Swordmistress of Chaos (12 page)

Then the ghastly things rose and scuttled down the table, mandibles clacking as their multiple eyes fastened on Spellbinder’s body.

The man in black sat as though exhausted, for magic is known to strain the body. But the sheer hideousness of the approaching horde stirred him to action. For the first time he summoned fire to his defence, wafting a sheet of flame down upon the scuttling monsters so that the bristling fur sparked bright and the huge legs withered, dropping crackling black bodies to the wood of the table. They writhed, the ichor within their bulbous bellies seething, boiling. Mandibles rattled a mad, flesh-lustful tune, and they died and were gone in the cleansing flame.

Belthis touched the circlet of platinum girding his temples, staring down at Spellbinder. The latter slumped back suddenly, as though his joints stiffened, tightening up themselves. His face grew lines, the skin parching, wrinkling, and his hair became grey. It was as though years passed in seconds, age creeping over his body with each breath drawn. His hair shaded from grey to silver, to a dull, yellowish white. Teeth clattered upon the table as withered lips sucked in on dried-out gums. His eyes misted with rheum, closing upon themselves as his fingers sprouted enlarged joints that turned the tips to claws, hooking inwards towards the palms. His shoulders slumped and curved, rising up around a neck grown scrawny, wizened; and his spine crooked, bending him close over the table.

At the other end, Belthis aged in the opposite direction. Hair sprouted from his yellowed pate, falling in thick locks of reddish brown as his sunken cheeks filled out, his eyes grew clearer. He sat upright in his chair, shoulders back and chest swelling enough to strain the seams of his white robe. As Spellbinder became an old man, so did Belthis grew young. He passed from age to middle-age, was a man in the prime of his manhood. Then he became a youth, a beardless boy, a child. His robes were too large for his diminishing frame, the high-backed chair too tall. Soon, he was forced to lift himself to see above the table’s edge; then his legs were too weak to support him. A squalling cry burst from lips that had forgotten the art of speech, and a blank faced baby huddled, whimpering, in the chair.

There was a flash of light that turned the hall to shimmering fire, and Spellbinder was himself again. Of Belthis, there was no sign. His chair was empty, only the burn-marks down the table and the rotten odour of scorched flesh to record his disappearance.

Spellbinder motioned with tired hands and the hall came alive again. The curtain of fire was gone with Belthis, now the sea-wolves came awake, torches and braziers flickered back to life, and the cold brilliance that had taken their place faded away. Spellbinder slumped, his face drawn as might be a man’s after a hard-fought battIe.

‘Where is he?’ Gondar Lifebane was the first to break the silence. ‘I’d see Belthis’ skull on a pole.’

‘Perhaps you shall,’ muttered Spellbinder. ‘But not now. What little power was left him, he has used to flee. Where, I cannot say; but gone he is, without a doubt.’

‘Ungrateful pig,’ snarled Gondar. ‘I found him cast adrift, roped to a lost boat to die for whatever sins he had committed. I took him in when he said he could aid me in conquering the Ghost Isle. And he spits at his rightful liege-lord. Hear me!’ He turned to the assembled company. ‘This man, this Spellbinder, has defeated Belthis. By battle-right and my favour, he has Hold-brotherhood amongst us. He is of Kragg, now. Who speaks against him, speaks against the Lifebane.’

There was a shout of agreement and of relief, for many were glad to see Belthis go, and more grateful for the ending of the demonic fight, and the rievers settled gladly to feasting and drinking to dispel the dark memories of ensorclement.

Amongst them, Spellbinder and Raven sat as honoured guests, the sea-wolves regarding with awe the man who had dared to face Belthis the Warlock in a duel of magic, more awed still that the castaway had won. That—and Gondar’s unhidden regard for Raven—set them as equals in the feast, and those who had not yet heard of their quest or their coming plied them with shouted enquiries. Gondar let it go on long enough to take the edge off the tension, then, while his men settled to serious drinking, posed questions of his own.

‘Why seek you the skull? It was lost in Utt’s day; no man alive knows where it rests now. Most like on the bottom of Worldheart.’

‘No.’ Spellbinder sipped his wine, staring moodily into the carved goblet. ‘When the Stone speaks, it speaks true. Were the thing lost, we’d not have been told to seek it.’

‘Unless there be some reason why you should not go to Kharsaam,’ suggested Gondar.

‘Donwayne is in Kharsaam,’ interrupted Raven, a cold light in her eyes, ‘so there I go. With or without the skull.’

‘In any event,’ murmured Spellbinder, ‘the Stone would have spoken against going were that the design. The suggestion alone means the skull may be found. How is another matter.’

‘Aye,’ grinned Gondar. ‘Another matter for another day. More immediate is the claiming of my battle right.’

He turned laughing eyes on Raven, letting them roam over the contours of her body until she almost blushed at the naked appraisal. Spellbinder stifled a chuckle and rose from his seat, excusing himself from further feasting. And, indeed, he appeared drawn by his ordeal, so his departure went largely unremarked. Shortly after Raven followed him, though not before Gondar had extracted her promise to meet him the next morning to settle their contest.

At the centre of the Holding was a circle of short-cropped turf, ringed round with blackwood poles from which fluttered bright strips of cloth. Each pole represented one year of the Holding’s existence; each ribbon, a duel. Beyond that symbolic boundary an expectant crowd was gathered; within it, as Raven crossed the yard, stood three men. Spellbinder she recognised instantly, Gondar too, the third she had noticed in the hall without learning his name. Now Gondar introduced him: Ivo Holdmaster, guardian of Kragg in the king’s absence. He was a tall, grey-bearded man on whose body age served only to further outline the cording of his muscles. He held two axes, two swords, two spears, all blunted so that they would bruise without killing, and two metal-studded bucklers of wood and Xand hide.

‘Choose,’ he said without preamble. ‘All may be used, and I shall judge which blows strike true. In accordance with our custom you may forfeit your right to battle and submit to the will of Lifebane. How say you?’

‘Battle,’ answered Raven, selecting her weapons.

Gondar laughed, planting spear and sword in the turf, swinging the axe to rest over his shoulder. He wore a shirt of hardened Yr leather, close-fitted leggings of some softer material, and high boots. He scorned the shield Ivo offered him, and Raven did the same. She had donned her armour, knowing full well how a blow delivered by Gondar’s huge arms might damage her. Speed, she thought, was her best advantage, for the Lifebane had both the strength and the reach to smash her with one blow, should it chance to land. And she held little doubt but that he would join battle as fervently as though it were for real. Accompanied by Spellbinder, she retreated across the circle. The dark man said nothing, simply rested a hand upon her shoulder, squeezing gently as he smiled into her eyes.

Raven smiled back and lifted her sword.

‘Let it, begin,’ called Ivo, retreating from the duelling ground.

Gondar roared, his great body hurtling forwards as the axe whistled in an arc at Raven’s midriff. She countered, jumping to the side to let the swinging blade pass before her as her own darted in to cut at his ribs. The edge touched as Gondar spun aside, reversing his swing to bring the axe back along its path in a blow that would have tumbled Raven to the ground had it landed. Instead, she was gone from beneath it, slashing blunted steel at his ankles.

The sole of his boot, hard-tanned hide and metal plating took the force of the blow, jarring her arm as the axe came up and over to crash down onto the deflected sword. Raven felt a great shudder run through her and dropped the blade before Gondar’s blow could numb her grip. She pitched back, rolling as the flat of the axe swung at her head. Lifting to her feet she reached, instinctively, for the throwing stars girdled at her waist, then remembered, cursing, that this was only a mock duel, and grabbed instead for the spear. She grasped the pole in both hands, moving sideways around the circle as Gondar bellowed his appreciation of her skill and closed in.

The axe swung like a toy before him, arcing to right and left in a flashing curtain of impenetrable metal through which she sought to thrust the spear. Once she drove through to jab at his side, but then the axe smashed the wood away and she fell back to avoid a crushing blow. She moved cat-like around the perimeter of the circle, using the spear to hold Gondar at bay as the blond giant sought to smash aside her guard. Sheer strength was his greatest asset, though that was allied with a deftness of movement inbred through years of sea-fighting, and a sure battle-knowledge. Against those skills Raven brought her own talents into play. She was faster than Gondar and Argor’s teaching had fixed firmly in her mind, becoming honed by their outlaw raiding to a razor-keen sense of opportunity.

Once, twice, then again, she drove the spear past the sea-wolf’s defence, striking on ribs and thighs. The watching crowd howled their appreciation, counting the hits, urging her on. Had she fought any other man Ivo would have deemed her the victor, for a real spear would have wounded to such an extent that loss of blood and muscle damage would slow him to the point of an easy kill. But Gondar Lifebane was no ordinary man: the scars she had seen on his body attested to that; he could—would—go on fighting when another was weak unto death.

So the combat continued.

It went on until Raven was unaware of passing time, conscious only of the growing weight of the spear, of her slowing movements. Gondar, untired, pressed harder, driving her back.

Exhaustion,
Argor had warned her,
can kill as surely as a blade. When the sword rests heavy in your hand, then is the time to run. To flee and fight again is better than to stay and die.

But within the duelling area there was nowhere to run, and so, more desperate measures had to be taken.

Gauging her timing, she let the spear droop, allowing Gondar’s axe to swing closer. As the riever closed in she withdrew around the circle, luring him on until she deemed her position suitable to her purpose. A curving blow glanced the spear aside, swinging back to connect with her ribs. It passed close and as the apex of the swing was reached, Raven thrust the spear between Gondar’s legs, twisting savagely. The man yelled out and fought to retain his balance, but she turned the pole, tumbling him down. As he fell, she hurled herself at her fallen sword, now within reach, rolling as her hand closed on the hilt, slashing automatically as she rose to her feet.

Gondar was on one knee, axe lifted defensively, as she thrust forwards. Blade met blade with a dull clashing sound, then Raven was in over his guard. She saw the blunted tip touch beneath his lower ribs and felt a great blow pitch her sideways. The sky spun above her head and the turf seemed to club her back. Around the circle a great cheer went up, and through it she heard the bellow of Gondar’s laughter. Hands grasped her, lifting her, and she saw Spellbinder’s smiling face, beyond it, Ivo’s. The Holdmaster appeared both amused and surprised, his arms lifted above his head to silence the cheering audience.

‘It is ended!’ His cry carried over the Hold. ‘The duel was well fought. Were it real, both, blades should carry blood.’

Raven noticed that he held three ribbons in his left hand, red, black, and green. He took the green, turning so that all saw it before tying it to that year’s post.

Over her shoulder, Spellbinder murmured: ‘A red shows Hold-victory; black, a defeat. Green is for a drawn combat.’

There were very few green pennants.

Her shoulders heaved, as she listened to Ivo announce his judgement, and she was suddenly aware of a great weariness that seemed to filter through her limbs to concentrate in legs that began to tremble, threatening to spill her down. Before she could fall, Gondar stood before her, teeth gleaming through the luxuriance of his beard. He reached out, his great hands gentle, to grasp her waist, lift her. She rose into the air, and a throng of sea-wolves surged forward, pushing for the right to chair her on broad shoulders. Gondar set her between two men who paraded through the shouting, cheering crowd as Gondar marched before, acknowledging her right to determine her own destiny.

That right she chose to exercise after the celebratory feast. The noonday she passed in bath and steam-house, nursing bruises from her body, applying salves and unguents to ease the aches. Then, dressed in a borrowed robe of sea-green silk worked round with silver thread, she went to the hall. A path was cleared for her, leading to the high seat on Gondar’s right. Spellbinder sat to the High King’s left, deep in conversation with Ivo, though both fell silent as Gondar stood to welcome her. The Lord of Kragg settled her in the throne-like chair as he would have a queen, then turned to his waiting people.

‘This woman,’ his voice was solemn. ‘This Raven, is an honoured guest. Who speaks against her, speaks against me. Since I took the High Throne no man has defeated me, no man who has entered the circle with me has walked from it. As though she were born here, so is Raven a sister of Kragg. How say you?’

The shouting gave fair answer, and Raven’s acceptance into the brotherhood of sea-wolves was toasted until the serving women ran for fresh wine to replenish the waning supplies.

It carried on late into the night, until men began to slump on the benches and the torches spluttered and burned out. Raven had eaten sparingly, sufficient to satisfy her hunger without the leaden feeling of excess, and drank in the same fashion. She was relaxed, the wine imparting a pleasant languor that was heightened by the easy companionship of Gondar’s people.

As the hall dimmed and the hubbub of conversation fell away to a wave of murmuring, Gondar bent close to her ear. Throughout the feasting he had maintained a meticulous politeness, treating her with the reverence accorded an equal and respected guest. Now he spoke in a low voice, too soft and low for any ears but hers.