Assassins' Dawn (12 page)

Cranmer was carrying a camera—the tri-lensed apparatus of a portable holo. He adjusted a vernier, squinted into the eyepiece, and checked the room lighting. Somewhere inside the metal casing, a motor purred. Taking his eyes from the viewpiece, Cranmer stared critically at the lines marked on the floor of the cavern.

“Someday you’re going to have to let me work against one of your apprentices,” he said.

An undercurrent of laughter rippled through the Hoorka standing around him, dominated by d’Mannberg’s booming chuckle. A heavy, massive man with blond-red hair and a thick beard, he looked perhaps more ponderous than dangerous. It was a deceptive appearance.

“Yah, laugh, you arrogant bastard.” Cranmer turned to d’Mannberg, a comically stern frown on his face and his light tone leaching any possible sting from his words. “We scholars have our own attributes. I’ve a lot less flesh to move around, for one.”

Stepping forward, he poked a finger into d’Mannberg’s stomach. It was obvious by the sudden widening of his eyes that he was startled when his finger was repulsed by strong muscles—the gray-black folds of the Hoorka uniform were barely dented.

“You
could
always run between my legs and reach up, I suppose,” d’Mannberg retorted into Cranmer’s amazement. Cranmer’s lack of stature led to many—too many, to Cranmer’s view—comments about his shortness.

Cranmer gazed at his ineffectual forefinger, then stared appraisingly at d’Mannberg. “I doubt that it would do much good. Nothing to hold on to.”

D’Mannberg winced.

“The scholar has a sting.”

“At least I have
something
.” As the Hoorka laughed, Cranmer shook his head, a grin on his face. “You understand,” he observed at large, “it will be noted in my eventual paper that the Hoorka seem to find the crudest sort of humor appealing. Unsophisticated and rowdy, lacking taste and refinement, and indulging in gutter humor of the lowest variety. I can visualize a group of Hoorka sitting about the caverns, exchanging puns and sexual metaphors . . .”

“One must have some type of social intercourse,” said Valdisa, smiling overmuch.

“Sirrahs and dames, can we get our minds attuned to business?” the Thane broke in roughly. He tempered the reproof in his voice with a mock shaking of his head, but the joking conversations died. The Thane nodded toward the door leading to the Hoorka living quarters. “Aldhelm is coming.”

Watching Aldhelm walk toward them, the Thane felt indecision hammering at him. The unresolved conflict of the contract night lay like a barrier between them through which only the most innocuous comments could pass, a pall of caution.
How should I speak to him? What can dissolve that curtain?
The questions remained unanswered.

As Aldhelm came up to the group of Hoorka, he acknowledged the Thane’s presence with the barest salutation. “Thane, Valdisa; how are you?”

As Valdisa said her hello, Aldhelm glanced about and noted Cranmer’s recording gear and the Hoorka waiting to see the practice bout. “An oddly popular exercise,” he said drily. “Are you ready, then, Ric?”

“Definitely.” D’Mannberg stretched and grunted.

Aldhelm and d’Mannberg stripped to the waist. As Aldhelm straightened and threw his tunic to the ground, the Thane caught his eye. The two locked gazes, nearly glaring, until Aldhelm shook his head with a rough motion and broke the contact. Spectators began moving away from the practice strip and the Thane felt Valdisa shift position until she stood next to him. Her hand touched his thigh with a light, accidental brush held a fraction of a second too long. Suddenly sensitive to such things, the Thane could feel her warmth along his right side as he watched Cranmer film the preliminaries. He started, hesitantly, to put his arm around her shoulders, then changed his mind. He brushed his hair back.

Half-naked, Aldhelm was impressive: a wedge of a torso with sharply defined muscles and a firm abdomen. He moved as if he were all too well aware of his physical impression, striding carefully erect and with a certain equipoise that suggested he was expecting an assault from an unseen assailant. The Thane compared it mentally with his own self—that figure he examined critically and vainly in the mirror of his room. The Thane was beginning to lose the tone and vigor of his younger days, despite his constant exercising.
No,
he thought,
in all honesty I don’t exercise as I once did. I can’t summon the same enthusiasm for it.
He remembered a time when he would have been eager to face the challenge of an Aldhelm, but now . . . He shook the thought away.

D’Mannberg and Aldhelm had exchanged their vibros, checking to see that each had been adjusted and locked to the practice setting. A half meter from the end of the grip to the tip, the long-vibro was a hybrid of sword and knife. Set correctly, they would sting but not cut. That was incentive enough to avoid being touched, for the welt it would leave behind was painful and slow to heal. Having checked the weapons, they returned them to each other and repeated the process: calibrate, twist the locking ring on the hilt until it clicked and moved forward, test against a fingertip—a mistake could easily cost flesh. D’Mannberg winced and shook his hand as the vibro slapped against his finger, eyes half-closed. The two Hoorka bowed to each other, and because the Thane was watching, to him. If the Thane noted that Aldhelm’s bow was less deep than d’Mannberg’s, he said nothing.

The combatants began to cautiously circle each other, hands outspread, bare feet hushing against the floor. As they moved, the varied color of the lights swept over them, faint washes glazing the flesh tones: green-white, then a pale purple. From another strip on the far end of the room, steel rapiers could be heard clashing with a faint ringing, but still louder was the hard breathing of Aldhelm and d’Mannberg, the low thrumming of their vibros, and the slithering of their feet on the packed earth.

D’Mannberg attacked first. A thick arm darted forward, quicker than one might have expected from the sheer mass it carried. Through a gauze of vermillion to decaying green: the vibros met with a protest of hissing rage and a few blue-white sparks that fell—a dying parabola—to the ground. Aldhelm quickly showed his superior strength. His parry combined with d’Mannberg’s forward momentum to throw the larger man off-balance. D’Mannberg barely missed being nicked as he stumbled and recovered. Cranmer, filming from the side nearest them, suddenly found himself too near the combat and quickly moved backward. Laughter from the watching Hoorka pursued him. D’Mannberg, his eyes on Aldhelm, smiled ruefully in response to the amusement, thinking it directed toward his clumsy attempt to pass Aldhelm’s guard. He shook his head in self-chastisement.

Aldhelm’s grim expression never matched the light-hearted comments around him.

The Hoorka thrust quickly, and d’Mannberg barely had time to bring his vibro up. Their weapons shrieked agony as Aldhelm’s free hand reached out and grasped d’Mannberg’s vibro hand at the wrist. He twisted, viciously, and with a yelp of pain and surprise, d’Mannberg dropped his blade. Aldhelm kicked it aside as d’Mannberg shook free of Aldhelm’s grip and backed away, holding the injured wrist.

(Murmured approval from the watchers. Valdisa leaned close to the Thane and whispered “That was a good move. He’s quick, isn’t he?” The Thane grunted assent as she pressed his hand with her fingertips.)

Sweat was beginning to bead on Aldhelm’s skin. On his shoulders, the fungi-lights glistened wetly. D’Mannberg, his face radiating his disgust at being so easily caught, expelled an irritated breath and reached down casually for his fallen vibro. Aldhelm, a step away, thrust at the exposed chest, and the tip of the vibro touched d’Mannberg just below the ribcage. The slap of vibro against flesh was loud in the caverns and d’Mannberg, shocked, bellowed his hurt. His fingers closed on air short of the vibro hilt; he rolled to the ground and kicked out with his legs. His left foot struck the forearm of Aldhelm’s vibro arm. The weapon shivered and nearly dropped before Aldhelm could grasp it firmly again. His hand chopped at Aldhelm’s leg, missing by millimeters.

“Aldhelm!” The admonishment came unbidden from the Thane, startling everyone—including himself—with its vehemence. The Hoorka-kin standing about added their own vague protest at Aldhelm’s seeming disregard for practice etiquette. It was well and good to use any advantage when seriously threatened, but in practice the adversary had the right to recover a dropped weapon unless such a rule was stated beforehand. It saved people from unnecessary hurt. Aldhelm seemed too serious, too intent on showing his prowess and humbling d’Mannberg.
And it’s my fault.
“Damn,” said the Thane aloud.

The Thane’s shout had turned Aldhelm, and in that moment d’Mannberg regained his footing. Shouting his anger, he rushed Aldhelm, getting his burly arms about the Hoorka’s shoulders and bearing the smaller man down with sheer weight. On his knees, Aldhelm half-turned in d’Mannberg’s hold and freed his vibro, bringing it around until it touched d’Mannberg’s bicep. A yelp of pain: involuntary moisture filled d’Mannberg’s eyes. He held on with desperation, but his grip had been weakened, allowing Aldhelm to turn to face him. Aldhelm lashed out with knee and vibro. His leg struck hard at d’Mannberg’s thick waist, and d’Mannberg fought for breath, backing away from the threatening vibro. Sweat, rainbow-hued, rained on the floor. The hair of both men was matted to their heads, dark with moisture. D’Mannberg started forward to attack again, but his feet slid on the slick floor; in that instant, Aldhelm thrust his vibro and touched d’Mannberg’s massive chest. D’Mannberg gulped for air, his eyes wide and pained. He flailed at Aldhelm, and this time struck his wrist— Aldhelm’s vibro skidded across the strip. D’Mannberg struggled to rise and pursue his advantage.

A hand caught at Aldhelm’s shoulder from behind as he reached for his fallen weapon, slipping once on the sweat and then gripping tightly. Aldhelm shook off the restraint with a violent motion and spun on his toes to face his new attacker—the Thane. Anger etched the lines of the older man’s face even deeper. His lips were drawn back slightly from his teeth and his body was braced, the legs spread.

“Enough, Aldhelm.” His voice lashed at the man. “You’ve managed to make your point, whatever it was supposed to be. Do you mind telling me what you’re trying to prove that’s worth a kin’s pain?”

Aldhelm’s vibro was held at his side, still activated. He stared at the Thane, a berserker rage in his eyes—dilated pupils, eyelids drawn far back. He blinked once, then again, and suddenly seemed to recognize the Hoorka ruler. His voice was almost too normal, too calm and even. “I’m a competent fighter, Thane—that’s all I wished to show my kin. They needn’t treat me as a nouveau or an apprentice.”

“And you feel a need to demonstrate that? I’ll admit it here before the rest of Hoorka, if it eases your childish temper. Or do you wish me to call a general meeting and stand up before the kin to say ‘Aldhelm can fight, if he sometimes forgets to think’?” The Thane tapped a forefinger to his temple.

With the last words, Aldhelm’s face moved as if struck. His hands clenched the vibro hilt convulsively.

“Let me defer to my elders then, Thane. I, the child, ask forgiveness and stand corrected. I don’t think.” Aldhelm spat out the words.

“Give me your vibro, then.” The Thane held out his hand, and the light-fungi bathed it with an odd coloration. Glancing down, the Thane saw his palm as a dead and withered thing, devoid of power and impact, decaying and impotent.
It isn’t working—this is all wrong. I should have let the others separate them and have sent Aldhelm off to cool his temper. Just let the incident go at that with nothing said. Too late, too late. You have to play this charade out now.

Aldhelm glanced at the Thane’s hand. “The vibro?” he asked. And he stared at the Thane in mute challenge, making no move to hand over the weapon.

Anger fought logic inside the Thane, anger allied with a need to prove his own competence to himself and sweep away the doubts that had come to bother him more of late. He glanced at Aldhelm, at the vibro, at the muscular body confronting him. It would be easy to simply stand there, hand out; Aldhelm would give in from the force of the Hoorka-kin watching at the Thane’s back. The younger Hoorka was in the wrong and knew it—and it would be a strengthening of the Thane’s authority. All he need do was wait.

But he couldn’t wait.

Without a word, the Thane pulled his tunic over his head as a small, rational part of his mind shrilled alarm. He held the bunched cloth in his hand, then threw it at Aldhelm and leaped to follow. He heard Valdisa’s voice crying wordlessly as he struck out at the man.

The Thane’s attack knocked Aldhelm to the ground, the Hoorka still trying to free himself from the tunic. They fell in a tangle of limbs, the Thane with both hands on Aldhelm’s knife arm. Aldhelm thrust the blinding cloth aside and levered himself with his powerful legs, driving and turning so that the Thane found himself below the other man, still holding desperately to the vibro hand.

By the Hag, he’s strong. I’ve made a mistake. I can’t take him.
The realization came even as he brought his knees up in a reflex motion, searching for groin or stomach. But Aldhelm had anticipated that maneuver and had moved quickly to the left, his body braced against the pressure of the Thane’s grip. The Thane let go his hold of Aldhelm. The sudden loss of support toppled Aldhelm. The Thane brought interlocked hands down between the man’s shoulderblades and scrambled to his feet.

Too low. I hit him too low and too late.

Aldhelm regained his footing almost as quickly, but Valdisa and another of the Hoorka took him by the arms before he could move to attack the Thane once more. He glowered angrily, but didn’t struggle.

“Let him go. Let him try to finish it.” The Thane was breathing heavily, feeling weaker than he should for the amount of exertion. His mind still shouted its admonition, but the adrenalin—the excitement of the fight—had taken him. He felt he had to carry through this farce or face an unresolved problem.
But if you lose . . . No, I won’t lose.
He nodded at Aldhelm. “You wanted this, kin. Let him go, Valdisa.”