But now I was in my element, and he had ventured beyond the limits of his prowess. For he proved a clumsy novice with the blade, while I may claim without false modesty to be a master-swordsman. And, although I wielded but a broken shaft of wood, it was about the length and very nearly of the weight of the swords with which I had trained my skill to the heights of artistry. He swore and sweated and stamped; I turned aside every thrust, parried every wild swinging blow, with effortless ease. The arena roared with wild, yelling thunder. That day of days I gave them a show such as they had never seen.
As for Panchan, he was a sorry sight, his face a mask of blood, his splendid golden body streaming sweat, smeared with dust, and dribbling gore from many small wounds, for, from time to time, my wooden shaft slid through his guard to scratch his torso lightly. And the throng loved it alit I guess part of the pleasure in applauding a champion is a furtive, secret thrill of hope that he will fail, thus redeeming the common man’s instinctive fear and hatred or those superior to himself in some way or other. At any rate, Panchan’s fall from the heights of popularity was fast―and far.
The thing came to an abrupt end I had not planned. In truth, I had not thought past the moment, nor envisioned any way to end the duel; I had long since lost control of events, and moved from one event to the next as seemed best.
Panchan made a frenzied lunge at me. I knocked his rapier aside and drew back my arm for a return thrust when his foot slipped in the loose sand and he flung himself forward with all his weight, impaling himself on my broken spear. A deathly silence fell like a thunderclap. I bent to touch his breast, to pick up the sword he had let fall. He would need it no more: one long splinter had gone through his heart.
I rose to my feet in the echoing silence and lifted the sword of Panchan in the victory salute. And the throng went wild.
Prince Thuton loved it little, but the chaplet of victory was mine, and although he would far rather have condemned me to a pit of deltagars, no prince reigns long who denies his people their heroes. And I was the hero of the arena that day.
Grizzled Thon the Gamesmaster gestured me forward with his baton. I strode through the cheering keraxians of my team to the far wall, where guards were lowering a ladder for me to ascend to the royal box. The crowd roared itself hoarse, pelting me with ribands and bunches of flowers and gems. Still trailing in one hand the sword of Panchan the Golden, I strode my way, looking neither to right nor to left, and mounted the ladder to receive the gold chaplet from Thuton’s hand.
It went very much against my nature to kneel to him, but I thought it best that he should look only upon my linen headdress and averted features, rather than stand eye to eye, looking me full in the face. For Thuton of Zanadar had good reason to remember me.
I had reckoned without the protocol of princes, however. The guard captain, as I went down on one knee, frowned disapprovingly.
“Bare your head before your prince, slave!” he growled, and, swift as thought, before I could stay his hand with an involuntary gesture, bent and snatched the cloth away.
“Jandar!”
It was the voice of my beloved. I lifted my face and looked into her incredulous, astonished eyes. Thuton blenched and whitened.
“Jandar―?” he repeated.
My name flew from hp to lip, first in tones of wonderment, then in a ringing shout of outrage. For they knew me―my name, my strange yellow hair―I was Jandar of Callisto, that daring rogue who had bearded the Sky Pirates before in their very lair, carrying off the princess of Shondakor from their clutches. An unholy glee flamed in Thuton’s livid face, and his sword rasped from its scabbard to ring against my own.
“Face to face at last, you dog!” he breathed as we thrust and parried amid a tumultuous, shouting crowd. “You were mad to venture on a second time into my realm … this time I shall bathe my steel in your heart’s blood, and hurl your stinking carrion from the walls of Zanadar!”
And for the second time in the same hour I found myself fighting for my life. But this time it was sword against sword―and Thuton was an excellent swordsman. I had few hopes of breaking through his furious, whipping blade to strike him down with any ease, for I was weary and he was fresh. And time was rapidly running out; guards were sprinting for the royal box from every post and station. At any second I could expect a thrust from behind. But at least I would die with a sword in my hand, facing my dearest enemy.
Darloona cried out my name in sharp warning; I swerved, glancing over one shoulder. The guard captain―the same man who had plucked the headdress from my brows―was about to make his thrust, and from this proximity I knew his blade would run me through. I also knew I could do nothing about it.
What happened next was one of those small imponderable strokes of chance whose coming you can never anticipate. I suppose it is a matter of the chemistry between people, or one of the mysteries of the human heart.
For, from the arena sands below, where he stood breathless with amazement amidst a thousand gladiators, Ergon―bald, ugly, scowling, truculent Ergon―thundered out one word, “Jandar!” and flung his great mace whirling through the air to dash out the brains of the guard who stood behind me, about to run me through.
And, in the next instant, Zantor, from where he stood among my fellow keraxians, shouted “Jandar!” and sent his great spear hissing through the air to pin a second guard to the benches.
A thousand gladiators raised their voices in one mighty, earth-shaking shout “Jandar! Jandar! Jandar!”
And before the echoes of my name faded from the air, the gladiators of Zanadar swarmed to the arena wall, sprang to clutch its topmost ledge, and clambered over into the stands. Maces swung lustily―spears sank through chest and belly and throat-guards, who flocked to the side of their prince, found themselves battling a horde of warriors, with Zantor and Ergon at their head.
The throng of spectators broke and fled in a screaming, milling, clawing tangle of struggling bodies that impeded the guards hurrying to stem the slave rebellion and that also jammed the exits. They had come to loll at their ease, sucking sweat-meats while men battled and died for their momentary pleasure. They had little stomach for playing a part in that battle themselves.
These things I noticed in passing, catching snatches of what was happening below in hurried glances over my shoulder. For Thuton’s flashing blade kept me busy enough and demanded my full attention. He fought like a maniac. His point seemed everywhere at once, now darting for my throat, now flicking toward my breast, now flashing to impale my wrist. And as he fought, his slick white pasty face wet with perspiration, his snarling mouth spewing curses of unspeakable vileness, he drove me back inch by inch.
In the narrow confines of the royal box, amidst a tangle of draperies, treading wine goblets and smeared fruits underfoot, stumbling over cushions, I was greatly hampered and could not employ my usual style. I was forced to fight a purely defensive duel, which went against my grain, but in the whirling confusion, I watched for an opening, determining to use the secret botte I had learned from Lukor.
Thuton began to tire. He was an excellent swordsman with a bravura style, but years of soft foods and rich wines and luxurious living had weakened his arm and sapped his vigor. He began to puff and wheeze for breath; his face purpled with effort; his sword arm trembled with strain.
Suddenly he faltered, gasping, and his point wavered. And in that moment I had him. I lunged forward, my blade singing through the air, and its bright steel was quenched as I drove it through his putrid heart. I whipped back, and he slid off my blade and sprawled at my feet, dead as a stone.