He nodded. He did not boast. Not in a matter of seriousness.
So it was arranged and two days later, out on the field of Vorgar’s Drinnik with the assembled fighters of Valka watching, the quarrel that had suddenly flared between Handon and Balass was to be settled. I admit I felt some disquiet. A rapier-and-dagger man, versus a sword-and-shield man. I knew I ought to win if I handled either set of equipment, but that meant nothing. Balass was a hyr-kaidur. Handon was a Bravo fighter, a Bladesman. The contest held far more than the old question in its outcome, for if Balass failed my scheme would be ruined.
I remembered Vomanus, calling merrily as he fought against armored men, “They don’t like it through their eyes!”
To make everything equal apart from the weapons, the two combatants wore no armor. Clad in breechclouts, they squared up to each other. Balass was used to fighting as a secutor. He carried the shield with which he had run out into the Jikhorkdun of Huringa, the capital of Hyrklana, when I had fought the boloth and my Delia had been chained with silver chains to the central stake to make a spectacle for the crowds. He hefted his thraxter, which was not the same weapon, being a specimen specially forged by Naghan the Gnat, of superb temper. The straight sword, despite its cunning and balance, looked heavy and clumsy beside Handon’s slender rapier. But the main-gauche against a shield?
Well, it all depends on the men using the weapons, when the Deldars are ranked. I do not think it necessary for me to say that Balass wore a red breechclout. After all, we had fought for the ruby drang. Handon wore a white loincloth. I trusted it would show up the blood spots brightly. Against the white of his loincloth Handon’s golden Numim fur glowed and gleamed in the light of the suns. Balass’ shining black skin and his red breechclout afforded to me, also, a touch of the contrasts I so much admire.
Balass, like me, was apim. Handon was Numim.
This made no difference. Had there been a Rapa, say, or a Bleg, a Kataki, or a Chulik in this confrontation, my impulses would very easily, I am ashamed to admit, have leaned in the other direction. Everything was done with propriety and the Emperor and his suite attended, for this had been turned into a gala festival. Kov Lykon was there, taking enormous bets on his man. I told Panshi to take what we could get on Balass. How this reminded me of the days of bladesmanship in Ruathytu, capital of Hamal!
The Emperor nodded and Jiktar Exand, acting as marshal, dropped the scarlet scarf. Instantly Handon leaped with that ferocious feral snarl of the Numim, his golden mane blazing. The unequal contest was beloved by the connoisseurs of the arena in Huringa in Hyrklana, and we had many times seen secutor pitted against rapier and dagger. I do not think Handon had. Balass the Hawk was a wily old bird. He backtracked and his shield rang with the scraping thrusts and blows of the rapier. The rapier is your true cutting weapon as well as a thruster. So is the thraxter. Balass foined his man away. The main-gauche caught the thraxter, but then the curved shield smashed out like a battering ram and knocked the Numim a clear six feet away. Handon did not fall. But he snarled deep in his throat and took a fresh grip on his weapons. He came in again, weaving, feinting, aiming to thrust his longsword past that infuriating shield.
I could spare only half my interest on the fight. I must watch the faces of my fighting men of Valka. How their faces betrayed each moment of the fight! Of course, they were all for Balass. Wasn’t he a blade comrade of their Strom? And wasn’t this Handon a lackey of the popinjay Kov Lykon? Well, then! So they cheered and roared, and I watched them, trusting they were taking in the skills of the superb shieldman exhibited before them.
The fight might have gone on a long time, but Handon thought he had the mastery of the sword-and-shield combination. He feinted away, swirled his rapier overhand so that Balass’ shield angled up to deflect and then — quick! oh, so quick! for the rapier is faster than the thraxter — the slender needle of steel whipped in like that risslaca tongue, whipped in to pierce high over the shield rim. Balass took three quick steps backward and the rapier ripped free, dark blood staining three inches of its point.
“First blood!” called Jiktar Exand in a surly voice.
‘To the death!” bawled Kov Lykon.
It seemed my comrade Balass would most certainly be slain before my eyes in the next few murs.
Chapter 8
Kov Lykon laughed in high glee. He jerked the silver chains binding his two Chail Sheom.
“There, my pretties! See the great Numim. And shall I set him on you tonight, to our mutual pleasure?”
They rattled their chains and emitted high false shrieks of pleasure, feigning love and affection for the man. I turned away. Chaining women up and threatening them are sports for things from under flat stones.
Many men say women enjoy this treatment and, of course, there is truth in this. But how do you judge the honesty of a girl’s reactions? How do you know for sure that a girl means it when she says she pines to be chained and wishes only to be humiliated by her master, that she wishes only to be a slave? How can you tell? And, if in the end you believe her and understand she thinks this is what she ought to do -
she may even derive genuine pleasure from the humiliation, a supposed role between man and woman -
then, perhaps, you ought to consider just how sick in the head she is. So Kov Lykon maltreated his girls and laughed, and Handon bore in for the final killing thrust. Balass still kept his shield up. His thraxter moved in that short deadly arc, a blurred upthrusting of steel, and Handon staggered back, screeching, his rapier and dagger falling from nerveless fingers, spraying his guts out from his ripped-apart stomach.
I relaxed. It had been a near thing, but Balass the Hawk was a true kaidur; he had fought in the arena and he knew what the taste of blood was all about.
Lykon looked abruptly defeated. The girls at the ends of the chains were very quiet, anticipating unpleasant evenings for a long time ahead.
I walked across.
“Your boastful Numim is dead, Kov. I would like to buy these girls from you.”
He looked at me, hot-eyed, but there was a haggardness about him. I think he was as well aware as any one of my freedom-fighters there, now creating an enormous hullabaloo of triumph, that I myself had not fought because too much was known about the fighting habits of Dray Prescot, Lord of Strombor. Had I won no man would believe that it was because the shield is a powerful instrument in battle. They would have put the victory down to my own prowess at arms. Now Balass had proved my point.
“Sell them?” Kov Lykon recollected himself. I did not know just how much he had bet. “Sell my little pretties?”
The two girls were looking at me as though I was either mad or of divine origin. That settled it in my mind. They were no voluntary slaves; they did not enjoy being chained up, humiliated, and expected to shrill, squeak, and feign enjoyment each time the master playfully tortured them with words or whip.
“You owe me the wagers, Kov. You owe me much money, for your Numim failed you. I will cancel the debt for the girls.”
So that was how we arranged it, and I struck the chains off. Tilly, my gorgeous golden-furred Fristle fifi took them off to wash the sores, bathe them, and dress them in fine sensil and so decide their future as free women.
The very next day the army sailed for Pandahem.
Before I left I told Balass, most sternly, “He got over your shield, Balass! Careless. Although, I will admit, he was very good.”
“Aye, Dray,” said Balass. “He was good. Was.”
I laughed. “And now you will train the coys — that is, these brave young fighting men of mine — train them to stand in line and use sword and shield, train them to stand against the iron men of Hamal.”