Yet he could not rely on Maloch to save him. Its protection was against magery, not might…
Wait — if he could not beat the man, could he beat his weapons?
It was a desperate gamble. If he was wrong, if he damaged Maloch, he would die. But it was the only hope he had. He backpedalled again, luring Leatherhead forwards. The man was enormously strong but had no subtlety; he used the same few strokes over and again.
Rix waited until Leatherhead struck another of those scissoring double blows, then swung Maloch into the path of the swords. It missed his opponent’s left-hand blade by a whisker and struck the right blade side-on, near the hilt.
Maloch rang like a tower bell. A hot shock passed up Rix’s arm and for an awful second he thought his own blade was going to shatter. There was a screech of metal and a red-hot spray that spattered Leatherhead’s jerkin and pants, then Maloch sheared through the other blade, which was hurled sideways to embed itself in the muddy snow.
Leatherhead looked down uncomprehendingly at the semi-molten hilt, then dropped it and began to claw at his chest, trying to tear off the smoking jerkin. But the thick leather thongs did not give, and now smoke was issuing from within. The spray of molten metal had burned through the leather, only to be trapped against Leatherhead’s skin.
His guard was down, and Rix was not one to miss an opportunity. He sprang forwards and, with a stroke of surgical accuracy, lifted Leatherhead’s pumpkin-sized head off his stump of a neck and sent it rolling down the slope to the piled offal. His hands were still clawing at his smouldering chest when his blood-drenched body hit the ground.
Rix fixed his gaze on the goggling brutes in the gateway, then put his right boot on Leatherhead’s chest and raised Maloch high.
“I am Rixium Deadhand, heir to Garramide,” he said in a voice that could have been heard at the top of the highest dome of the fortress. He deliberately did not mention the tainted name, Ricinus. “This sword, Maloch, came to me in direct line from my ancestor — the First Hero, Axil Grandys, who built this fortress.”
He paused to allow that to sink in. Grandys was a legend, the Founding Hero, and the connection meant that any challenge to Rix was a challenge to the legitimacy of Grandys himself. At least, Rix hoped so, though with brainless thugs like these, you couldn’t always tell.
“Garramide is mine and I claim my inheritance. If any here challenge my claim, speak now — and die.”
CHAPTER 23
The outlaws shuffled their filthy feet, staring at Maloch, and Rix’s grey right hand, and the body of their fallen leader, as if they could not comprehend it. No one spoke. No one met his eyes.
There were more than forty of them now, and despite that some were clearly drunk, and others barefoot and only armed with knives, they were a formidable force.
Behind them, through the gate, the fortress servants were gathering, at least a hundred of them. Quite a few were armed, and Rix saw a dawning hope in their eyes. Though the fall of House Ricinus had damaged his reputation, the old dame they’d loved had named him her heir and given him the sword, and he could hardly be as bad as these outlaws. Rix saw no uniformed guards, though, and that was a worry. Presumably Leatherhead had killed them when he’d attacked the fortress. Rix had to have guards, and plenty of them. The fortress could not be defended without them.
What would the outlaws do? If they rushed him, he might kill three or four before they overwhelmed and killed him, but kill him they would. But would they attack? They seemed like common thugs to Rix; no one had the look of a leader. It wasn’t surprising — men like Leatherhead kept order with brutish violence and did not encourage rivals.
“What are you going to do?” said Rix quietly, so they had to strain forwards to hear. He raised Maloch. “No one bearing this sword — Axil Grandys’ enchanted sword — has ever been beaten in battle.”
“Deadhand’s just one man,” said a toothless, brawny thug at the front. “We can take him.” He reached for the sword sheathed at his hip.
Rix leapt forwards and pressed Maloch’s tip against the man’s throat. Blood threaded a path down his dirty neck. “Touch your weapon and you die.”
The thug choked. He couldn’t speak; the tip was pressing into his voicebox. His hand froze in mid-air, inches above the hilt. Rix lowered Maloch, cut the thongs of the man’s sheath and it fell to the ground. He forced him backwards to the gate, then kicked the sheath back to Glynnie, who drew the sword.
“When we escaped from Caulderon,” said Rix, “I killed six men with my bare hands — plus a whole pack of hyena shifters.”
He paused to let that sink in. Every eye was on his dead hand.
“And even if you could beat me, where can you go in mid-winter? The fortress is armed against you now; try to retake it and you will die.”
The thugs turned, saw the great line of armed servants, turned back to Rix. “But we’re at war,” said Rix, “and I need men who can fight, so I’ll make you an offer. Swear to serve and obey me, and I’ll take you on — and any raids we make against the enemy, you get a share of the plunder.”
The servants stared at one another, then there was a furious muttering among them. They weren’t happy. Perhaps they were wondering if Rix would be any better than Leatherhead.
“But be warned!” Rix said in a booming voice. “I intend to run Garramide as my great-aunt ran it. You will live like men, not pigs, and any violence against the people of this household will be punished by exile — or death. There will be no more warnings. Well? Do you swear to serve me and follow the laws of the fortress, on pain of death?”
There was some sullen nodding among Leatherhead’s men, a few quiet affirmations, some whispered oaths.
“Aloud!” cried Rix, brandishing Maloch. “On your knees.”
They went to their knees in the freezing mud and swore.
Rix gestured to them to rise. As he studied the faces, trying to take their measure, it occurred to Rix that Glynnie was still at risk.
He gestured behind him and she came to his side. “Glynnie will be in charge of my household. You will obey her as you do me.”
One of the outlaws, a big lout of a man, round-faced, with a beard as coarse as the bristles of a boar, sniggered and made a vulgar gesture.
Rix leapt forwards and struck the man down with the flat of his sword. “Get off my land.”
“But Deadhand, this is my home,” whined the lout, struggling to his knees. “I’ve lived here all my life.”
“Liar!” yelled a stocky maid whose yellow hair hung in a single braid to her waist. “You slaughtered your way in last week.”
“No warnings, I said,” said Rix. “You’ve got ten minutes to be gone. After an hour, I’m giving the hunting dogs your scent and setting them loose.”
The man looked vainly for help among his fellows, then trudged in through the gates. Rix studied the faces before him, one by one. None of the outlaws met his gaze.
“Anyone else disagree with my orders?”
No one spoke.
“I asked a question,” Rix said, lowering his voice so they would have to strain to hear. “As the master of Garramide, I expect instant and total obedience. Does anyone disagree with my orders?”
“No, Lord Deadhand,” they said in a ragged chorus.
“Get this muck cleared away.” The sweep of his hand included both the offal and Leatherhead. “Then go to the bathing house and scrub yourselves clean. I’ll have no filth in this house.”
The man Rix had struck down reappeared with a thin, shrew-faced woman who was whacking him with a knobbly walking stick.
“Stupid, useless lump,” she shrilled. “Why I put up with you I’ll never know.” She came up to Rix, put on a sickly smile that did not approach her eyes, curtsied clumsily and said, “He’s a fool, Lord. Never opens his mouth but to vomit out his stupidity, but he don’t mean it. He’s a good man, deep down. And we don’t got nowhere to go, Lord. Please — ”