“Find the Procurator!” Gialaurys cried in a voice like a great crack of thunder. “Get him first!”
“And Mandralisca also,” Septach Melayn called. “Those two must not escape!”
But where were they? All was in confusion in here. The camp was full of bewildered soldiers milling in such hectic tumult and disarray that there was no telling who was where.
As they advanced into the camp a thin, parched old man who had been sprawled on the ground rose uncertainly to his feet and shambled aimlessly up toward them, his eyes dull and almost blank, his face distorted, one side of his face drawn downward as though he had lately suffered a stroke. Some sort of metallic instrument was on his head—a magical device, perhaps. The man was making thick unintelligible sounds, mere incoherent gabblings. He reached out with trembling hands toward Navigorn, who was the closest to him. Navigorn flung him contemptuously to one side and sent him sprawling out on the ground like a heap of discarded clothing.
“Ah, but don’t you know him?” Gialaurys said. “The Barjazid, it is! The damnable maker of all this mischief! Or what’s left of him.” And he turned to run the man through.
But Septach Melayn, ever quicker, had already dispatched him with the quickest flick of his sword.
“That is Mandralisca there, now, I think,” said Navigorn, pointing to the far side of the clearing.
And indeed the Procurator’s poison-taster could be seen lurking there, creeping along the wall of manganoza palms, searching for some opening through which he could escape. “He is mine,” Navigorn said, and ran off toward him.
“The Procurator, there,” cried Septach Melayn. “I claim him for my own!”
Yes. Dantirya Sambail stood fifty yards away, smiling at him across the tumultuous uproar of the battlefield that his camp had become. He did not appear to be prepared for combat: all he wore was a simple linen tunic, belted at the waist, and soft leather shoes with peaked tips jutting far out in front. But he had obtained a sturdy saber from somewhere and also a long narrow dagger. He held one weapon in each hand as he looked toward Septach Melayn and beckoned him on toward single combat. The Procurator’s strange purple eyes were gazing almost lovingly at him out of that fleshy and florid face.
“Yes,” Septach Melayn said. “Let us try our skills, shall we, Dantirya Sambail?”
They moved slowly toward each other, each man’s gaze fixed rigidly on his opponent as though there were no one else anywhere around them in the clearing. The Procurator had his stiletto in his right hand, the saber in his left. Which was odd, Septach Melayn thought, for as far as he knew Dantirya Sambail was right-handed, and a massive saber was always his weapon of choice. What was he planning to do? Try to knock Septach Melayn’s own sword aside with a swinging side-stroke of the saber, and strike for his undefended heart with the dagger?
No matter. It would not happen. Septach Melayn was certain that this was the moment for him to send that great monster from the world at last.
“On the field at Thegomar Edge you came at Prestimion with two weapons also, did you not, Dantirya Sambail?” Septach Melayn asked him cordially. “And struck at him with an axe, I think, and then went for him with a saber as well. But still he bested you, I’m told.” They were circling each other as they spoke, maneuvering for advantage. Septach Melayn was the younger and taller and quicker man, the Procurator the heavier and stronger one. “He bested you, yes, and spared your life. But I am not Prestimion, Dantirya Sambail. When I best you, it will be the end for you. And none too soon, I’d say.”
“You talk much too much, you man of flowers and ringlets. You trifling fop! You overgrown boy!”
“Fop, am I? Well, perhaps it is so. But a boy? A boy, Dantirya Sambail?”
“A boy is all you are, yes. Come, Septach Melayn, let’s see that famous swordsmanship of yours at last!”
“I offer you a demonstration with all my soul.”
Septach Melayn stepped forward, deliberately opening his guard as an encouragement to the Procurator to reveal what it was he had in mind to do with those two weapons of his. But Dantirya Sambail only moved in a crabwise scuttle, brandishing dagger and saber as if uncertain himself of which to use. Septach Melayn flicked a quick elegant thrust at him, only for the sake of letting the Procurator see the flash of sunlight against his swiftly moving blade. Dantirya Sambail smiled and nodded in approval. “Ah, well done, boy, very well done. But you drew no blood.”
“Not when I choose to slice the air, no,” said Septach Melayn. “But try this, though. Boy, you say?”
Now was the time for summoning all his mastery of the weapon and making a quick end of the combat. He had no yearning for playing games with Dantirya Sambail. This man had escaped destruction too many times already. Prestimion somehow had opened the way for this moment and it was up to Septach Melayn to complete the act; now it was time to bring Dantirya Sambail quickly to his finish, Septach Melayn thought, without fighting any drawn-out elaborate duel, or giving the Procurator a chance to work some new kind of treachery.
Coming in quickly on the attack, Septach Melayn feinted idly to the left, chuckling to see how easily Dantirya Sam-bail mistook that for his real thrust. As the Procurator parried the feint with his saber, Septach Melayn whipped his light sword around the other way and slid its point through the meaty part of the arm that held the dagger. The drawing of first blood brought a sudden flaring of fury and, perhaps, fear, in Dantirya Sambail’s remarkable eyes. With an angry howl he struck at Septach Melayn, a downward blow with the saber that would have cut another man in half. Dancing easily aside, Septach Melayn offered the Procurator a pleasant smile and went straight in on the left, arcing his wrist neatly and putting his blade between Dantirya Sambail’s ribs, tickling it forward until he was certain he had reached the heart.
There, Septach Melayn thought. It is done. And this tower of evil is gone from our midst.
They stood close together a moment, the Procurator leaning against him, breathing heavily, and then not seeming to breathe at all. A tremor shook the Procurator’s body the way a volcano’s eruption shakes the ground, and a gush of bright blood spewed from his lips. Then all was still, and Dantirya Sambail was a dead weight against him. Septach Melayn reached out and flicked the saber from Dantirya Sambail’s nerveless grasp. It went clattering to the side. With a single light shove he sent the lifeless Procurator after it.
“An overgrown boy, yes,” Septach Melayn said. “A trifling fop. No doubt you were right. That is surely what I am.—Goodbye, Dantirya Sambail. You’ll not be greatly missed, I think.”
But he felt no great sense of triumph, not yet, only a quiet feeling of satisfaction within, of release from a burden. He looked around to see how the others were faring.
Gialaurys was dealing with three or four of the Procurator’s men at once. He seemed not to be in need of help. In the midst of the struggle he glanced across, saw Septach Melayn standing beside the fallen form of Dantirya Sambail, and gave him a wildly gleeful grin of congratulation.
But it appeared as though Navigorn had had poorer luck. He was returning now from the manganoza thicket, looking disconsolate. A trail of bloody scratches ran down one side of his face. “Mandralisca got away, damn him! He walked through those miserable palms as though they weren’t there and disappeared.—I would have followed but for the trees. You can see they’ve cut me half to pieces as it is.”
In this moment of glory Septach Melayn would accept no disappointment, not even this. He clapped Navigorn heartily on the shoulder. “Well, it’s a pity, that. But come, man, don’t be so hard on yourself, Navigorn. The fellow’s a demon, and chasing demons is no easy game. But he’s not likely to get far on his own, is he? May he be devoured by crabs as he wanders around in the jungle!” Septach Melayn pointed then to the bodies strewn all around. “Look! Look you! There lies the Procurator! And the Barjazid over there! The work is done, Navigorn. We’ve nothing left to do here but a little mopping-up!”