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Authors: Steven Brust

Five Hundred Years After (Phoenix Guards) (55 page)

BOOK: Five Hundred Years After (Phoenix Guards)
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“Very well.”
“Bah,” said Tazendra. “This conversation wearies me. Let us begin the game.”
“As you will,” said Khaavren.
Aerich now drew his sword and his poniard, and took his accustomed guard position, arms crossed near the wrists, both of which faced him, and vambraces guarding his upper chest and neck. Expecting to be surrounded, the four friends put themselves into a position to guard each other’s backs, thus forming a circle in which they all faced outward: Khaavren faced the distant battle, Aerich waited at his right hand; Tazendra stood at his left; Pel was at his back, facing Greycat and Grita, who stood a little apart from the others. Pel leaned back and whispered to Khaavren, “It may be that, with my flashstone, I can dispatch Lord Garland, as, I believe, we ought to have done five hundred years ago.”
“No,” Khaavren whispered back. “I think we ought to save those for making this fight a little more even; besides, at such a distance you could miss, and that would be an embarrassment to me.”
“So be it,” whispered Pel, shrugging.
The brigands, indeed, formed a circle around them, staying just a fraction out of reach of their blades. As the cutthroats took their own guards, Greycat laughed. “This should be short work,” he said. Then, addressing his troop, he
said, “Have at them, and an imperial to everyone for each of them who dies screaming.”
“Do you know,” remarked Tazendra, “I live for moments like this.”
The historian might, in order to build tension in the reader, the release of which would provide a certain aesthetic pleasure, claim that our friends were, even apart from the discrepancy of numbers, in a bad place, for Khaavren had not fought a duel in more years than he could remember; Aerich had hardly touched a blade, even in practice, since he had left the Guard; Tazendra’s efforts had been mostly given over to sorcery; and Pel had been training, of all things, in the Art of Discretion.
But such a statement, while literally true, would be, in essence, dishonest; for Khaavren had never stopped training, and, moreover, had fought in a score of pitched battles; Aerich had learned in the traditional school of the Lyorn warrior, and so could not, even if he wished to, lose the skills so acquired: He practiced each day simply by walking, breathing, and moving; Tazendra was a Dzurlord in every sense, and, sorcery or no, would never consider leaving off her practice with the blade; and Pel, of them all, had fought perhaps a hundred times since entering the Institute of Discretion. Moreover, they knew each other of old, so that hardly a word or gesture was needed to know when one might move, or to indicate an opening or warn of a fresh attack.
And yet, the odds were, indeed, five to one, and the four friends knew they could not afford a mistake. And so, when Tazendra dropped her dagger, took out her flashstone, and discharged it with such authority that three of the enemy fell at once, one of them, indeed, being dead before she landed, Khaavren said, “My dear, you ought to have waited.”
“Bah,” said Tazendra, throwing the now-useless stone over her shoulder (luckily missing Pel) and quickly picking up her poniard. “I have another.” Several of the enemy, upon hearing these words, turned pale. Indeed, one of them, who stood in front of Aerich, allowed his concentration to drop, which proved an error: before he was aware, Aerich had darted out and delivered a blow which very nearly separated his head from his shoulders, after which the Lyorn returned to his guard position before anyone could react.
“What now?” said Pel. “It is only four to one. Come, I like this game.”
“Time presses,” reminded Khaavren.
“Well, that is true,” said Pel. “And so?”
“Shall we make it three to one?”
“That would be better.”
“On my call then. Ready—now!”
On the call, as their enemies flinched, they dropped their daggers, took out their flashstones, and discharged them at the nearest of their foes. It happened
that each had been charged carefully, and so, in all, four more of the enemy dropped, one of them dead, the other three merely injured, but certainly taken out of combat.
“Now!” called Greycat. “Quickly, attack them!”
Had the entire band done so at once, there is no doubt the issue would have been quickly settled—but in the mountains they had had little experience with determined, skilled, and organized resistance, still less with seeing eight of their number fall in as many seconds, and at that all without having so much as scratched the enemy; in short, they were demoralized, which, as anyone experienced in melee knows, is more than half the battle won. What happened was that, of the twelve who remained, seven of them attacked, while the other five held back for a moment. It happened to fall out, then, that for that instant, Aerich had three opponents, Tazendra had three opponents, Pel had one, and Khaavren had none at all.
Pel parried the attack of his enemy easily, and, though he counterattacked, did not score a hit; Aerich contented himself with parrying all three attacks with his vambraces—he, of them all, had no real use for his poniard except as an extra attack—and did not attempt a riposte. Tazendra, like the others, had not had time to pick up her dagger, and she might indeed have been wounded by one of her attackers—for three, all attacking at once, might well have been beyond her abilities—had not Khaavren, realizing in an instant that he had time, lunged to his left and driven his rapier through the heart of one of Tazendra’s foes, who responded by dropping his blade and sinking to his knees, in which position, oddly, he remained for the course of the battle.
Khaavren’s movement, however, had been seen by those whose duty it was to attack him, and they both did so at once, with such haste, driven, perhaps, by a certain guilt at not having responded to their leader’s order with more alacrity, that, in fact, they interfered with each other for just long enough that Khaavren was able to return to his position, although he still, like the others, was without a poniard.
“Oh, now, that was well done,” remarked Tazendra.
“You think so?” said Khaavren. “Cha! You’ve saved me often enough.”
“Perhaps I shall again,” said the Dzurlord.
Khaavren’s two attackers recovered, and, without delay, struck at him simultaneously. There are certain schools of swordplay practiced among Easterners (we will not dignify their practices with the word “fencing”) which teach an empty-handed parry. It is, by all accounts, a difficult and dangerous maneuver, yet we daresay there was never a better time for it to be put into practice. Unfortunately, Khaavren had never heard of any such technique, and so, while deflecting one of his enemies’ blades with his sword, all he could do
about the other attack, which took the form of a thrust for his neck, was to slice at the blade with his left hand, using the hand as if it were a knife, which, in point of fact, it was not; the move could, therefore, have no other result but to give him a deep cut on the outside of his left hand; although, to be sure, he did deflect the thrust and prevent his throat from being cut.
Khaavren winced, which caused his enemy, who had just cut him (or rather, who had just allowed Khaavren to cut himself), to believe that he could end the fray at once by making an instant attack on the injured Captain. Khaavren, however, was not one to allow a wound to distract him; he noted the too-hasty attack, and seeing that it was a wild cut aimed at his head, took the opportunity to fall to his knees while giving his enemy a good cut in the side. The brigand, a quick man with dark eyes somewhat reminiscent of Pel’s, cursed and brought his blade at once down at the top of Khaavren’s head, while his comrade, whose thrust had also missed thanks to Khaavren’s abrupt loss of altitude, attempted to cut at Khaavren’s head. It happened, however, that, when Khaavren dropped, his injured hand landed on the poniard he had earlier dropped; without taking time to adjust his grip (he was, in fact, holding the knife on the forte of the blade) he drove up and forward, avoiding the head cut, and stuck his dagger into the neck of the already-injured brigand, who, apparently, considered two wounds sufficient cause for him to leave off the engagement; he stepped back and spent the remainder of the battle (and, as it happened, his life) holding his neck and wandering aimlessly about the field, gasping and choking.
By now the fray was general—Khaavren, again with both weapons, and determinedly ignoring the pain that throbbed from his maimed hand as the blood positively spurted from it, had all he could do to hold off two attackers; Aerich was engaging three at once, and, with the skill of which only a Lyorn is capable, was contriving to force them to get in each other’s way, so that, although he still had not managed a counterstrike, he was solidly holding his own. Pel’s fierce expression, as much as anything, counted for keeping two of his attackers at bay, yet the third would certainly have scored against him except that Tazendra, who was veritably dancing with her two opponents, took a step forward, then a step back, and said, “Do you know, I have forgotten my third flashstone,” and raised her stone at one of those who was attacking Pel.
The burly ruffian froze in place for an instant, and an instant was all that was required before the nimble Yendi had given him a good thrust through the eye, which caused him to drop to the ground without a word or a sound.
“Perhaps,” said Tazendra, as she turned back to her opponents, “I was wrong about the third flashstone; it seems I gave it to Aerich.”
“Such a mistake,” remarked Pel.
“I am ashamed,” said Tazendra, aiming a cut at one of her enemies, which the brigand only avoided by a hair’s breadth.
“However,” she added, “this one has a second charge,” at which point she proved that she did not always bluff, by laying one of Khaavren’s opponents full length upon the ground.
“Blood of the Horse,” said Pel. “So does mine!” His opponents quickly stepped back as Pel raised his empty hand (he had, in fact, dropped his useless flashstone), but he took the opportunity to recover his poniard, which lay at his feet, proving that, since the first pass, they had exactly held their ground.
Khaavren, already wounded, felt himself begin to grow faint from the blood he was losing from his left hand; however, he now had only a single opponent. He drew himself up, smiled, raised his weapon, and said, “What is your name, my friend?”
The brigand, a young man of perhaps three or four hundred, who appeared to be a Jhegaala, looked at his dead comrades. Seeing the Tiassa’s cool smile and reddened sword, he now carefully licked his lips, cleared his throat, and said, “I am called Theen.”
“Well, Theen,” remarked Khaavren, “Perhaps you had best leave now, for if you remain you will die.”
Theen did not need to be asked twice; he took to his heels, heading away from the battle and the city as fast as his feet could carry him.
Khaavren took a breath and turned to help Aerich, who was still holding his own against three determined brigands.
“This is insupportable,” said Greycat, drawing his blade.
“Well,” shrugged Grita, who, not having a sword of her own, took a long, curved saber from one of the dead men.
“My dear Tiassa,” said Greycat. “Come, I will dispatch you myself.”
Khaavren, who had been about to engage one of Aerich’s opponents, turned to Greycat and Grita; he wordlessly took his guard, although he felt his knees trembling. He clenched his teeth, and saw, rather than felt, the poniard drop from his weakened hand.
“A shame,” remarked he who had been Lord Garland, and took a guard position, while Grita, next to him, raised her sword. Khaavren felt himself weaving as he stood. Aerich was still closely engaged with three of the enemy, Tazendra and Pel each with two; there was no help for him.
Khaavren stepped forward, half stumbling, and, as Grita and Greycat smiled, the Tiassa swept his left hand at them, covering their faces with his own blood. Both of them winced, and both attempted to wipe the blood from their eyes, and, before either of them could react, the Tiassa’s sword had exactly pierced Garland’s heart. Khaavren at once drew his sword from the wound and took a guard position, facing Grita; Garland stared in amazement,
then fell heavily and began clutching the ground. Grita, upon clearing her eyes and looking around, screamed, dropped her saber, and fell to her knees at Greycat’s side.
At the same time, one of Aerich’s opponents, startled, dropped her guard for an instant—and an instant later her head was swept from her body, which motion, in turn, distracted one of those fighting Pel, who paid for this error with a wound in the thigh that caused him to fall to the ground, holding his leg. Tazendra’s opponents both stepped back, watching.
Grita, taking Greycat’s hand in hers, screamed again, and then began sobbing noisily.
Tazendra took a quick look around, and said, “Your leader has fallen, but you are still five to four; come, what do you say? Shall we have at it? Ah, you are useless,” this last because the five of them, as if by consensus, turned and followed Theen, the one of Khaavren’s enemies who, if the reader recalls, had been allowed to run. At about this time, the brigand who had been kneeling during the entire contest at last sighed and pitched forward onto his face.
Khaavren’s friends gathered around the Captain, who stood, panting and watching Greycat and Grita. Not a word was spoken among them, but Khaavren was made to sit while Tazendra poured water into his mouth and Pel bound up his hand.
BOOK: Five Hundred Years After (Phoenix Guards)
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