“For what reason would warriors be so foolish as to wish males among them?” I asked, feeling the warmth of Mida’s light bring new strength and pleasure to my body. “Our sets are clans, not tribes, and never would I so dishonor myself as to seek another to hold my place in battle, and surely not a male. Yet, even were I to consider so vile an act, no male has yet proven himself the equal of Jalav in sword skill, therefore would it be impossible to choose such a one.”
“It is difficult to credit the calm assurance you speak with,” said he, attempting to keep the sharpness from his tone as he eyed the manner in which I stretched toward the rich, blue skies, raising my arms and face to Mida’s healing light. “You have announced yourself war leader to this pack of ravening females, I know, yet surely must the number of men you have faced be few. I fear you have little knowledge of the strength and ability men are able to bring to battle. What if you should be slain?”
“Then I will attain the glory of death in battle.” I shrugged, at last turning full to face him. “Also, your leader will be assured his position, your city its freedom, and my warriors the knowledge that Mida no longer smiles upon me. Surely, such an outcome would find full approval in your eyes.”
“Full approval?” he growled, glowering upon me in something much like anger. “No, my high and mighty war leader Jalav, I do not find full approval in the thought of a wench’s coming death. It is enough that men must die in battle. I will stand for you with Hanitor. ”
Angrily did the male glare at me, broad face grim, brows lowered in menace, fists stiff upon hips. Perplexedly did I return his stare, for I had not the least idea of what he was about. For what reason would this male, this stranger and enemy, offer to stand for me? Was it glory he sought, recognition from his fellow males—or perhaps the freeing of his city through the spilling of his blood? Should the truth lie in the last supposition I would honor him for his courage, yet such a thing might not be.
“You do not have my let to stand for me,” I informed him, yet with something of a smile for the loyalty he showed for his city. “The matter is one between Mida and the one who is called the Serene Oneness.—and their combatants have already been chosen. Stand aside gladly, male, for the place is not an easy one.”
“Naught is unchangeable till blades have been bared,” he maintained stubbornly. “It is not. . . .”
“I see you, Relidose!” came the voice of the High Seat, causing us to turn toward him. The male stood amidst the hand of warriors I had left to guard him, his face screwed up as he peered narrowly at us. “I see how you converse with my enemies in low tones, and I will not forget! When these chains are struck from me, you shall first begin to wear yours!”
“It has come to me that all of us already wear chains, round Gabilar,” returned Relidose, standing forth to glare upon the portly male. “Till the coming of these wenches, we were each of us chained to the whims of one who is unworthy even to speak the name of the Serene Oneness. Should your champion be successful, it will mean naught save that he is worthy!”
“Heresy!” choked the portly male, frothing as his face reddened with rage. “Those words will see you immured in my dungeons for the rest of your miserable life, fool! Which, I promise you, will not be as short as you will pray it to be! Mark my words! Mark my words!”
The portly male trembled with his fury, eyes glaring madly, soft hands folded to fists in the manacles, body twisted as though to hurl his venom with main strength. The male Relidose stood silently afrown, seeing, perhaps for the first time, the madness which filled the male called High Seat. Rogon, now close beside me, thoughtfully fingered the hilt of her sword, no doubt considering the manner in which those afflicted with madness are seen to among the Midanna. A sharp edge quickly puts an end to the suffering madness brings, both for the warrior involved and for those about her. No other than males would put such a one in a position of supreme power.
“I have returned, Blessed One!” called the male Thierlan, hurrying to the foot of the steps. So intent upon what he was about was the male, that he failed to note the state of his High Seat. Quickly did his eyes come to me, and a smirk showed with the sweep of his arm. “If you will accompany me to the grass, lady, our champion will be pleased to face you.”
The male of leather and metal, he named Hanitor by Relidose, indeed stood upon the grass beyond the stoned area, arms afold upon his chest, eyes moving slowly about me, a faint grin playing across his face. Many males stood about him at a respectful distance, others streaming up to join those already in attendance, each of them filled full with confidence in him who would stand for their High Seat. With a nod I began to move toward the steps, yet found the hand of Relidose upon my arm.
“There is yet time to reconsider,” said he, strangely sober. “Give yourself as slave to Hanitor, else allow me to stand for you. In no other way will life be left to you.”
“All is as Mida wishes,” said I, gently removing my arm from his grasp. “Should it be her wish that I fall, I will fall. The sacrifice you propose on behalf of your city does you credit, male, yet is it contrary to the will of the gods. Another’s blood will be spilled this fey, and that blood will decide the outcome.”
Then I turned and walked from him, down the steps and toward the male of leather and metal. A frown had grown upon the face of the male Relidose, as though he lacked understanding of some matter, yet was the frown easily forgotten in the face of the smirk still visible upon the male Thierlan as I passed him at the bottom of the steps. Another would have been angered or put out that I failed to allow him to lead me to the confrontation he had arranged, yet the small male was capable of no such indication of pride. Hurriedly did he move to keep to my left as I walked, hopping about much like a child in playtime, largely ignored by all those who so eagerly awaited the coming battle. Across the stones I walked, disregarding their presence, my right hand reaching across to loosen my sword in its scabbard, and those males between me and the male Hanitor moved spritely to remove themselves from my path.
“And here we are at last,” chattered the male Thierlan as I halted upon the grass, perhaps three paces from the male who awaited me. “This, lady, is Hanitor, guard Captain to the High Seat and his chosen champion, he whom you have indicated you are willing to face.”
“Lady?” rumbled this Hanitor, grinning widely. Large indeed was the male, wide of shoulder and thick of arm, tall and broad, yet trim beneath the leather and metal, a plain, well-worn scabbard at his side, showing a hilt which had seen much handling. “I see you mistake her, little man. I see before me no more than a varaina, a pavilion-she, a cuddling slave let free of her chains. A man would be a fool to address this one as lady.”
A muted gasp ran around those within hearing, for surely was I expected to fall to fury over the words of the male. Hanitor sought to give me deliberate insult, undoubtedly in an effort to blind me with rage, yet was I no newly blooded warrior to be done so. A faint smile touched me as I rested my left hand upon the hilt of my sword, and glanced briefly toward Thierlan.
“This champion you have chosen speaks well and boldly,” said I, my gaze held to the male of leather and metal. “Should his sword prove to be as bold, it may take some small effort to best him.”
Again a flurry of sound arose, many fearful glances bent upon the male Hanitor, yet the male’s grin had widened rather than faltered. He, too, knew the folly of entering battle gripped in anger, and would no sooner fall to it than I.
“Ah, I believe we are now prepared to begin,” said Thierlan, his tone hesitant yet his words spilling over each other in his haste to speak them. “I ask all of you here to back a bit and allow them the freedom of movement they will require to . . . .”