The Strahteegohs dismounted and said, “My Lord, those western nomads of Lord Alexandras’ love to fight. I will ask once more, let us request that this battle be between opposing forces of equal strength? There are nearly eight hundreds of the White Horse….”
“And,” interjected M’Gonda suddenly, “ten times twenty-three of my people. We are all yours. Let us fight with you.”
Choking, Demetrios grasped each man’s hand in turn. “No, I cannot. Such would be certain death for far too many of you.”
“What, my Lord, do you think this madness is?” Lord Mahrk burst out. “In weeks past, you have become a middling swordsman; but Lord Alexandras is a past-master! His age means nothing; he has the muscles and wind and stamina of a man of forty. The only possible way for you to survive this, is to down him with your javelin. Barring that, you go to your death!”
“I know, Mahrk,” said Demetrios softly. “I have known from the first that Alexandras would slay me. I so planned it, for I have committed crimes which only my death can expiate. All my life, excepting the past few weeks, I have lived as swine. I wish to die as a man.”
So saying, he walked back to and mounted the chariot. “Let us go, Agostinos,” he told the driver. “It would not do to keep your new High Lord waiting.”
Lord Alexandras was first to throw his javelin. Demetrios surprised even himself by adroitly turning the missile on his shield. Then, remembering everything that M’Gonda had told him, Demetrios hurled his own. By some fluke, the assegai pierced the hide of Lord Alexandras’ shield and sunk deeply into the wood and the older man freed it only just in time to take Demetrios’ sword-cut on the shield and, slamming its iron boss at the High Lord’s face, fend him off long enough to draw his own weapon.
They circled each other warily, Lord Alexandras talking to himself under his breath. “By God, the bastard came far too close to getting me that time! Whoever taught him to cast a dart knew what he was about. He doesn’t look as fat as I’d remembered and there’s strength in his sword-arm, too. He really looks much like Basil, his father. That barbarian Who calls himself Lord Mahrk was right. He is more a man, now, than ever he has been. He’s the kind of fighter, the kind of ruler, he’d have been if his father had taken the time to see to the proper rearing of him. Now, let’s see—HAAGGHH!”
Lord Alexandras leapt in, down-slanted shield held before him, and delivered a vicious, backhand slash at his opponent’s neck. Demetrios easily caught it on his own sword and the iron-shod edge of his hard-swung shield slammed agonizingly into Lord Alexandras’ exposed right side. Disengaging his blade, Demetrios hopped backward just in time to avoid the uprushing shield of his adversary. With a speed which was astounding for one of his girth, Demetrios chopped up with the inner edge of his shield, catching Lord Alexandras’ and forcing it even higher, at the same time, stabbing at the spot where the elder man’s hauberk stopped, an inch or so above the knee.
This time it was Lord Alexandras who hopped hurriedly back, thinking, “Sweet Jesus, the boy’s fast as a greased pig! What a fighting High Lord he’d have made. Saints above, with but a few weeks training, he’s come close to killing me twice over!”
After two more attacks, producing nothing more rewarding than lightening counter-attacks from Demetrios, Lord Alexandras settled to a routine of hack and slash, forehand and backhand, high and low, figure-eight and circle; but never did bis edge contact other than shield or parrying sword. When he had established an attack pattern and felt the time to be right, he feinted an up-‘ slash and ended hi a high thrust for the face; Demetrios beat the thrusting weapon against its owner’s own shield, then capped the sword-sandwich with his own close-held shield, immobilizing his opponent’s blade, while his own remained free.
No one of the watchers took breath. Lord Alexandras was momentarily defenseless and all realized it. Demetrios could drive his point into face or back of neck or through the lacings of Lord Alexandras’ jazeran with impunity; and that would be that!
The men’s strained, flushed, sweat-streaked faces were bare inches, one from the other. “Well?” panted Lord Alexandras. “Get it over with! You tortured and butchered the rest of my family. Why do you stick at me?”
“You … good fighter … good man!” gasped Demetrios. “Too bad … couldn’t … been friends. Be great honor … die by … your hand.”
Alexandras started. “You want me to kill you?” “Many sins …” Demetrios went on. “Heavy … must pay. Sat and … sipped wine … laughed … when your daughters … grandchildren … tormented to death. You have … dirk. Use it! Had many … things … done to … your kin.” He went on to haltingly describe the gruesome and incredible brutalities which his tortures had inflicted upon the old nobleman’s family until, foaming with rage, the Strahteegohs let go his hilt, drew his dirk, and plunged it into Demetrios’ neck, just under the left ear! Hilt-deep, he drove the wide-bladed dirk, so that it transfixed the High Lord’s thick neck—a good eight centimeters of the blade protruding from the opposite side.
Demetrios half-screamed at the bite of the steel. Dropping his sword, he wrenched Lord Alexandras’ hand from the dirk. Stepping back, he saluted his slayer, then crumpled to the ground, eyes closed, lips smiling up at the sun.
Demetrios’ descriptions had been accurate and revolting and Alexandras was still half-berserk and the smile further infuriated him. Furiously, he kicked at the dying man’s face, then, picking up his sword, used its edge to sever the shoulder-strap of his shield, slipped free of the arm-bands, and dropped the buckler. Stepping to his fallen foe, he kicked off Demetrios’ helmet, tore away the padded cap, and, raising the High Lord’s head by the hair, he lifted his sword with the obvious intent of decapitating the body.
“NO!” shouted M’Gonda. With unbelievable swiftness, the black quitted his saddle, snatched a javelin from the holder on the side of the chariot, and fitted it to his silver spear-thrower. Just as Lord Alexandras’ blade commenced its hard-swung descent, M’Gonda took three running steps forward and made his cast. The use of a throwing-stick imparts tremendous velocity to a javelin and such was the force of this cast that the entirety of the seven-teen-centimeters of blade length penetrated the Strahteegohs’ exposed right side, the needle-point tearing into his mighty heart!
Seconds after he had thrown his javelin, M’Gonda’s body was pin-cushioned with arrows.
For a long, long moment, there was no movement, in any quarter—all knew that one untoward motion would surely precipitate a pitched battle. Then, above the stillness, sounded a clattering-clanging thud, as Lord Mahrk dropped his round buckler. With his gauntleted left hand, he drew his broadsword and, grasping it by the blade-tip, waved it above his head before casting it down beside his shield. This done, he toed his white charger forward, to rein and dismount beside the bodies of the two Ehleenoee. Shortly, he was joined by Milo, Mara, Djeen Mai, and Lord Szamyul; and the watchers relaxed, starting to breathe again.
Lord Alexandras Pahpahs was dead, though a trickle of blood was yet running from one corner of his mouth. Djeen Mai set his foot against his slain lord’s armored side and withdrew the imbedded javelin, then closed the glazed eyes and wiped the blood from the old Strahteegohs’ chin. Wordless, Mara looked down on this dead, old man, trying to visualize the vibrantly alive boy she had loved so long ago.
Sadly, Lord Mahrk bent over Demetrios’ body and, as gently as possible, pulled out Lord Alexandras’ dirk. All at once, he straightened and reeled back, his face ashen, the dirk dropping from suddenly nerveless fingers.
“He … my Lord is not … he is still alive! He … he moaned when I took out the dirk!” The Lord High Strahteegohs gasped, half-unbelievingly. Milo bounded over to the downed High Lord and hastily ascertained that he was, indeed, yet sentient, not even truly unconscious. Then he noticed something else.