The Sword and the Sorcerer (17 page)

Cromwell made the first thrust with a stab at Talon’s head, missing by only inches. “Let’s see what a sorcerer can do against a real swordsman!”

Talon would not allow the sly dog to divert his attention. He slammed his sword powerfully against the king’s, the might of the blow clearly shooting pain through Cromwell’s wrist. “I’m no sorcerer, royal scum, but test my sword, I beg you!”

Talon dropped on one knee and thrust for Cromwell’s belly, ripping his tunic but not his person.

A roar of protests flew up from the soldiers. The young brute was clever and had come too close to robbing them of a king.

The two adversaries were now wholly committed to destroying each other, and the intensity of that commitment burned on their faces like phosphorescence in the moonlight. The air reverberated with the metallic music of their clashing swords, and though the purpose behind their parries and thrusts was lethal, they moved with the gracefulness of dancers.

The brilliant interplay between the two swordsmen worked the Klaws into a lather of excitement. If the towering stranger came close to wounding the king the soldiers booed and grumbled. Conversely, whenever the silky maneuvers of Cromwell brought his opponent to the edge of death, they cheered and clapped their hands. And as the swordfight stretched to five minutes, and five minutes more, the Klaws marveled at the stamina of both men to sustain such a fierce display of energy and skill.

The sweat poured down the young barbarian’s flour-streaked face and muscle-rippling arms and legs, making him look like a savage with war paint. Cromwell’s own countenance and body glistened with sweat, as they tirelessly continued to exchange blow for blow, sparks flying from their clashing swords like fireflies in the night. The roles of aggressor and defender constantly reversed between them. One second Cromwell would release a dazzle of slices at Talon that nearly blinded him with the speed and fury of the assault. Seconds later Talon would rush the king with a lightning-quick burst of thrusts and cuts, that twice resulted in Cromwell falling on his ass, jumping out of the way of his adversary’s death-lunge just in the nick of time. Throughout this epic duel, save for a scratch or two, miraculously neither of the truculent warriors suffered so much as a minor wound.

It was after another few minutes that the tide began to turn in Talon’s favor.

Though the quality of their swordsmanship seemed equal, Talon had the advantage of youth. Older by at least fifteen years, the king started to visibly tire. And with his arms and legs turning to lead his swordplay grew sloppy and lost elan. Perceiving the king’s diminishing capacity, Talon launched his most vigorous attack yet. He hammered and swung blow after blow, forcing Cromwell into an abject retreat. This deluge of murderous strokes culminated in the ring of soldiers parting as Talon drove the king up against the wall. Cromwell’s arm pounded with the strain of keeping Talon’s relentless assault at bay. He was convinced that if his indefatigable adversary kept up this furious rain of blows his arm would be torn from its socket. His sword felt like a thousand pounds in his hand and he knew that at any moment the young giant would knock it out of his hand.

Cromwell’s back pinned against the wall, Talon unexpectedly stopped, backed up to collect his strength, and—his eyes blazing with revenge—like an enraged bull readying for the kill, prepared to charge the king again. Cromwell knew he could not possibly live through another volley of his opponent’s brutal blows and deft stabs.

Cromwell was about to cry for his men to save him when Machelli, like a black snake shooting out of the nearest cluster of soldiers to Cromwell, suddenly materialized behind Talon and whipped a long steel-ball mace across the back of Talon’s head, sending him crashing to the stones, unconscious.

The crowd of soldiers grunted and wailed with disappointment. They had hoped for a more exciting and gory climax to the tempestuous duel.

Now that Cromwell realized he was safe from this human juggernaut’s overpowering superiority, he felt compelled to save face in front of his men by pretending to be angry that Machelli had interrupted the duel. He grabbed Machelli by the collar and violently shook him.

“How dare you intercede! I would have had the young swine’s head on the end of my sword by now! I only feigned weakness to throw him off guard!”

Machelli smiled, alert to the king’s lies. “Of course, your majesty. But you have no time for this lout,” he said, pointing to the huge young warrior sprawled at their feet. “There’s not a moment to waste. The rebels are once again at large and you have the Feast of Kings to prepare for tonight!”

Cromwell stuck his sword point against Machelli’s throat.

“You dare tell me what to do? No one instructs the king in his responsibilities! I warn you, Machelli—don’t overrate your worth to me. Chancellors come and go!”

“My apologies,” Machelli said, with mock obsequiousness, “I meant no disrespect. I live only to serve you and to glorify your name!”

“Indeed, Machelli,” he replied, not believing a word of it. His chancellor was getting a little too inscrutable and devious for comfort. And if he continued to rouse his suspicions the kingdom of Eh-Dan would most certainly have a new chancellor.

Cromwell’s interest switched to the splendid form and face of his fallen adversary. He smiled, triumphantly. Xusia might have been able to fool the rebels but he knew that inside this magnificent piece of sculpture made flesh dwelled the malevolent spirit of the ancient sorcerer himself. Xusia could assume a thousand different faces but he’d never hoodwink him!

“A fine, even superb duel, Xusia,” he whispered in the ear of the sleeping giant. “In fact it was the finest I ever had. Pity we’ll never learn who was the better. But I can’t play games with you any more. You’ve caused me entirely too much mischief over the years. The time has come to set your earthbound soul free—and may it burn in Hades forever!”

Cromwell sprung to his feet, exhilarated by the tonic of believing he had Xusia in his lethal grasp at last. With the sorcerer once and for all out of his way—and after he eradicated the last remnant of the rebellion—nothing would stand in his path of becoming the ruler of the whole world!

“Bind him with fetters and chains and bleed him!” he yelled to his men, pointing to the still unconscious warrior. “I want no less than ten of you watching over this one at every moment. He is to be crucified at the feast tonight. It will be a show the kings will never forget!”

He strode across the courtyard toward a castle entrance, feeling prouder and younger than he had in years. He felt so potent, in fact, that he decided to visit the concubines before paying his respects to his bride-to-be, Alana.

The moment Cromwell disappeared around the corner a dozen Klaws began to jostle and vie with one another over ripping the steel gauntlet off the barbarian’s hand. It would make a wonderful memento or trinket for one of their girls.

SEVENTEEN

arius was lying under a canopy of silks and perfumed veils, gazing out the unshuttered window. There was something about the round pink softness of the early morning sun that reminded him of Myra’s lovely ass. Perhaps it was because the voluptuous whore’s bottom was still practically staring him in the face—and because it had been the seat of so much pleasure for him these past twenty-four hours, ever since Talon had left on foot to tour the city of Elysium.

The thought of his beloved young leader pricked the bubble of his blissful contentment. He sat up in the bed of pillows and reached for his tunic and chain mail and began to dress.

The movement woke the sweet young whore—could she have been more than seventeen?—and she gazed up at him with the sad brown eyes of a doe and smiled gratitude; he had satisfied her too, many times. The girl had intelligence too, for she perceived he was now bemused and did not addle him with a lot of silly questions.

As Darius strapped his heavy sword around his hauberk he thought of the young man whom he had come to love as a younger brother. The mercenaries had agreed to meet Talon at midnight at the fountain in Elysium’s huge public square. When he did not show up, they waited another hour and then returned to the bordello. They assumed he too was wenching somewhere and had forgotten the hour. Knowing them as well as he did the bordello would be the first place he would look for them. But by three
A.M.
, when he still had not arrived, Ishmael volunteered to search for him, because of all the mercenaries he knew Elysium best.

Darius was pulling his boots on when the curtain separating his stall from the others flapped up and Ishmael hastily entered, his jowly red face the picture of sadness.

“Did you find him?” Darius asked, fearing the answer.

“Aye,” the burly mercenary replied, glancing with no appetite at the bountifully built whore who was examining his bulk from head to toes. “But the king has him in chains.”

Darius shot to his feet, tugging impatiently at the hilt of his sword. “Damn! What did he do? Have a go at one of Cromwell’s favorite sluts?”

Ishmael lugubriously shook his massive head. “I fear that the offense is more grave than that, my friend. For they mean to execute Talon tonight—as part of the entertainment of the Feast of Kings.”

“On my death they will!” Darius vehemently vowed. “We’ll sink that plan quick enough!”

“But there’s no way of getting to him, Darius! The castle is a veritable fortress and every entrance is securely guarded. We’ll all perish if we try to storm the feast.”

“Damn you, Ishmael! Then we all die! How many times has Talon risked his neck to save ours—or have you forgotten?”

“Of course I haven’t, Darius. And don’t be so self-righteous. I love him as much as you do. But we need more men than our handful of stalwarts—and I have no idea where to find them in time!” He threw up his hands in despair.

Once again the curtain was cast aside, this time admitting a squarely built, red-bearded man of forty-odd years. With a roguish grin and a wink, he said, “You’ve got your men, lads!”

Darius and Ishmael had forgotten that only curtains separated one stall from another and that the bordello was filled with customers besides them. They looked the stranger up and down, marked the red bandana tied around his head, the weatherbeaten features, the striped seaman’s shirt over his barreled chest, and concluded he must be a pirate.

“Who are you?” Darius asked, “and why would you help our leader?”

“Me name’s Morgan. I’ll tell you why I’d gladly risk my ass and the hides of my men for your leader. Talon came to my rescue one night in a tavern when four mountain-size curs tried to slit my throat. Were it not for him I wouldn’t be standing in front of you today.”

Suddenly the possibility of saving their leader was no longer so remote. Their valor expanded with renewed hope.

“How many men do you have?” Darius pressed, the excitement of impending battle stirring his blood.

Before Morgan could reply one of his cohorts also entered the small stall. The whore hadn’t had this many men in her stall since the night one of Cromwell’s captains paid to watch her service two of his aides.

“We’ve only got twenty!” the new man said.

Morgan’s enthusiasm at the prospect of a good fight and saving Talon wasn’t about to be so easily deflated. “Aye, Eric, but as soon as we spread the word along the wharf that Talon’s in trouble, I guarantee we’ll have a hundred and more seadogs jump to rescue him. His exploits in the name of justice have won him friends in every port and city of Eh-Dan. And I personally know of at least a dozen men he’s gotten out of a tough situation.”

Morgan turned to Darius and Ishmael, beaming optimism. “No, lads, I assure you we’ll have no trouble at all rounding up men for that hero. If nothing else the chance to give Cromwell the shaft will draw many.” Then to Eric he abjured, “Now be off with you and get us an army!”

As Eric slipped under the curtain to do Morgan’s bidding, the pillowy figure of the bordello’s madam came into the stall, happily pulling Elizabeth, Cromwell’s concubine, with her.

“Myra! Look at what the wind blew in!”

Darius, Ishmael and Morgan looked from the dumpy madam to the beautiful girl with lusty approval. Even in her long, loose blue robe her sinuous shape was impossible to conceal.

Myra jumped to her feet, ecstatic, totally indifferent to the fact that she was nude. The two girls embraced, tears of gladness streaking down Elizabeth’s face.

“Elizabeth! How did you get free from that dreadful place! Oh, I’ve missed you so!”

“I was saved by the most gorgeous young man you’ve ever seen!” The words seemed to sparkle out of her pretty mouth. “You should have seen his chest and shoulders! And I could tell by the bulge under his tunic that his shaft was immense!”

At the mention of her rescuer the three men began to listen to the girls with serious attention. “But why did he risk his life for you?”

“I really don’t know, but he did. And he saved Mikah too—you know, the leader of the rebellion.”

“Did this young man have a hand of steel, perchance?” Darius asked with unrestrained curiosity.