“As this is to be a foot combat, signals will be by drum roll rather than bugle. At the first drum roti, you will each retire to your assigned place.” Nathos indicated two squares of colored sand about ten yards apart. “There, each of you will be subjected to a last inspection, conducted by me.
“At the second drum roll, you will draw your steel, salute your opponent, and commence orders. Anyone who enters this yard before I do will be killed. The duelists will fight with the weapons they now bear and only those weapons. The sudden appearance of any darts or throwing-axes or spare dirks will earn their bearer an arrow; so, too, will the throwing of sand or dust into your opponent’s eyes—this is not a general battle, but a duel. Do I make all points clear, gentlemen?”
Alexandros moved out slowly, his body half crouched and his eyes peering through a narrow slit between the iron rim of his buckler and the front band of his helm, for men had been known to throw a sword blade into an opponent’s unguarded face and end a match before it had hardly commenced. Taking careful steps and circling, he and Paulos came very gradually to striking distance.
Surprising Alexandros with his speed, Paulos feinted a thrust at the same time his shield rim slashed at the Sea Lord’s knees. Turning the thrust with his own blade, Alexandros took the slash OB his buckler. The sharp edge cut through all three layers of tough hide to the wood beneath, bringing shouts from the crowd. Quickly recovering, Paulos drove in, trying hard for the face or throat, his own face and body behind his buckler.
Alexandros’ shield came up, but then he abruptly straightened his left arm and slammed the face of the shield into Paulos’ extended sword arm, aiming his iron boss for the wrist He failed to strike the wrist or hand, but Paulos almost lost his sword, and the Sea Lord’s thigh thrust penetrated leather kilt and flesh alike.
When Paulos skipped backward, he could be seen to favor his left leg and, while they maneuvered toward another meeting, a thread of blood crept from beneath the Vahrohnos’ kilt.
Above the loud comments of the crowd, Lord Djeree’s voice roared, “That’s the way, Alex! Take his parts off next time, boy!”
But Alexandros was worried. Aside from involuntary grunts and gasps, his foeman had spoken not a word—no threats, no sangrinous promises, nothing. From experience, he knew a silent fighter to be among the most dangerous. Their first encounter had convinced him that if the big, brawny man was not his equal, he was frighteningly close. Taunting the Vahrohnos might not help, but it was worth a try—anything was at this stage.
“I’ve yet to hear your voice, you perverted ape,” Alexandros sneered. “Or did my knee make a soprano of you?”
“No,” Paulos growled, “but I mean to make a full eunuch of you … before I slay you. I hate so to waste beauty, you ungrateful young bitch, but I offered you my love and you answered me with hurt and humiliation; I must make of you an example.” “If you can,” grated Alexandros.
Lord Paulos sighed. “Oh, I can, lovely Alexandros, I can. This is my thirty-seventh duel. But, I reiterate, I would prefer to not slay you, darling. If you’ll even now, say that you’ll be mine. Let me draw a few drops of blood, and I’ll declare the contest done and spare your beauty and your life. Please say yes.”
“Fagh?” Alexandros spat. “I’d sooner couple with a sow. And you had my answer one night last week … when you saw fit to sneak into my suite.”
They circled and circled. Alexandros’ battle-trained eyes told him that Paulos seemed less relaxed and supple than he had earlier. He hoped it was the tenseness of anger, but it could equally well be fatigue or the pain of the thigh wound, which had continued to slowly seep. He decided to try once more to arouse the Vahrohnos into a rash move.
Conversationally, he inquired, “Why do you duel so often? Duels are much more common in” my realm than here, but I know of no man of mine who has taken part in so many.”
“I am the Lord Vahrohnos of Notohpolis,” stated Paulos, a bit pompously. “My sacred honor …”
Alexandros’ barked laugh interrupted. “Honor? You, you High-Lord of buggerers, you don’t really know the meaning of the word. How could you, when your highest aspiration is to wallow in dung?”
Lord Paulos’ face was now becoming darker and his jaws were working, so Alexandros threw a final verbal dart. “No, you piece of filth, you’ve slain your thirty-six men in an attempt to prove what no one can ever prove—that Paulos of Notohpolis is truly a man. Give up. No amount of blood will ever transform you into what you have’ never been, even the whore who spawned you …”
But he had no more time for words. Paulos charged, flat-footed, his sword slashing before him. Alexandros danced lightly from the big man’s rush, managing to sink a deep stab into the Vahrohnos’ left arm, between epaulet and buckler. Roaring like a bull, Paulos whirled and slashed wildly, but his blade whistled through empty space. The Sea Lord had dashed behind, and his red-tipped sword again penetrated Paulos’ shield arm, lower this time, near the elbow.
Shaidos and Hulios were screaming advice to the Vahrohnos, but their voices were lost in the constant shouting of the onlookers.
But it could not last. Paulos suddenly ceased his berserker tactics and, once more silent but for the ragged breathing caused by his exertions, recommenced his wary circling. There were two more brief flurries of sword-play, but the Vahrohnos seemed to be much slower in getting up his buckler. And this was a mystery to none, for the entire left side of his cuirass was streaked and smeared with blood.
Alexandros decided to end it; after all, he had another duel to fight. He swept in, his thrust aimed low. Paulos’ steel caught the thrust and the blades slid their full length, until crossguard met crossguard. While the thews of their sword arms strained, Alexandros slammed his buckler into Paulos’ shield, his boss below the Vahrohnos’. For a brief moment, he feared that Paulos might fail to rise to the bait, but then he felt the shock of the barbed spike as it locked the two bucklers together.
Quickly, he jerked up on his buckler. Paulos was unprepared for such and his own sharpened rim gashed his chin deeply. He did the natural thing, taking a step backward, then another and another, trying vainly to gain room to disengage his sword, now that his locking device had trapped his opponent in a position where brute strength meant more than agility. But Alexandros doggedly followed, step for step, until Paulos’ bloody cuirass was grating on the stone wall that separated yard from drill field.
For the first time, Alexandros discerned fear in Paulos’ bloodshot eyes. Adroitly twisting his sword out of the engagement, so long maintained, the Sea Lord swung his body out as far as he could. He allowed Paulos to raise his blade above his head and start the vicious downswipe … and then he stopthrust him, his gory blade grating on the bones of Paulos’ forearm.
“That was a pirate trick, Lord Paulos,” Alexandros panted. “Now, with your help, I’ll show you another.”
“Keeping the Vahrohnos’ blood-gushing right arm skewered on the sword, Alexandros stepped closer and began to strain upward on his buckler, forcing Paulos’ higher … and higher, as the weakened, throbbing left arm began to fail. The knife-edged rim of Paulos’ buckler drew closer and closer to his own throat. Closer, still, blood from his gashed chin dripped onto it.
When it was bare inches away, Paulos gasped, “My lord, please, I beg you!”
“Thirty-six men,” hissed Alexandros. “Thirty-six slain, and how many more dishonored because they feared you?”
Up came the rim of the buckler, and so still had it become that they might have been alone. Up, closer, ever closer.