“What are you doing here, dear boy?” I heard a familiar voice say.
I straightened immediately, to see that the tall dark figure which had emerged from behind the block of ice was not addressing me. He was nodding to Jurt, smiling.
“A fool's errand, I'm sure,” Jurt replied.
“And this must be the fool,” the other responded, “plucking that damnable flower. Silver rose of Amber – Lord Corwin's, I believe. Hello, Merlin. Looking for your father?”
I removed one of the spare clasp pins I keep pinned to the inside of my cloak. I used it to fasten the rose at my left breast. The speaker was Lord Borel, a duke of the royal House of Swayvill and reputedly one of my mother's lovers of long ago. He was also deemed to be one of the deadliest swordsmen in the Courts. Killing my father or Benedict or Eric had been an obsession with him for years. Unfortunately it had been Corwin whom he'd met, at a time when Dad was in a hurry-and they'd never crossed blades. Dad had suckered him instead and killed him in what I supposed was technically a somewhat less than fair fight. Which is okay. I'd never much liked the guy.
“You're dead, Borel. You know that?” I told him. “You're just a ghost of the man you were the day you took the Logrus. Out in the real world there is no Lord Borel anymore. You want to know why? Because Corwin killed you the day of the Patternfall War.”
“You lie, you little shit!” he told me.
“Uh, no,” Jurt offered. “You're dead all right. Run through, I heard. Didn't know it was Corwin did it, though.”
“It was,” I said.
He looked away, and I saw his jaw muscles bunching and relaxing, bunching and relaxing.
“And this place is some sort of afterlife?” he asked a little later, still not looking back at us.
“I suppose you could call it that,” I said.
“Can we die yet again here?”
“I think so,” I told him.
“What is that?”
His gaze had suddenly dropped, and I followed it. Something lay upon the ice nearby, and I took a step toward it.
“An arm “ I replied. “It appears to be a human arm. ''
“What's it doing there?” Jurt asked, walking over and kicking it.
It moved in a fashion which showed us that it was not simply lying there but rather was extended up out of the ice. In fact, it twitched and continued to flex spasmodically for several seconds after Jurt kicked it. Then I noted another, some distance away, and what appeared to be a leg. Farther on, a shoulder, arm attached, a hand...
“Some cannibal's deep freeze,” I suggested.
Jurt chuckled.
Then you're dead, too,” Borel stated.
“Nope,” I replied. “I'm the real thing. Just passing through, on my way to a far, far better place.”
“What of Jurt?”
“Jurt's an interesting problem, both physically and theologically,” I explained. “He's enjoying a peculiar kind of bilocation.”
“I'd hardly say I'm enjoying it,” Jurt observed. “But considering the alternative, I suppose I'm glad I'm here.”
“That's the sort of positive thinking that's worked so many wonders for the Courts over the years,” I said.
Jurt chuckled again.
I hea. rd that metallic sighing sound one does not easily forget. I knew that I could not possibly draw my blade, turn, and parry in time if Borel wished to run me through from the rear. On the other hand, he took great pride in observing every punctilio when it came to killing people. He always played fair because he was so damned good that he never lost anyway. Might as well go for the reputation, too. I immediately raised both hands, to irritate him by acting as if he had just threatened me from the rear.
Stay invisible, Frakir. When I turn and snap my wrist, let go. Stick to him when you hit, find your way to the throat. You know what to do when you get there.
Right, boss, she replied.
“Draw your blade and turn, Merle.”
“Doesn't sound too sporting to me, Borel,” I replied.
“You dare to accuse me of anything less than propriety?” he said.
“Hard to tell when I can't see what you're up to,” I answered.
“Then draw your weapon and turn around.”
“I'm turning,” I said. “But I'm not touching the thing.”
I turned quickly, snapping my left wrist, feeling Frakir depart. As I did, my feet went out from under me. I'd moved too fast on a very smooth patch of ice. Catching myself, I felt a shadow drift into place before me. When I looked up, I beheld the point of Borel's blade, about six inches from my right eye.
“Rise slowly,” he said, and I did. “Draw your weapon now,” he ordered.
“And if I refuse?” I inquired, trying to buy time.
“You will prove yourself unworthy to be considered. a gentleman, and I will act accordingly.”
“By attacking me anyway?” I asked.
“The rules permit this,” he said.
“Shove your rules,” I replied, crossing my right foot behind my left and springing backward as I drew my blade and let it fall into a guard position.
He was on me in an instant. I continued my retreat, backing past the big slab of ice from behind which he had appeared. I had no desire to stand and trade tecniques with him, especially now that I could see the speed of those attacks. Parrying them took a lot less effort while I was backing off: My blade did not feel quite right, however, and as I scanned it quickly I saw why. It was not my weapon.
In the glittering light from the trail, bounced off the ice, I saw the swirling inlay along part of the blade: There was only one weapon like this that I knew of, and I had only just seen it recently, in what might have been my father's hand. It was Grayswandir that moved before me. I felt myself smile at the irony. This was the weapon which had slain the real Lord Borel.
“You smile at your own cowardice?” he asked. “Stand and fight, bastard!”
As if in answer to his suggestion, I felt my rearward movement arrested. I was not run through when I ventured a quick downward glance, however, for I realized from his expression that something similar had happened to my attacker.
Our ankles had been seized by several of those hands which extended up through the ice, holding us firmly in place. And this made it Borel's turn to smile, for though he could not lunge, I could no longer retreat. Which meant—
His blade flashed forward, and I parried in quarte, attacked in sixte. He parried and feinted. Then quarte again, and the next attack. Riposte. Parry sixte– No, that was a feint. Catch him in four. Feint. Feint again. Hit—
Something white and hard passed over his shoulder and struck my forehead. I fell back, though the grasping hands kept me from collapsing completely. Good thing I sagged, actually, or his thrust might have punctured my liver. My reflexes or some touch of the magic I've heard may dwell in Grayswandir threw my arm forward as my knees buckled. I felt the blade strike something, though I was not even looking in that direction, and I heard Borel grunt surprisedly, then utter an oath. I heard Jurt mouthing an oath of his own about then, too. He was out of my line of sight.
Then came a bright flash, even as I flexed my legs, stabilizing, parried a head cut, and began rising. I saw then that I had succeeded in cutting Borel's forearm, and fire spurted fountainlike from the wound. His body began to glow, his lower outline to blur.
“It was by no skill you bested me!” he cried.
I shrugged.
“It isn't the Winter Olympics either,” I told him.
He changed his grip on his blade, drew back his arm, and hurled the weapon at me-right before he dissolved into a tower of sparks and was drawn upward and vanished above.
I parried the blade, and it passed me to the left, buried itself partway in the ice and stood vibrating there, like something in a Scandinavian's version of Arthurian legend. Jurt rushed toward me, kicked at the hands which held my ankles until they released me, and squinted at my brow.