Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (34 page)

           
The others appeared less sanguine,
though one shrugged and said, “It would be easier than guarding them. And we
should still have the horses.”

           
The last frowned and said, “Mayhap
we should take them all prisoner. If he is the hef-Alador it will be as she
says.”

           
The first spat and said, “They ride
fine horses. We could sell them, and none the wiser.”

           
“You would kill the woman?” asked
the shortest of the four. “What if she is a holy woman?”

           
“If she is, then she is a holy woman
of the Kingdoms, not the Beltrevan,” was the answer, “and she is still formed
like a woman. I have never had a holy woman. We could kill her afterward.”

           
His eyes appraised Wynett with a
horrible frankness and she shivered, fighting to keep fear from her voice.

           
“Take us to your Ulan,” she
suggested, “and let him decide. If he decides against us—which he will
not!—then you still have slaves, but when he sees the truth you may well find
yourselves rewarded. ”

           
“Cord will have those horses for
himself if we go to the Gathering,” said the barbarian in favor of rape.

           
“And give us to the eagle if she
tells the truth,” argued the doubter.

           
“We could trade with the Caroc,”
opined the third man.

           
“Do you trust the Caroc?” said the
leader.

           
The warrior frowned and shook his
head.

           
“I must think about this,” the
leader decided. “Bind them.”

           
“Do you dare lay hands on the
hef-Alador?” Wynett cried.

           
“Until he proves himself, aye,”
grunted the barbarian.

           
“Then at least allow us to dress,”
she asked. “We shall freeze else, and there will be no profit.”

           
The man thought for a moment, then
nodded. “Very well. But tread carefully, strangers!”

           
The four woodsmen moved back,
ringing them with arrows as they climbed into their furs and pulled on their
boots, then one bound their wrists behind their backs as the others leveled
shafts at their chests. After they were secured they were pushed roughly to the
ground, their weapons tossed aside as the barbarians set to debating their fate.

           
Kedryn was doubly frustrated, for he
could neither study the faces of their captors nor understand what they said.
Wynett outlined the argument she had put up and the responses it had brought,
and—as best she could—translated what she could hear of the conversation.

           
“One argues for killing us,” she
murmured, “another for bringing us to the Ulan—Cord, he is called—whilst the
third is unsure. Their leader is eager for profit, but afraid that you might be
the hef-Alador. ”

           
“If only he could be convinced,” Kedryn
muttered.

           
“Perhaps he can,” Tepshen Lahl
whispered.

           
“How?” Kedryn was dubious.

           
“By swordright,” answered the kyo.

           
“Swordright?” Kedryn shook his head,
his voice bitter. “I am blind, Tepshen—I cannot fight.”

           
“The hef-Alador would not fight a
common warrior,” said the easterner, “but a member of his Gehrim might.”

           
Hope sparked in Kedryn’s darkness
and he said, “It might work.”

           
“How goes the argument?” asked the
kyo.

           
“I am not sure,” Wynett answered,
“but I suspect that greed wins. They fear that Cord will take their profits if
they bring us to him, and that if we prove to be only wanderers they will have
wasted time. One still fears the eagle, but the rest seem careless of the
danger. ”

           
“Then speak before they reach a
decision,” urged the kyo.

           
“What shall I tell them?” she
wondered.

           
“That the hef-Alador forswears to
soil his blade on a commoner,” said Tepshen, “but presents the leader of his
Gehrim in his place.”

           
“You might well face three blades,”
warned the Sister.

           
Tepshen Lahl snorted dismissively.

           
“Tell them.”

           
Wynett paused, marshaling her
thoughts, then called out, startling the barbarians who turned toward her,
clearly irritated by the interruption.

           
“The hef-Alador challenges you,” she
cried. “He will prove himself by swordright.”

           
“A blindman?” chortled the would-be
rapist.

           
“The hef-Alador would not soil his
blade on such as you,” she retorted, praying she did not overdo the insult,
“but the leader of his Gehrim will stand in his place.”

           
“The yellow-face?” demanded their
leader.

           
“The kyo, Tepshen Lahl,” Wynett
confirmed. “The hef-Alador grows angry at his confinement and if you will not
bring us to your Ulan, then you must face the wrath of his champion.”

           
“Kill them now!” urged the sanguine
one.

           
“Would you doubly despoil the honor
of the Drott?” Wynett said, putting contempt in her tone. “To kill bound men is
the work of cowards, not warriors. To kill the hef-Alador bound must surely
condemn you to limbo. After you have known the embrace of the eagle!”

           
“There is truth in that,” said the
short warrior.

           
“Aye,” grunted the spokesman. “Let
us vote on it. Who favors killing them now?”

           
Two hands pawed the air.

           
“Ragnal and Narr vote for death.
You, Wyll?”

           
“I say we bring them to Cord,” said
Wyll. “I think the woman speaks the truth.”

           
“It depends on you, Kalar,” Ragnal
said. “How do you cast it?”

           
Kalar combed dirty fingers through
his beard, dislodging little pieces of food as a slow, ugly smile spread across
his face. “There are four of us and only three horses,” he murmured. “Three
slaves if she lies. And what reward they will bring if she speaks the truth
will go farther should two of us die.”

           
“You think that slant-eyed creature
can kill me?” Ragnal sneered.

           
“I do not know,” answered Kalar,
“but if he does I shall claim your woman.”

           
“If he does, you can have her,” said
Ragnal, “and welcome.”

           
“And mine,” added Narr.

           
“Very well,” Kalar decided, “I have
seen no honest combat since Cord took the torque.”

           
Ragnal and Narr were on their feet
in the instant, shields slipping from their backs to be secured about their
forearms, wide-bladed swords sliding from their sheaths. Kalar rose, producing
a knife, and cut Tepshen’s bonds. The kyo rose fluidly, massaging his wrists.

           
“This pretty thing is yours?” Kalar
hefted the long eastern blade in its ornate scabbard and tossed it to the kyo.

           
Tepshen caught the sheath, nodding.

           
“I would see this,” Kedryn said, and
Wynett translated.

           
Kalar ducked his head in agreement
and said, “Hold your shaft on them, Wyll,” slicing the ropes as the other warrior
nocked a fresh arrow.

           
Kedryn and Wynett rose, standing
hand-in-hand as Tepshen paced gracefully toward the waiting barbarians.

           
“Can he win?” asked the Sister.

           
“Aye,” said Kedryn, confident in his
friend’s ability.

           
The sun was closing on the treetops,
elongating the shadows, the fire brightening as the light grew dusky Ragnal and
Narr moved away from one another, crouching behind the cover of their bucklers,
shifting to come at Tepshen from either side. Ragnal brought his blade up.
ready to strike on the downswing, while Narr held his close against the circle
of cured bullhide, preparatory for a stabbing thrust.

           
Tepshen slid the longsword clear of
the scabbard and let the container fall to the snow. He gripped the eastern
blade twohanded, extended before him at waist height, slanting upward, his
stance deceptively casual.

           
“You are dead,” Ragnal bellowed, the
words falling uncomprehended on the kyo’s ears.

           
Kedryn watched, guessing the content
of the challenge and doubting its veracity, his gaze fixed on the trio as the
barbarians began a circling movement, seeing the stance Tepshen assumed and
knowing how the easterner would respond to the double attack.

           
Then Narr shouted and both men
rushed in, intent on bearing the kyo down before their shields.

           
Tepshen Lahl remained still for
what, to anyone unfamiliar with his deadly style, would appear too long. Kedryn
felt Wynett stiffen; heard her sudden intake of breath. Then the kyo shifted,
fluid as a cat, darting forward the three paces needed to take him between the
shields, spinning as he passed with the long-bladed sword swinging in a
double-handed cut at Ragnal’s spine. A tail of wolfskin hung abruptly down the
barbarian’s legs, bloody where the sword had slashed to the bone. He jerked,
his descending blade hacking empty air, and screamed in pain and rage. Only the
thickness of his furs had saved him from mortal injury and as it was, he was
slowed, gore pulsing from his wounded back.

           
Narr was less fortunate—or more, for
his death was swift. He stabbed at Tepshen’s side and found no target, the kyo
continuing his turn so that he pirouetted, the long blade rising above his
head, falling as he faced the second warrior. Narr was unbalanced by his clumsy
charge and struggled to bring his shield up, forgoing sword-work as he saw that
defense was his only hope. It was a forlorn optimism, for Tepshen’s edge came
down to strike his shoulder, hacking with terrible force at the joint of neck
and collarbone. Narr’s sword arm dropped as a gout of crimson drenched his face
and torso. His eyes opened wide, the scream that would have erupted from his
mouth only a liquid gargling as he fell to his knees, then pitched face-down on
the snow, his draining life spreading an ugly darkness over the white,

           
Tepshen wrenched his blade loose and
paced back as Ragnal came forward, limping, his bearded features contorted. He
held his buckler high, his heavy sword out to the side, its weight straining
the weakened muscles of his back. Kedryn saw that the lower part of his jerkin and
the backs of his fur breeks were stained with blood. Tepshen Lahl’s face was
calm, indifferent to the carnage he had wrought, and that seemed to infuriate
the barbarian. He bellowed a war cry and charged a second time as the kyo faced
him with upraised sword.

           
Tepshen’s timing was exquisitely
precise, even more delicate than that first lethal maneuver. He let Ragnal’s
swing begin, then sidestepped, his own blade descending and turning to cut
beneath the defensive buckler, a single step taking him clear of the warrior’s
sword as his own carved across the man’s belly. Ragnal gasped, doubling and
scything wildly with his blade as the kyo turned again and almost casually
reversed his stroke to bring the edge down against the man’s exposed neck.
Ragnal’s head fell forward, the whole of his jerkin drenched now, his neck
stretching to expose bone through the red lips of the wound. He went onto his
knees, weight resting on his outthrust hands, his long hair touching the snow.
He seemed to stare at the crimson that pooled beneath his face, steaming in the
cold air, then slumped full length, his feet kicking for a while before the
stillness of death overtook his body.

           
Tepshen Lahl spun to face Kalar,
menace in his obsidian gaze.

           
For an instant it seemed he might charge
the two remaining woodlanders and Kalar took a step backward, hand fastening on
his own sword hilt.

           
Kedryn saw Wyll shift his aim to
cover the kyo and tensed to spring forward, thinking that he could at least
prevent the tribesman from putting a shaft into Tepshen. Then a coughing, angry
roar filled the ominous silence and Kalar’s swarthy face paled under its
coating of grime. Wyll’s hands trembled on his bow, his eyes rounding in
amazement, and he shouted something to his fellow. Kalar replied in a tone that
Kedryn recognized as awe and dropped to one knee, his hands extended toward
Tepshen. Wyll eased his bowstring down and followed suit as a second roar
bellowed from the darkening trees.