Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [46]
Sigurd planted his feet on the deck and lifted the shield, bracing himself for the blow. He and Skylan had agreed that they would fight a few rounds, wait until the soldiers were concentrating on the battle, and then attack their foes.
Skylan stood poised for his charge at Sigurd when he was halted by a gasp and a cry. He turned to see a soldier holding Aylaen, a long-bladed knife to her throat.
“She will not be harmed,” Acronis called from where he sat at his ease on the stool beneath the canopy, “so long as you use those swords on each other and not turn them on me.”
CHAPTER
11
* * *
BOOK ONE
Sick with defeat, Skylan struck Sigurd’s shield with a strength born of rage and frustration. Sigurd staggered beneath the blow and almost fell. His shield split in two. His arm tingled from wrist to elbow. He flung down the pieces of his shield. Skylan walked back to his place in the circle, as the rules required, waiting for his opponent to recover.
As he did so, he glanced at Bjorn, who scratched his beard and gave a jerk of his head. That was the signal; the men were all free of their shackles and ready to fight. For all the good that would do them now.
Sigurd picked up another shield. His expression was grim and dark. His fingers hovered near the hilt of his sword and suddenly he grinned—the wide, crazed grin that he wore when he was standing in the shield wall covered in his enemy’s blood. Sigurd wasn’t supposed to draw his weapon. By the rules of the Vutmana, he had to stand there and take the hit. Skylan knew the moment he saw Sigurd’s mouth split in that rictus grin that Sigurd didn’t give a damn about freeing himself or the others. He was out for Skylan’s blood.
Skylan dropped his shield and advanced, sword in both hands. He struck Sigurd’s shield and, watching his enemy’s feet, saw Sigurd shift to bring up his sword. Skylan was hampered in his attack by the fact that he needed Sigurd alive. Skylan twisted, kicked, and, dropping to the deck on his hip, slid feetfirst into Sigurd, taking him out at the knees.
The astonished Sigurd pitched over Skylan’s head and landed on top of Skylan. He lay there a moment, gasping. Skylan throttled him; he had to half choke him to get the blood-crazed man to listen and then he had to repeat his words twice.
“Our warriors are free! You stupid bastard, our warriors can fight!”
Sigurd grunted, then he clouted Skylan in the mouth, splitting open his lip.
“What about Aylaen?” Sigurd asked.
“I’ll take care of her,” said Skylan, and he flung Sigurd off and scrambled out from under him.
“This is against the rules,” called Acronis, and he sent Zahakis to break up the fight and send each warrior back to his own side.
As Sigurd walked past Skylan, he grinned and pointed and said, “First blood.”
Skylan could taste the blood from his cut lip in his mouth. Sigurd picked up his shield, and Skylan walked slowly back to his place.
Ordinarily the Torgun would have been yelling and cheering, but they were too tense, waiting for the order to attack. That was all wrong, and Skylan was surprised Zahakis didn’t notice. The soldiers of Oran were making noise enough, each shouting for his man. Money switched hands. Acronis watched with interest. Pointing at Skylan, the Legate said something to his scribe.
Skylan, feigning a limp, took his time retrieving his sword. He looked about, taking note of everything and everyone and, as sometimes happens on a winter’s day, when the sun makes the snow sparkle and the air is breathless and nothing moves and there is no sound, he saw everything in stark, clear detail.
Acronis, seated beneath the dragonhead prow, was wearing loose-fitting robes, comfortable in the heat. He was not armed. His bodyguards, standing one on either side, wore armor and each carried sword and shield. The other soldiers were scattered about the ship, either leaning on the rail or squatting on the deck. Some wore armor, some did not. All wore their short-bladed swords.
Aylaen and her guard stood close