With considerable effort, Demetrios partially overcame his fear and repugnance. “How … how dare you so address us! Do you know who we are?”
Even the chuckle was hard and cold. “Fat as you are, I can see why you employ the plural when referring to yourself. Yes, I know who you are, as well as what you are—and it sickens me to have to acknowledge any degree of kinship to a thing like you, cousin.
“As for me, I am Pardos, Lord of the Sea Isles. You are here to beg me for help. Seeing you, I can now understand why you need help. If you are a fair sample of what the Ehleenoee nobility of the mainland are become, may God help us. If all are such as you, cousin—a peacock-pretty pederast with a voice like a girl and no more body hair than the boy-children you beat and abuse, with less courage than a baby mouse—then mayhap a mainland ruled by clean, normal, courageous, and uncomplicated barbarians would make for better neighbors.”
Arising, the Sea Lord strode over to his “guest,” then strolled slowly around him, critically eyeing his baubles and attire. Suddenly, he snatched out the High-Lord’s sword and examined the stones of the golden hilt and guard; at length, and without apparent strain, he snapped off the two feet of dull blade and tossed the hilt to the red-haired woman.
“The High-Lord’s guest-gift to you, Kahndees.” She fingered the showy treasure—which was worth fully as much as Titos’ ship—and then her full lips curved in a mocking smile and she spoke in Ehleenokos as pure as Demetrios’ own. “I cannot truly express my thanks, My Lord Demetrios.” A hint of laughter lurked in her well-modulated voice.
Pardos flicked the tip of the broken blade at the stiffened pleats of Demetrios’ linen kilt. “A skirt suits you well, cousin. Generally, your kind are more woman than man.”
The High-Lord quavered: “It … the kilt… is the ancient garb … of the Ehleen warrior.”
“You?” Pardos snorted. “A warrior?” Then, tapping the blade on the cloth-of-gold breastplate, he added, “This is supposed to be a cuirass, I take it; why, it’d not turn a well-thrown pebble. As for your helmet …” He jabbed the silver-washed skewer through the stiffened cloth and snapped the entire contrivance up off Demetrios’ head, then flipped it to the red-haired woman.
“Payment for your kiss, Mahndah. Our guest is generous.” ‘
She placed the chapeau on her brown curls, then made a deep obeisance. “My deepest thanks, Lord Demetrios.—I’ll wear it in memory of you.”
Sweat streamed down the High-Lord’s fowls. He was now certain that this horrible monster intended to kill him when he had finished toying with him.
“Tch-tch,” clicked Pardos, noticing the copious perspiration. “You are unaccustomed to our climate here, cousin. You will be much cooler if you’ll but remove that heavy cape. Here … let me do it for you; after all, you are my guest.”
After unpinning the brooches, he disconnected one end of the gold chain and slipped the cape from the High-Lord’s shaking shoulders. Snapping the pieces together again, he turned and tossed them to the woman who knelt by the wine barrel.
“This is for the lad, Tildah. But never fear, there’ll be something pretty for you, ere long.”
Taking the High-Lord’s soft white hand, Pardos commenced to pull at the showiest ring, an emerald-cut diamond set in reddish gold.
Demetrios vainly tried to jerk his hand free of the crushing grip. “No!” he whimpered. “No, please, no. Oh, what have I done to you that you should so use me, my lord?”
The look that then came into Pardos’ black eyes stung his captive far more than did the contemptuous slap dealt him. The Sea Lord’s voice became glacial. “You are what you are, you gutless thing of unknown sex. But what is far worse is that I, God help me, am of the same blood as you; and you make it obvious that our blood is tainted.”
He might have said more, had not a hand grasped his shoulder and spun him about. Sergios had had to surrender sword and dirk and cuirass to gain admittance to-the courtyard, but when he saw his sovran struck, mere lack of weapons could not hold him back. When he confronted the pirate, the eyes that glared from beneath his helmet’s rim were every bit as hard as Pardos’ own.
“Dog and son of a dog!” he hissed in a low voice. “Has your house sunk so low that you forget who and what you are? We three are Ehleenoee—Kath’ahrohs nobles. As such, we do not degrade ourselves, or one another, before barbarians!”
Pardos looked honestly amazed at the interruption. But he snapped, “And who are you, my young cockerel, to instruct me in the manners of nobility?”
Sergios bowed stiffly, though his eyes never left those of Lord Pardos. “Lord Sergios, Admiral of Kehnooryos Ehlahs, my lord.”
Pardos nodded and his frown softened a little. “A fellow seaman, eh? And if my eyes don’t deceive me, a red man, as well. If you’re not this thing’s kind, why would you defend him?”
Sergios heaved a deep sigh. “Because I must be true to my word, my lord. High-Lord Demetrios is my sovran and, long ago, I swore to serve and protect him. Protect him, I will, my lord, to the last drop of my blood.”
Without warning, Pardos’ muscular arm shot out to the side. All he said was “Sword.” A short, heavy one was slapped into his waiting palm.
“Words lack intrinsic value without deeds to back them, Admiral Sergios,” said Pardos, stepping to the clear area before the large table and scuffing his boot soles on the tiles, the sword held casually at low guard. “Let us see some of that blood you’ve pledged this hunk of rotten offal.”
Instinctively, Sergios’ hand went to his scabbard, but came away empty. “My lord, my weapons are at your gate and…”
Pardos sneered. “To the last drop of your blood, eh? When you knew yourself to be unarmed and thought that fact would save you. Fagh! You’re as bad as your mistress, here.” He waved contemptuously at Demetrios.
Sergios flushed and shook his head vigorously. “Your pardon, my lord, but you misunderstand. If your men will return my sword or loan me a weapon, even a dagger, I shall be at your pleasure.”
“You’re at my pleasure, anyway, mainlander,” barked Pardos shortly. “As you are, you saw fit to insult me; as you are, you will fight me, by God. You get no weapons from my men!”
The expression on Sergios’ handsome face never altered. He bowed his head slightly while his quick mind assessed his chances, finding them slim, indeed. His leather gambeson might turn a glancing blow and its knee-length skirt with its scales of silver-washed steel would hopefully protect his loins and thighs. His helm, though highly decorated, was honest steel, but his armbands were but brass. Surreptitiously, he glanced about, then quickly crouched and both arms shot out, one to grasp the broken blade of Demetrios’ sword, the other to jerk the heavy cape from the loose grip of the woman by the barrel.
Rapidly, he whirled the cape tightly around his left hand and forearm. Then he assumed a knife-fighter’s stance, his knees slightly flexed, his left foot forward, his edgeless strip of steel at his right thigh.
“I told you, you young cur,” shouted Pardos, “that you were to have no weapons! Drop the blade and the cape … now!”
Sergios gave a tight smile. “I suggest that my lord see now if his deeds can give value to his words. You’ll take these poor weapons only from my corpse, you know.” Then his smile became mocking. “Or does my lord fear to face an armed man, eh? Take time for a cup of strong wine, my lord. Some say that it imparts courage….”