Days of Blood and Fire - Katharine Kerr [88]
The prayer wound on and on through the assembled silence. Rhodry’s blood ran cold; the hairs on his nape and on his arms prickled and rose; he felt a profound stillness deep in his heart. Round him the sun turned hard and sharp and brighter than any sunlight he’d ever seen before. Rhodry was aware of Matyc, kneeling next to him, trembling a little, but in rage, not fear. Rhodry was sure of that. When the priest finished his prayer, they rose and took their weapons from the gwerbret, standing nearby like a page. Cadmar looked at Rhodry and stepped back involuntarily in sudden fear. Rhodry merely smiled and strode down to his edge of the ground.
“Begin!” called the priest. “May each man’s Wyrd fight with and upon him.”
Rhodry stepped across the sacred border and walked slowly toward the center of the ground. Matyc hesitated, started to meet him, then hesitated again and began to circle. If he wanted to make a game out of it, Rhodry decided that he’d oblige and turned to match his moves. Spiraling round and round they came closer, feinting in, dodging back, the silver dagger winking and flashing in Rhodry’s left hand, Matyc’s dull steel quivering on guard. All at once Matyc charged. Rhodry danced away and struck, dodging in as his enemy instinctively flung up his left hand to parry with a shield he didn’t have. As the blood bloomed on Matyc’s sleeve, Rhodry burst out laughing. The berserker fit sank cold claws into his heart and took him over. With a yelp Matyc threw his dagger straight at Rhodry’s head with the last bit of strength in his broken arm.
Rhodry ducked and let him get away, stumbling back with death in his eyes, then laughed and charged and laughed again, slashing in from the side. Steel rang on steel as Matyc parried, sobbing for breath, twisting back and forth, then trying a desperate lunge that was a sheer mistake. Rhodry caught Matyc’s blade on his and let the momentum send it sailing into the grass. Panting for breath, Matyc drew himself up straight to face his death.
“Go fetch it.” Rhodry pointed with his own sword. “No one’s ever going to say I killed an unarmed man.”
For a moment Matyc stared goggle-eyed; then slowly, moving backward, keeping his eyes fixed on Rhodry like the proverbial rabbit watching a ferret, he angled off. While he picked up the sword, Rhodry sheathed his silver dagger to even the fight. He could feel that the god was pleased with him. Armed and ready, Matyc came back, circling again to Rhodry’s left, aiming for his unprotected side. Rhodry scorned to follow him. He laughed in one cold sob, lunged, and caught Matyc’s blade again. With a howl of laughter he twisted it to one side and stabbed in hard. Matyc grunted and spasmed, slashing back. Rhodry felt the wound opening on his left shoulder as a line of cool fire, naught more, as Matyc coughed blood, crumpled, and fell at his feet. He looked up, mouthing some word, a name—Alshandra’s name, Rhodry realized with cold horror—then choked up clots and died.
The priest flung his arms toward the sun and shrieked a long, wordless cry to great Bel. With a toss of his head Rhodry howled in echo.
“The god has given judgment!” Cadmar called out. “Otho the dwarven merchant is innocent of all harm and insult toward Matyc son of Arddyr and his kin and clan. Let no man perpetuate the feud that the gods have ended here upon this holy ground.”
As the assembled warbands cried out their agreement, Rhodry felt the god leave him. Suddenly icy cold, panting for breath, he fell to his knees and clutched his wounded shoulder with his right hand. Warm blood welled between his fingers. Laughing and howling, half-berserk themselves with relief, Otho and his kinsmen came rushing over.
“Can you walk, silver dagger?” Jorn said. “Here, let me help you. We owe you all the help we can give.”
“My thanks, but it’s a shallow enough cut.” Leaning on the dwarf, Rhodry got to his feet. “What I need is drink.”
“You shall have mead from my own table for this fight, silver dagger.” It was Cadmar, hurrying