"Sounds good," Mildred agreed, glancing at Ryan. "We go?"
It was the young hunchback who shouted the first objection. "An old man, a black witch and a one-eyed outlander make the decisions here, do they, Jorund Thoraldson?"
There was a chorus of yelled approval, and some of the Vikings began to shuffle forward, their initial fear of Mildred forgotten.
"She must burn, outlander. And you and the others will remain here. One way or another, that is how it will be."
Ryan caught J.B.'s eye and nodded imperceptibly. It had gone past talking; now it was down to shooting first. His finger caressed the narrow trigger of the pistol. Like Trader said, it was always best to get in the first bullet.
"What of trial by combat?"
Mildred's voice rang out through the hut, loud and clear, making Ryan hesitate before opening fire with the P-226.
"You were ordered to keep silent," Jorund said, but his voice lacked confidence.
"She speaks sooth," called out a stout, older man, who Ryan recognized as the father of the disgraced youth.
"And will you champion the black slut, Sigurd?"
Odo mocked.
"It must be one of her own. Outlander..." he looked at Ryan "...it is true that our laws in Markland make it possible for the... for her... to have someone to defend her right to live. Will you take up that challenge for her?"
"Yeah."
Mildred shook her head. "Just let me borrow that pretty little handgun of yours, Ryan, and I'll give the yellow-haired son of a bitch one through the forehead."
"Wait. See what kind of rules they come up with. Might not just be who can get nearest to the center of the target. Killing's like a lot of things, Mildred. It's a craft that you have to learn."
The baron of the ville smiled. "Not blasters. Our champion selects the weapon and the grounds for the challenge."
"Don't take fucking chances!" Jak spit disgustedly.
Ryan waited. Over the years he'd come across an occasional duel, generally over a woman. Or drugs. There'd been two stupes up near the northwest coast, logging country, who sat on adjacent, identical branches, eighty feet up a ponderosa pine. Each started sawing on the other's branch at the same point and finished sawing through at the same moment.
Both hit the ground at the same moment.
There'd been a skinny little kid in some pesthole gaudy house near a desert hot spot, someplace. He'd been challenged by a big bounty hunter to fight, and the kid picked pool balls from the length of a table. The big man laughed at that. The kid wiped him away with his first shot — an eight ball between the eyes, with a vicious snap of the wrist. Ryan could still see the look of shock in the dead man's eyes as he went down.
"I'm the champion of the ville of Markland, and Sharptooth here is my chosen weapon. We shall fight on the shore of the water. To the death, outlander. Aye."
Somehow, Ryan had guessed that it would be the slightly built Odo Crookback who would stand against them. Despite his physical disability the young man was light on his feet, the narrow sword in his hand dancing and darting in the crimson glow of the pine fire.
"Swords? We don't have a sword, Jorund."
Baron Thoraldson smiled. "We shall be happy to give one to you to fight against our champion. If you lose, then you will be dead. And she will also die on the stake."
"Sure."
Mildred watched him, biting her lip. "This is a shit-bad scene, Ryan. Why not just shoot them and run for it? We'd have a better chance than trying to sword-fight against the little weasel-prick."
"J.B. knows that if I go down, or look like I'm going down, he'll open up with the automatic rifle. That's when we move."
"But that guy looks like he could be real good with a sword."
"Yeah. But I have to go..." He stopped abruptly when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Theophilus Algernon Tanner, master of foil, epee and saber, at your service, Ryan," Doc announced, waving his ebony cane. "I'll fight him."
Chapter Twenty
There was a brief but bitter argument among the Vikings when Ryan announced that Doc Tanner would be the champion for the life of Mildred Wyeth.
The baron led his men to the far end of the longhouse for a degree of privacy. But Ryan and the rest couldn't fail to hear the raised voices or see the clenched fists. It was noticeable that Odo Crookback took no part in the discussion. He sat alone on a scarred table, swinging his feet and tapping the point of his sword against the earth floor. He whistled tunelessly to himself and smiled every now and then at the group of outlanders.
Jorund came back, the rest of the Norsemen clustered behind him. "We think that the old man should not fight in this matter."
Doc smiled. "I happen to disagree, and I think that the old man shouldfight in this matter."
The baron sighed. "Well, enough. I cannot and will not stop you. But Odo is the best swordsman in this steading. He will cut the old one to pieces. There will be no quarter given."
Again Doc answered him. "And no quarter will be asked for."
"You'll borrow a sword, old man?"
"No. I shall use this." He drew the slim blade of steel from its ebony lining, gripping it by the silver lion's-head hilt.
Thoraldson nodded. "Then let us to it."
The women and children were sent into the huts, and stray animals were safely penned. The bounds of the fight were quickly set. A rough square was marked out on the beach that sloped gently down to the edge of the water. The perimeters were gouged in the shingled sand, about twenty paces along each side, and a large, dying fire claimed the center. Doc was placed in one corner and Odo stood, light and easy, in the opposite corner, so that the burning logs lay between them.
Each man was allowed a second to assist him in his preparations. Odo had Sigurd Harefoot and Doc asked Ryan to stand with him.
"You sure you want to do this, Doc?" Ryan asked. "I don't want to screw up your confidence, but..."
"I fenced at Harvard and during my brief but pleasant sojourn at Oxford University. I was quite skilled, though I do say so myself."
"This won't be a game, Doc."
"I know it. There are times — too many — when my mind wanders from my control. But that doesn't mean that I am always a gull and a fool." He smiled, showing his peculiarly perfect teeth. "I rarely have the chance to pull my weight in this company, Ryan. Allow me this moment, will you?"
"Sure."
"And if it goes badly, you must not interfere on my part. Promise me that."
"Course, Doc. I promise."
But it was a promise that Ryan hadn't the least intention of keeping.
Doc discarded his frock coat, choosing to fight in his shirt. His pants were tucked into his cracked knee boots.
Jak appeared for a moment in the corner of the fighting area. "Get bastard face low sun, Doc. Blind fucker."
"Thank you, dear boy, thank you. I shall endeavor to retain that advice as best I can during the coming duello."
Ryan beckoned Thoraldson to come over. "Any rules in this, Baron?"
"None, outlander. Except that no man shall break the bounds of the fight. Down is down, and down shall be dead."