“Majesty?” he said, bowing so vigorously as to suggest to Toller that he had acquired his posture through years of deference.
“Two things,” Chakkell said. “Inform those who wait in the corridor that I am departing on other business, but they may take consolation from the fact that my absence will be brief. Extremely brief! Secondly, tell the house commander that I require Karkarand to be on the parade ground three minutes from now. He is to be armed and prepared to carry out a dissection.”
“Yes, Majesty.” The secretary bowed again and, after casting one lingering and speculative look at Toller, loped away towards the double door. He was moving with the eager gait of one for whom a dull day had suddenly shown promise of memorable entertainment. Toller watched him depart and, having been granted time for thought, began to wonder if he had overstepped the bounds of reason in his championing of Spennel.
“What’s this, Maraquine?” Chakkell said, his former joviality returning. “Second thoughts?” Without waiting for a reply he crooked his finger and led the way out of the audience chamber by means of a curtained private exit.
As he walked along a panelled corridor in the King’s wake Toller suddenly glimpsed a mind-picture of Gesalla at the moment of their parting, her grey eyes deeply troubled, and his misgivings increased. Had some intuitive power enabled her to know that he was setting out to court danger? The meeting with Spennel and his captors had been pure coincidence, of course, but Toller lived in a society where violent death was not uncommon, and in previous years he had been unperturbed by reports of summary and unjust executions. Could it be that, in his mood of destructive discontent, he would have sought out a way —even without the chance encounter on the road to Prad—to place himself in a position of peril?
If he had been unconsciously trying to put himself in danger he had been spectacularly successful. He had never set eyes on Karkarand, but he knew the man to be a rare phenomenon—a gifted sword fighter, unhampered by any trace of morality or regard for human life, with a physique so powerful that he was rumoured to have dispatched a bluehorn with a single blow of his fist. For a middle-aged man, regardless of how well he was armed, to pit himself against such a killing machine was an act of recklessness bordering on the suicidal. And, as the ultimate flourish of idiocy, he had wagered the estate which supported his family on the outcome of the duel!
Forgive me, Gesalla, Toller thought, mentally cringing from his solewife’s level gaze. If I survive this episode I’ll be the model of prudence until the day I die. I promise to be what you want me to be.
King Chakkell reached a door which led to the outside and, in a complete reversal of protocol, pulled it open and gestured for Toller to precede him into the parade ground beyond. Some remnant of a sense of propriety caused Toller to hesitate, then he noticed Chakkell’s smile and understood the symbolism of his action—he was happy to suspend the normal rules of conduct for the privilege of ushering an old adversary out of the world of the living.
“What ails you, Toller?” he said, jovial once more. “At"this point any other man would be having second thoughts—are you, perhaps, having first thoughts? And regrets?”
“On the contrary,” Toller replied, returning the smile, “I’m looking forward to some gentle exercise.”
He set the presentation case down on the gravelled surface of enclosed ground and took out the sword. There was comfort to be gained from the balanced weight of it, the sheer rightness of the way it took to his hand, and his anxiety began to abate. He glanced up at the vast disk of the Old World and saw that the ninth hour was just beginning, which meant he could still reach home before littlenight.
“Is that a blood channel?” Chakkell said, looking closely at the steel sword for the first time and noticing the groove which extended down from the haft. “You don’t go in to the hilt with a blade that long, do you?”
“New materials, new designs.” Toller, who had no wish for the weapon’s secret to be revealed prematurely, turned away and scanned the line of low military quarters and stores which bounded the parade ground. “Where is this swordsman of yours, Majesty? I trust he moves with greater alacrity when in combat.”
“That you will soon discover,” Chakkell said comfortably.
At that moment a door opened in the farthest wall and a man in line soldier’s uniform emerged. Other soldiers appeared behind him and spread out sideways to merge with the thin line of spectators who were noiselessly materialising on the ground’s perimeter. The word had spread quickly, Toller realised, attracting those who anticipated seeing a dash of crimson added to the dull monochrome of the palatial day. He returned his attention to the soldier who had come out first and was now walking towards him and the King.
Karkarand was not quite as tall as Toller had expected, but he had a tremendous breadth of torso and columnar legs of such power that he progressed with a springy gait in spite of the massiveness of his build. His arms were so packed with muscle that, unable to hang vertically at his side, they projected laterally at an angle, adding a touch of monstrousness to his already intimidating appearance. Karkarand’s face was very broad, yet narrower than the trunk of his neck, its features blurred by a reddish stubble. His eyes, which were fixed on Toller, were so pale and bright that they seemed to fluoresce in the shadow of his brakka helmet.
Toller immediately understood that he had made a serious mistake in issuing his challenge to the King. Before him was a creature, less a human being than an engine of war, who had no real need of artificial weapons to supplement the destructive forces nature had built into his grotesque frame. Even if successfully disarmed by an opponent he would be capable of pressing the engagement through to a lethal conclusion. Toller instinctively tightened his grip on his sword and, choosing to wait no longer, depressed a stud on its haft. He felt the glass vial within shatter and release its charge of yellow fluid.
“Majesty,” Karkarand said in a surprisingly melodious voice as he approached and saluted the King.
“Good foreday, Karkarand.” Chakkell’s tone was equally light, almost conversational. “Lord Toller Maraquine—of whom you will doubtless have heard—appears to have become enamoured with death. Be a good fellow and cater to his wishes at once.”
“Yes, Majesty.” Karkarand saluted again and in a continuation of the movement drew his battle sword. In place of standard regimental markings the blackness of the brakka wood blade was relieved by crimson enamel inlays in the shape of blood droplets—a sign that its owner was a personal favourite of the King. Karkarand unhurriedly turned to face Toller, his expression one of calmness and mild curiosity, and raised his sword. Chakkell moved several paces back.
Toller’s heart began to pound as he made himself ready, speculating as to what form Karkarand’s attack would take. He had half-expected a sudden onslaught which would have been designed to end the duel in a second or so, but his opponent was playing a different game. Moving slowly forward, Karkarand lifted his sword high and brought it down in the kind of simple direct stroke that might have been used by a small child at play. Surprised by the other man’s lack of finesse, Toller automatically parried the blow—and nearly gasped aloud as the incredible shock of it raced back through his blade, twisting and loosening the haft in his fingers, causing a geysering of pain in his hand.
The sword had almost been struck from his grasp by Karkarand’s first blow!