Or would the Caldonian simply rely on being a better swordsman? Alak knew that was the case. This might be his last night alive.
A mid-afternoon sun threw long streamers of light across blue turf and the walls of Grimmoch Abbey. There was a hundred-meter square cleared before the gate; beyond that, a crowd of lords and ladies stood talking, drinking, and betting on the outcome. King Morlach watched ominously from a portable throne—he would not thank the man who did away with the useful Sir Varris. Just inside the gateway, Abbot Gulmanan and a dozen monks waited like stone saints.
Trumpets blew, and Alak and Varris stepped forth. Both wore light shirts and trousers, nothing else. An official frisked them ceremoniously for concealed weapons and armor. The noble appointed Master of Death trod out and recited the code. Then he took a cushion on which the rapiers were laid, tested each, and extended them to Varris.
The outlaw smiled humorlessly and selected one. Alak got the other. The Master of Death directed them to opposite corners of the field.
Alak’s blade felt light and supple in his fingers. His vision and hearing were unnaturally clear, it was as if every grass blade stood out sharp before him. Perhaps his brain was storing data while it still could. Varris, one hundred forty meters off, loomed like a giant.
«And now, let the Allshaper defend the right!»
Another trumpet flourish. The duel was on.
Varris walked out, not hurrying. Alak went to meet him. They crossed blades and stood for a moment, eyes thrusting at eyes.
«Why are you doing this?» asked the refugee in Terran. «If you have some idiotic hope of killing me, you might as well forget it. I was a fencing champion at home.»
«These shivs are gimmicked,» said Alak with a rather forced grin. «I’ll let you figure out how.»
«I suppose you know the penalty for using poison is burning at the stake—» For a moment, there was a querulous whine in the voice. «Why can’t you leave me alone? What business was it ever of yours?»
«Keeping the peace is my business,» said Alak. «That’s what I get paid for, anyhow.»
Varris snarled. His blade whipped out. Alak parried just in time. There was a thin steel ringing in the air.
Varris danced gracefully, aggressively, a cold intent on his face. Alak made wild slashes, handling his rapier like a broadsword. Contempt crossed Varris’ mouth. He parried a blow, riposted, and Alak felt pain sting his shoulder. The crowd whooped.
Just one cut! Just one cut before he gets me through the heart! Alak felt his chest grow warm and wet. A flesh wound, no more. He remembered that he’d forgotten to thumb the concealed button in his hilt, and did so with a curse.
Varris’ weapon was a blur before his eyes. He felt another light stab. Varris was playing with him! Coldly, he retreated, to the jeers of the audience, while he rallied his wits.
The thing to do… what the devil did you call it, riposte, slash, en avant? Varris came close as Alak halted. The Patrolman thrust for his left arm. Varris blocked that one. Somehow, Alak slewed his blade around and pinked the outlaw in the chest.
Now—God help me, I have to survive the next few seconds! The enemy steel lunged for his throat. He slapped it down, clumsily, in bare time. His thigh was furrowed. Varris sprang back to get room. Alak did the same.
Watching, he saw the Caldonian’s eyes begin helplessly rolling. The rapier wavered. Alak, deciding he had to make this look good, ran up and skewered Varris in the biceps—a harmless cut, but it bled with satisfactory enthusiasm. Varris dropped his sword and tottered. Alak got out of the way just as the big body fell.
The nobles were screaming. King Morlach roared. The Master of Death rushed out to shove Alak aside. «It is not lawful to smite a fallen man,» he said.
«I… assure you… no such intention—» Alak sat down and let the planet revolve around him.
Abbot Gulmanan and the monks stooped over Varris, examining with skilled fingers. Presently the old priest looked up and said in a low voice that somehow cut through the noise: «He is not badly hurt. He should be quite well tomorrow. Perhaps he simply fainted.»
«At a few scratches like that?» bawled Morlach. «Master check that red-haired infidel’s blade! I suspect poison!»
Alak pressed the retracting button and handed over his sword. While it was being inspected, Varris was borne inside the abbey and its gate closed on him. The Master of Death looked at both weapons, bowed to the king, and said puzzledly:
«There is no sign of poison, my lord. And after all, Sir Varris had first choice of glaives… and these two are identical, as far as I can see… and did not the holy one say he is not really injured?»
Alak swayed erect. «Jussa better man, tha’s all,» he mumbled. «I won fair an’ square. Lemme go get m’ hurts dressed—I’ll see y’ all in the morning—»
He made it to his boat, and Drogs had a bottle of Scotch ready.
It took will power to be at the palace when the court convened—not that Alak was especially weakened, but the Thunsbans started their day at a hideous hour. In this case early rising was necessary, because he didn’t know when the climax of his plot would be on him.
He got a mixed welcome, on the one hand respect for having overcome the great Sir Varris—at least in the first round—on the other hand, a certain doubt as to whether he had done it fairly. King Morlach gave him a surly greeting, but not openly hostile; he must be waiting for the doctors’ verdict.
Alak found a congenial earl and spent his time swapping dirty jokes. It is always astonishing how many of the classics are to be found among all mammalian species. This is less an argument for the prehistoric Galactic Empire than for the parallelism of great minds.
Shortly before noon, Abbot Gulmanan entered. Several hooded monks followed him, bearing weapons—most unusual—and surrounding one who was unarmed. The priest lifted his hand to the king, and the room grew very quiet.
«Well,» snapped Morlach, «what brings you hither?»
«I thought it best to report personally on the outcome of the duel, my lord,» said Gulmanan. «It was… surprising.»
«Mean you Sir Varris is dead?» Morlach’s eyes flared. He could not fight his own guest, but it would be easy enough to have one of his guardsmen insult Wing Alak.
«No, my lord. He is in good health, his wounds are negligible. But—somehow the grace of the Allshaper fell on him.» The abbot made a pious gesture; as he saw Alak, one eyelid dropped.
«What mean you?» Morlach dithered and clutched his sword.
«Only this. As he regained consciousness, I offered him ghostly counsel, as I always do to hurt men. I spoke of the virtues of the Temple, of sanctity, of the dedicated life. Half in jest, I mentioned the possibility that he might wish to renounce this evil world and enter the Temple as a brother. My lord, you can imagine my astonishment when he agreed… nay, he insisted on deeding all his lands and treasure to the abbey and taking the vows at once.» Gulmanan rolled his eyes heavenward. «Indeed, a miracle!»
«What?» It was a shriek from the king.
The monk who was under guard suddenly tore off his hood. Varris’ face glared out. «Help!» he croaked. «Help, my lord! I’ve been betrayed—»
«There are a dozen brothers who witnessed your acts and will swear to them by the mightiest oaths,» said the abbot sternly. «Be still, Brother Varris. If the Evil has reentered your soul, I shall have to set you heavy penances.»
«Witchcraft!» It whispered terribly down the long hall.
«All men know that witchcraft has no power inside the walls of a sacred abbey,» warned Gulmanan. «Speak no heresies.»