The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [213]
“I’ll take your challenge, Falcon,” Honelg called back, “if you’ll promise me one thing on your word of honor.”
“What it is?”
“That I won’t be mobbed and killed before I can get clear of the door.”
“Fair enough. You have my sworn word that you’ll face me and me alone.”
“Done, then!”
Gerran heard the men behind him begin moving back as Prince Voran gave orders to clear a combat ground. Honelg walked half the distance to the door. When he paused in a shaft of sunlight to toss his helm aside, Gerran could see that the lord was wearing only a linen shirt with his brigga.
“Ye gods!” Gerran said. “Where’s your mail? If you’ve not got a hauberk at least, we’ll lend you one.”
Honelg laughed, and an oddly merry laugh at that. “I have Alshandra, and you have your armor,” he said. “I declare this a fair fight.”
“Well and good, then, but if you won’t wear a helm, then I’ll lay mine aside, too.”
Behind him a babble rose, calling him daft, urging him to keep the helm on. Gerran took it off and held helm and shield both out in Salamander’s general direction. The gerthddyn took them, then darted back out of the way.
“I warn you.” Honelg sounded as calm as if he were discussing some tedious everyday detail. “You’ll never gain this victory. My goddess will either see to it that you’re slain, or else she’ll take me to my true home at last.”
“Oh, will she now? Then let’s not keep the lady waiting.”
Honelg drew his sword with his right hand, then pulled his dagger from his belt with his left and walked to the door of the shrine. Gerran stepped back to let Honelg’s eyes grow used to the sunlight.
“On the altar you’ll find one of my servants,” Honelg said. “He was going to surrender to your prince, so I slew him for her sake. Hang his corpse for the ravens, will you?”
“I’ll see to it he’s buried decently, more like.” Gerran let his sword lie easy in his hand, point down, as if he were off his guard. “Get out here, you pisspoor excuse for a man!”
Honelg’s face flushed red. With a howl of “Alshandra!” he flung up his sword and charged. Gerran stepped to one side and flicked his blade up, catching the lord high across the ribs. Blood spread through his shirt as Honelg turned, gasping, to face him, only to meet Gerran’s blade on the back swing. Gerran cut him low, this time, splitting his belly like an overripe peach. The force of the blow spun the lord half-around.
Through the slice in Honelg’s shirt guts bulged, blood-streaked gray membranes. Honelg dropped to his knees, and his sword slid from his hand as he clutched the pieces of his blood-soaked shirt to the wound. He threw his head back and gasped open-mouthed, in too much pain to even scream.
“The first was for your servant,” Gerran said, “the second for Warryc. You’re a mad dog, Honelg, not a man at all.”
Gerran set one foot against Honelg’s chest and shoved the dying lord so hard that Honelg buckled sideways, sprawling into the dirt with a twist that laid him on his back. Honelg moaned, and he seemed to be looking at the sky, his eyes flickering this way and that.
“Where are you?” Honelg whispered. “My lady! Too dark.”
He caught his breath with one last ghastly rattle and died.
For a long moment no one moved or spoke. Prince Voran was the first to shudder; he cursed softly under his breath. As if at a signal the other men began to mutter among themselves, but not at the mere sight of death. Gerran turned to a white-faced Salamander and retrieved his helm and shield.
“Tell me somewhat, gerthddyn,” Gerran said. “Was he calling for his lying whore of a demoness?”
“He was,” Salamander said. “She’s supposed to come meet her faithful when they die. I wish he’d seen the truth before he died, but then, if he’d seen the truth, he wouldn’t have died.”
“As if I give a pig’s fart!” Gerran said. “The Lord of Hell’s welcome to him.”
Salamander looked inclined to argue. Rather than curse at the gerthddyn, Gerran turned away. Movement caught his gaze, and he glanced at the broch. Someone