”
Athandur moved then with his startling speed, writhing over on one side and onto his knees in a motion, then launching himself at Kasul’s knees.
And as Kasul toppled backwards onto several of his men below, Athandur wrenched the stungun from his grasp and stood, shakily, holding it in his hands and panting.
Jamnar held motionless, looking into the man’s eyes; they gleamed redly, madly.
“Haaaaaa!” the king screamed. “Death to all traitors, then!”
But before he could press the firing stud, Jamnar, calmly sure in hunter’s mind, was upon him and wrestling the muzzle of the stungun up and away.
Stunbolts sizzling constantly, the king’s hand pressed involuntarily now against the firing stud, the two men struggled for possession of the weapon for a timeless, almost motionless moment; and then the king’s hands, wet with nervous sweat, slipped from the barrel.
Jamnar had not time to hold back; his own forceful grip pushed the stungun muzzle back till it sizzled for another timeless moment against Athandur’s left shoulder.
The king screamed one last time, horribly; then he stiffened, stepped backwards one awkward boneless step, two steps… and toppled off the dais onto his horrified courtiers.
There was a low collective moan from the crowd, and then awed silence fell.
Kasul had gotten to his feet and climbed back up to the top of the dais; now he stood beside Jamnar.
“Nobility of Khaldiriam, citizens of Larger Khaldir,” he intoned in a loud penetrating voice. “Will you accept this Free Captain Count Valzar, having defeated your king?”
A foppish courtier stood forward and called up, “Nay, I say, for this man Valzar has caused today a slaughter here that bars him from any leadership. Said he not that he desired to stop all battles, and hence challenged our king? And yet here be more bloody deeds and dead men lying about this very moment than have died for Khaldir in a hundred years!”
There were frowns and mutterings at this, and once more the people looked doubtfully toward the piled bodies of the soldiers where they had toppled onto each other.
Suddenly there came loud horrible screams near where the first fifty had been struck by the stunbolts. “Look, look they rise! They rise and walk!”
Now Captain Turtunnull clambered up to the dais, Nurab behind him; and then the two captains looked over to where fifty men were quivering, shaking themselves, raising themselves stiffly off the ground.
“What dread sorcery is this?” demanded Turtunnull of Jamnar.
“None,” said Jamnar simply. “My weapon did not slay, but only stunned them.”
Captain Nurab frowned. “It is a cursed weapon of the ancients, eh? But how is it that it still works?”
“It is ancient,” agreed Jamnar. “And yet it works. How I do not know.” That was true enough as long as he could not reach Inzu’s memories, Jamnar thought.
While they spoke, others of the hundreds of other free companions struck by the stunbolts began to show signs of returning life.
“It is something like a miracle,” said Turtunnull, slowly. “And you have bested the king. But he too will live, then; by the tradition of single combat, Valzar, you must kill him now, or renounce claim to the fruits of your victory.”
Now Vithunvar rose from where he had been leaning over Athandur; and Chobu held him steady on his feet. “Your weapon is a strange and fearful one, and no thanks to you for using it on me,” Vithunvar said in quavering tones. “As for the king, Athandur is Lord of Blood no longer. For me and the others, I know not how it is that we live, but the king is dead.”
For a moment Jamnar closed his eyes, and felt hunter’s mind wavering away from him; but then he opened his eyes and smiled, rather grimly.
“And so,” he said wryly, “I am now your king? Is that it?”
“Well,” said Turtunnull, then said no more, but looked where black-and-silver robes glittered.
Slowly the chamberlains Vithunvar and Chobu climbed up the dais, their gorgeous robes stained with dust, their faces drawn and shaking.
“There are certain matters,” said Vithunvar, his voice quavering; but then he was seized by a fit of coughing.
“It is an old tradition, the conquest by single combat,” said Chobu, “but it is not absolute. We shall have to have a council, to judge your qualities.”
“Yes,” said Vithunvar. “The combat does not win a crown for someone who is obviously incompetent to rule, and…”
“Qualities!” said Kasul indignantly. “Incompetent! He has defeated four Free Companies with but one! Is that not leadership, and competence?”
“Enough,” said Jamnar quietly. “Let us have this council meeting, by all means. We will all learn more, and then you will hopefully be content with your decision.”
Chobu and Vithunvar inclined their heads, while, quietly but urgently, Kasul whispered in Jamnar’s ear. “Tell them of your kanship! That will win it all, I’m certain!” Jamnar shook his head slightly, and turned toward the masses of people still standing in wonderment throughout the great square.
“Let the festivities continue as the late king planned!” he shouted. “The council meets this afternoon to decide who shall be your next king!”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd, and then came scattered cries.
Kasul’s unhappy face brightened as he made out the words.
“Valzar!” shouted one and then another, and then the cries spread. “Valzar! The barbarian for our king! The new Lord of Blood! Valzar! King Valzar! We will have Valzar!”
Dave van Arnam, Lord of Blood
