Unarmed,
Springbuck thought for a moment to intervene but checked himself. This was a
personal contest, if unorthodox, and, it seemed to him, not to be meddled with
since it had been fairly challenged and freely accepted.
Hightower
tossed his cap aside, and the scrape of his sword coming clear of its scabbard
was, to Springbuck’s mind, a terse announcement of imminent death.
They closed
upon one another with no further word, as quiet wagering began among the
onlookers, who pressed inward a bit. Though Hightower was well seasoned, young
Synfors was supple and generally known to be expert with his unusual blades.
They clashed
for a moment, the hurried conversation of blades too quick to follow well, and
were apart again. The Count had thrust with his right-hand rapier and replied
to the Duke’s instant parry with a second thrust from the left-hand one.
Surprisingly, Hightower had managed to bring his big sword around in time to
block that move too, but not in time to avoid sustaining a cut along his
shoulder.
The conduct of
the duel, as everyone there knew, was not according to form or custom. The
inequity of weapons and the failure of the Queen to attempt mediation were
improprieties of the first water. But in that entire room, no one thought that
the Duke would live to register a complaint, whatever the outcome of the match
itself. Springbuck was certain that all of this had been forseen and that the
Duke’s famous temper had triggered the spontaneous-seeming contest quite in
accordance with some plan.
The Prince
wondered vaguely where his stepbrother was and why Strongblade wasn’t present.
Perhaps Fania hadn’t wanted her son to be involved, fearing even Strongblade’s
ability to cope with the fierce Hightower.
Synfors began
his predatory glide again, nearing the Duke and initiating the same
double-stroke attack, but suddenly found out to his brief dismay the difference
between his own sportman’s accomplishments and the battle skill of his
opponent, the wage of a lifetime of war and drill.
Hightower took
a double grip on the hand-and-a-half hilt of his sword and stepped deeply
forward and to the left, windmilling the heavy bastard blade to the right. Such
was the speed of the older man that Synfors missed his thrust as his point
passed by his antagonist’s shoulder, and such the force of the Duke’s stroke
that the beautiful guard of the Count’s right-hand rapier was smashed, the hand
beneath it broken and laid open to the bone.
Synfors
screamed, dropping his right-hand sword and bringing the left up in futile
gesture. Another time, Hightower might have let him live, but there was no
restraint in him tonight. The second rapier was swept away, no more than thin
procrastination, and the would-be executioner was himself dead a heartbeat
later.
Fania was
plainly shaken at this quick brutality, but she turned to Yardiff Bey. When she
turned back to face the Court she seemed to have drawn strength and control
from some quarter, and the Prince began to wonder, between Queen and sorcerer,
who was subordinate to whom.
She rose to her
feet, throwing back the white-furred splendor of her robe, and cried,
“Murderer! This fight was not condoned; you had not my let to brawl, either
one. The Count is beyond my retribution, but I shall visit my anger twofold
upon you.”
Springbuck
expected to hear the order go out and see deadly shafts throw back the
lamplight on their way to the Duke’s heart.
But instead,
Fania commanded, “Archog, slay me this man.” At this Archog, the largest of the
ogres and the captain of them, drew his huge broadsword from its scabbard at
his back and shuffled forward.
Springbuck
watched in horror. The match between Hightower and Synfors had been one thing,
a bout between men by challenge given and taken. The assault of Archog was
something else—a deliberate, merciless executioner about to do his work. The
Prince’s impulse was to go to the Duke’s side and stand with him. Yet that
impulse was drained, and the heir of the
Ku-Mor-Mai
immobilized at the
ogre’s terrifying aspect. His mouth had gone dune dry and he realized that to
oppose Archog or, in his killing rage, even to impede him, would mean death.
What would it profit to die?
But for a scant
second, Hightower tore his gaze from the creature tramping to confront him and
fixed the Prince with his eye. That look said nothing of expectation or
resentment; there was no bitterness because Hightower had come to help him only
to lose his own life. It was, Springbuck saw in that one instant, the Duke’s
way of ensuring that the Prince would see and understand. It simply said, “I am
Hightower. This is how I live, and how I can die, if it comes to that.”
And that stark
message came through so well that the Prince lurched forward to join the Duke,
and in the impact of the moment, none noticed the sob that escaped him. But he
was seized from either side by the guardsmen and held fast in armored hands; in
a moment the eight archers had leveled unswerving arrowheads at his breast. He
stopped struggling to watch as the ogre closed with Hightower.
The Duke waited,
perhaps bitter with himself for leaving his own liege men outside Earthfast; he
exhibited none of the confidence he had shown with Synfors. He shifted his grip
on his sword and, uttering a piercing war cry, threw himself forward at his new
enemy, swinging a savage blow.
But Archog met
the Duke’s weapon with his own with such terrific energy that the man’s sword
broke in two. Stunned, Hightower fell back on one knee, holding the useless
quillons and stump of his blade before him as if his sword were still whole.
With a scream
that had no message but animal anguish and loss, the Prince, beyond any care or
caution for his own life, shook his captors loose and fumbled at the ranker’s
belt for his sword. The captain should have jumped back and let the archers do
their work, which would have pleased his Queen well; but in the heat of the
moment he instead brought down an iron-girt fist and dashed Springbuck into
semiconsciousness.
Archog advanced
and swung again, this time knocking aside the Duke’s sword stump and beheading
him.
The ogre stood
over his victim’s body, which streamed its hot life’s blood across the floor,
and his bone-chilling gaze lifted slowly to Fania, no trace of elation or
rancor in it, awaiting further instruction.
Fania,
whey-faced and glassy-eyed at the ghastly scene, tried to find her voice but
couldn’t. Again she turned to Yardiff Bey, and once more appeared to summon
composure from that source.
“Take the…
remains of the traitors away,” Fania managed at last in a subdued tone.
Archog stooped
and straightened, to move toward the portals, the Duke’s body under one arm and
the head cupped in the other gauntleted paw. Synfors’ body was carried away,
too. Finally the Prince was lifted by the two guardsmen.
In the whirling
haze that had settled around him, Springbuck shrank back before the realization
of his failure to aid Hightower as before the heat of a bonfire.
This
before all else: be armed.
machiavelli
NERVOUS, whispered conversations
sprang up among the courtiers. Fania glanced about her in sudden, imperious
anger.
“Where are my
stepson’s mentors, Eliatim and Faurbuhl?” she demanded.
The majordomo,
resplendent in filigreed cloak and bright sash, carrying his staff of office,
stepped forward and bowed. “Your Majesty,” he intoned, “Eliatim accompanies
guests of state home to their embassy houses and the philosopher Faurbuhl seems
nowhere to be found.”
“In that case,
have the Prince taken to his rooms and left in the care of the Lady Duskwind.”
Springbuck was
hoisted and carted away as she turned to the Court.
“Have the
servants rinse clean the floors. Fetch drink and chargers of food and let the
musicians strike up.”
As the Prince’s
bearers exited the Court, he groggily heard the crowd call tentatively for an
air wherewith to dance. In quick fashion the arena was changed back to a
ballroom; delicate feet would soon mince where the blood of men had been but a
short time before.
Springbuck
ascended slowly from his bodiless fog, jounced along, slung over an armored
shoulder for a trip that seemed endless. Then there was the sound of a discreet
knocking, the officer’s respectful voice: “My Lady Duskwind?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Captain
Brodur, and we have the Prince with us, my Lady.”
What odd
inflection was that in Captain Brodur’s voice? Springbuck wondered dazedly. Was
it urgent, almost nervous? His wits were beginning to return and he felt a
growing desire to vomit.
“He is
somewhat, umm, incapacitated,” Brodur continued, “and the Queen instr—”
“Oh! Bring him
in and leave him on the bed. I shall attend to him. Only wait a moment when I
unbolt the door, then you may enter.”
The enlisted
man made a rude, whispered jest at the Lady’s expense and was rebuked by his
officer as the two brought their burden into the room and dropped him onto the
brocatelle spread of his wide bed. He bounced once on the soft mattress and lay
in a sprawl, holding down bile.
The instant
Springbuck heard the door close, he vaulted clumsily from the bed to stand and
take his bearings, bracing himself both literally and figuratively. With
Eliatim, his instructor-in-arms and warfare, away, he wouldn’t be under the
close scrutiny he’d endured lately. Had the captain left for good, thinking
he’d be unconscious for a while? The certainty was suddenly in him that his
chance to escape had come on this least likely occasion.
He couldn’t see
Duskwind and so assumed that she was in the bath chamber. Crossing to one of
his wardrobe chests, he extracted three broad, silken headbands, then leaped
back to stand beside the door leading to the bath. Watching it carefully, he
groaned as realistically as he could.
“Coming, my
love,” Duskwind called from the next room. “You drank overmuch, perhaps? I’ll
ease your sufferings; we’ll see what steam and massage can do to help it.”
So saying, she
opened the door and walked into the bedroom. She must have been preparing to
bathe when the guardsmen had knocked, he reflected in the brief moment in which
she stood with her back to him, puzzled by his absence. She was naked, her
honey-streaked hair unbound and the big knuckle-shield rings missing from her
slim hands.
He pounced on
her from behind, snatching her wrists from her sides and drawing them together
at the small of her back. She gasped in surprise but couldn’t turn around, as
he confined her hands with two deft loops of a headband.
“Springbuck, is
that you? Stop it! This is no time for drunken games, you idiot!” There was a
strange, sharp note in her voice that he’d never heard there before. She
squirmed and struggled in his grip and he couldn’t have answered her if he’d
wanted, because he held the remaining two headbands in clenched teeth.
Tightening the
second loop, he whirled her around, tripped her and lowered her to the thick
carpet on her stomach, straddling her.
Alarmed now,
she shrilled, “You mustn’t do this! Listen to me—”
He’d used the
second headband as a gag. The third he fastened around her vigorously kicking
legs, fettering her at the ankles. Lifting her as carefully as he could manage
under the circumstances, he carried the wildly protesting Duskwind to the bed.
Even then he found himself marveling at the warmth of her smooth, brown-gold
skin and the fragrance of her, as he threw her across the covers. As a
precaution to her thrashing efforts to free herself, he added extra bindings
and, out of modesty, pulled the covers over her, leaving only her head and
graceful feet exposed.
He bent to peer
into her gray eyes. “I’m sorry,” he told his lover, “but I’m leaving and I’ve
decided that there’s no place for a highborn and gentle Lady on the journey I
mean to make.” At this her eyes went wide and she began to shake her head
violently, attempting to speak through the gag.
He nodded
sadly. “Yes, I must go and I cannot take you, though life will be desolate
without you.” This last was rather an exaggeration; he looked forward to going
forth a free agent. But he was fond of her, had been happy with her. She had
even consoled him against his pending combat with the vague reassurance that something
would happen to prevent it.
Well, now
something would.
Duskwind shut
her eyes tightly in exasperation, then stared imploringly skyward. Perplexed,
he nevertheless decided that he had spent enough time with her. He went to
another chest, dug under some robes of state and drew forth the things he had
assembled for flight. He unlaced his buskins and threw them to one side, took
off his tunic and removed his copper bracelets and bandeau. These he kicked
into a corner, done with them for all time. Turning then to his preparations,
he was arrested by a glimpse of himself in the cheval glass which stood against
the wall. He moved closer and regarded himself, an open-faced young man in his
nineteenth year.
Smiling
experimentally at the mirror Springbuck was rewarded with a totally
unremarkable smile. He was positive that he would attract no attention or
recognition as the Prince. He felt stirrings of confidence that his escape
would be successful.
He abruptly
remembered the door and whirled on it in apprehension. It was closed but
unlatched. Thankful that Duskwind’s one outcry had elicited no inquiries, he
darted to the door and shot the bolt to, congratulating himself on his luck
and, at the same time, feeling a growing knot in his stomach, fear reaction
from the events in the throne room and an ache to be away.