Brokedown Palace (34 page)

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Authors: Steven Brust

BOOK: Brokedown Palace
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Mariska threw her head back in a gesture that was both like and unlike Brigitta’s. “I have no wish to see this. May I leave?”
The King waved her away as if he were brushing a bee from his face. She walked past Brigitta and Miklós without appearing to see them. Miklós watched her as she entered the hall. She looked over
at Viktor and his guards, and shuddered. Then she turned to Vilmos. “I am leaving here. Will you come with me?”
He looked at her, appearing almost puzzled, but said nothing.
“Please?” she said. “Let us visit the norska. I’d like that. We have no part in … in what they are about to do.”
Vilmos blinked twice, then shook his head. A sigh seemed to pass through Mariska’s body. Her left hand clutched air, and, for the first time, Miklós noticed that she wasn’t holding her fan. She turned away and, without looking back, went down the hall. Miklós could almost fancy he had seen tears glistening on her cheeks before she passed from sight.
László, standing perhaps six feet from Miklós, licked his lips. Then he drew his sabre. Állam caught a beam of sunlight from the window and glittered wickedly. László held it out, low, pointing up, yet not quite at Miklós. Andor backed away. Miklós felt himself pulled toward Brigitta and felt her sudden touch against his side.
László said, “Now, Viktor.” He smiled slightly. “Prove yourself. Get him.”
Miklós turned to face the door, while, by unspoken consent, Brigitta kept her eyes on László.
Miklós said, “Vilmos.”
The giant stirred and looked at him. Viktor appeared in the doorway, stepped through and to the side. He turned back toward those he commanded and said, “Take Prince Miklós. Kill him if necessary.”
Miklós said, “Vilmos.”
The sound of footsteps. His heart sank and he was certain that, by now, his trembling was visible. He met the giant’s eyes. The first of the guards appeared in the doorway, found Miklós, and raised his sabre to chest level, arm straight, wrist turned over, exactly as Viktor taught for fighting in close quarters.
“Vilmos.”
The guard stepped fully into the room.
He got no farther. Vilmos reached out and took the guard under his armpits, lifted him over his head, and threw him down the hall. There was a curse and a cry as he landed. Vilmos looked startled. “He cut himself on someone’s sword,” he explained.
Vilmos moved forward, positioning himself in the doorway. Miklós felt a wave of relief rushing through him; it momentarily left him as weak-kneed as his fear had before. He stole a quick glance at László. The King stood as still as the idol of the Goddess had. He held his sabre pointing up. He stared at Vilmos, eyes wide. His self-confidence seemed to be wavering for the first time that Miklós could ever remember.
When Miklós’s glance returned to the doorway, he could barely see past the giant’s form that two guards stood facing him there. One struck at Vilmos. Miklós could not see what he did, but in an instant the guard was on the floor and the giant had the sword in his hands. He broke it in half as if it were flint and cast the pieces onto the ground before him.
As far as Miklós could see, the other guard got as far as raising his sword before one of Vilmos’s mighty hands came down upon his head; he dropped like a lead weight.
Two more red uniforms took their place and were treated with equal courtesy. Miklós glanced at Viktor. The captain still held his sabre. He watched Vilmos carefully and licked his lips. He seemed unwilling to attack.
Miklós watched his brother deal with two more guards, take a step back into the room, then turn and give Miklós a quick, almost shy smile. Then he returned to the doorway.
At that moment, Miklós heard Brigitta’s voice next to his ear. “Do nothing, wizard,” she said.
Miklós spun. There was a look of concentration on Sándor’s
face, and he was staring at Vilmos. Thoughts of his own power came to Miklós’s mind, but—
You must find a new weapon, master
. He looked around, as if hoping to see something lying on the floor. Behind him, he still heard the sounds of Vilmos scuffling with guards.
Sándor was still concentrating. As Miklós tried to decide what to do, Brigitta acted. She stepped forward with a speed Miklós could not have guessed at. She reached Sándor before the wizard was aware, and, placing both hands on his chest, pushed him into the tree.
He fell backward, startled, and slid to the floor. Brigitta rushed past him as he started to rise. She stood behind him and took into her hand a trailer covered with thin leaves. She wrapped this, tendril-like, around his neck and pulled tight, gripping both ends with her left hand.
Sándor seemed startled, but raised his hands in a gesture that reminded Miklós of the Demon Goddess. He wanted to yell to Brigitta that the power could be summoned from the source faster than she could strangle him, but there was no need. With a strength he hadn’t realized she possessed, her closed right hand came crashing down directly onto the top of Sándor’s head. The wizard sighed and fell back, senseless.
Miklós, cursing himself for doing nothing, stared at the tree.
There’s your weapon, fool
.
How then? What did the tree conceal within its massive leaf covering?
László still hadn’t moved. Brigitta’s eyes widened suddenly, staring over Miklós’s shoulder. As Miklós turned, there came a sudden motion from the side.
Brigitta had seen that as Vilmos was soundly drubbing the guards, Viktor had finally begun sneaking up on the giant from behind. But the flash of motion was Andor.
To the wonder and amazement of Miklós, if not everyone in the room, fat, slow Andor had jumped and fallen onto Viktor and was wrestling him to the ground. The captain would have had no trouble in a contest of strength with Andor, but the combination of sheer dead weight along with the arms wrapped tightly about his body took him some time to deal with.
“Vilmos,” called the young Prince. “Look to your side!”
The giant did and saw what was occurring. He took a moment from his bashing of guards to drop his fist on Viktor’s head, just as Brigitta had done to Sándor. Viktor lay still. Vilmos looked at Miklós, gave him another quick, shy grin, and returned to facing the guards. Andor looked at Miklós, started to smile, then dropped his eyes.
From what Miklós could see of the number of bodies piled in front of the door, he doubted that many guards were left by now.
Then Brigitta called, “Miklós, ’ware the King!”
The Prince spun and saw that László was moving forward steadily toward Vilmos’s back, Állam leveled in front of him.
Now is your time, Miklós
, he told himself. And, even as he did, he wondered if he would have the courage to act. Yet, to his own surprise and eternal pride, he found that he was moving forward. His hands empty, he came behind László and tried to take the wrist that held the sabre.
But the King was quicker and stronger. Almost absentmindedly, László struck the Prince in the forehead with the pommel of his sword.
For an instant, all he saw were the colors and patterns on the inside of his eyes. Then Miklós found that he was on his back, near the tree. Brigitta, next to him, met his eyes. Then she, too, charged the King. Miklós wanted to cry to her to stop, but there was no time. With a similar disdainful gesture, László struck her with the flat of the blade, and she fell back, dazed, next to Miklós.
Then it was Andor’s turn. He knelt, then squatted, then sprang like an attacking norska. Állam flashed, and Miklós saw blood. Andor howled like a wounded animal, and Miklós saw that he held the stump of his right arm in his left hand, staring at it in horror. His right hand lay, palm up, on the floor next to László’s feet.
His eyes met Miklós’s for a moment, then he fell backward, sprawling. His upper body was still, but his legs kicked out, pitifully. Brigitta crept over to him on all fours and began tearing strips from her dress to bind his maimed arm. Miklós looked at László, whose eyes were wide with horror. Yet the King stared not at Andor but at Állam gleaming in his hand. And, even as Miklós watched, the blade began to tremble, as if László couldn’t control it. The King looked up at him with an expression of helplessness.
Vilmos, finished with the guards, stood and took another step into the room. He faced László, his arms held out in front of him. The King shook his head in denial; then it seemed that his arm was nearly pulled from its socket by the sabre.
Állam struck at Vilmos like a snake. Miklós saw it connect with his side, and blood spurted, mixing with the pool that had formed when Andor’s hand had been cut off. Vilmos looked puzzled, and took another step toward László. “Miki,” he said.
The expression on the King’s face twisted, as if the rage embodied in the weapon had worked its way into his soul. He moved toward Vilmos and thrust for his heart, but the giant twisted, so the sword only grazed across his chest. A rip appeared in his jerkin, and a line of blood showed against his skin.
“Miki,” he said.
Now, what, princeling? Take another dive at László to at least die fighting? For what?
László stepped back before the giant’s advance and cut down. This time blood came in a smooth, even flow from Vilmos’s cheek. “Miki.”
Your weapon, idiot! Find your weapon! You don’t know what it is, but you damn well know where!
László tried another cut for Vilmos’s side. The giant stepped back, but the blade caught him above the previous cut; he stumbled, and there was more blood flowing from his body.
With a wrench that was almost painful, Miklós turned his back on the battle and dived through the foliage. Behind him, as if from a great distance, he heard once more, “Miki.”
Inside, under the cover of the leaves and branches, there was a pale light that seemed to come from all around. Miklós cast his eyes to the trunk, now thick and solid, almost bursting with life.
Growing from it, sticking straight out, was a single, large, bare branch; thick and heavy in appearance, as if it were put there for just this purpose.
Perhaps it was
, thought Miklós, as he reached for it. It came away in his hand with a sharp crack.
He took it with both hands. It was nearly as big as he was. It was as heavy as a stone, and Miklós found that he could hardly lift it.
Yet, only a few feet away, Vilmos was dying.
Miklós cradled the branch in his arms. His back threatened to break, and his legs felt weak and watery. He forced his legs to carry him forward a step, but he nearly fell over and was forced to take two steps backward to avoid falling and being crushed beneath the weight.
He cursed silently, found his footing, and leaned forward slightly. He ran, rather than walked, back into the dim light of the chamber.
When he stepped back, Vilmos was only inches from him. There was another wound on his face now and a gash high on his right leg. His stomach had been cut open. Miklós could almost see the quivering of Vilmos’s organs, but he allowed himself no time for nausea.
With all of his strength, he held the massive staff out with both of his arms.
“Take it, Vili,” he said in a barely audible whisper.
The giant reached out his right hand and took it. Although he had never, as far as Miklós knew, used a club or a staff, he gripped it in both hands as if he knew what he was doing. Yet he seemed almost unaware of his actions; seemed to be concentrating wholly on László. He stumbled forward with the staff held out before him like a shield.
Miklós sank to the floor. László stepped back a few paces, until he was nearly in the far corner. He was uninjured, yet sweat beaded his forehead and his breathing was labored. He took a few tentative passes through the air with Állam, but Vilmos didn’t seem to notice; he merely took another step forward. László’s eyes narrowed as he studied the unadorned staff, and he shot a quick, speculative glance at the tree.
Állam seemed to jump in his hand, as if unwilling to refrain from battle. Vilmos took another halting step forward. László’s mouth opened, and he broke forth with a yell that echoed throughout the room: the snarl of a cornered dzur or the battle cry of a charging dragon.
Almost faster than Miklós could see, the sabre swept down in a great arc toward Vilmos’s head. The giant raised his staff. It was almost too late—almost, but not quite.
Steel met wood in a flash of white light that left Miklós with spots in front of his eyes, and with a clap like thunder that left a ringing in his ears. At the same time, he felt the tree behind him sway and tremble.
When Miklós could see again, Vilmos still stood, the staff resting against the floor. László stood facing him, the hilt of Állam still in his hand. On the floor next to the King lay the blade of the sabre, now only a broken piece of burnt and twisted metal.
Vilmos tottered. But before he fell, he lifted the staff once more and thrust it into László’s stomach. The King cried out and fell to
the floor, where he lay moaning softly and moving his head from side to side. Vilmos collapsed to his knees. A faint smell of smoke filled the room.
For a moment no one moved. But then a breeze came from the open window, bringing the clean scent of the River, mixed with the fresh growing fragrance of the tree. Vilmos turned and there were tears in his eyes, but he said, “Thank you, Miki.”

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