“Is this why you really brought me here, Gamelon? To fight this man for your entertainment?”
“Oh no.” He sounded wounded. “My wish was only to show you the menageries. I had no knowledge Fureth would be here.”
“He tells the truth, Girton,” said Vinwulf. “When Fureth told me of the menageries. I asked him to show me, he could not have known you would be here.”
“But when a situation presents itself,” said Gamelon, clasping his hands together and bowing slightly, “one must make the best of it.” I glanced over at Fureth, who watched me intently.
“As the boy says, Gamelon did not know I would be here.” The giant by his side rolled his shoulders.
“And what about you,” I said, “did you know I would be here, Fureth?”
“Is it so strange,” asked Fureth, “that two groups touring Ceadoc should meet at one of its wonders?” He held my gaze. He was older than me by about ten years but age had not weathered him, he looked as if he had seen no more than twenty yearsbirths.
“Is this because you are still angry about me killing your master all those years ago, Fureth?”
“I have heard that story many times,” said Vinwulf, “from Aydor. He tells it again and again. Girton is the greatest swordsman who ever lived.”
Fureth shook his head.
“I am not angry. If anything, I should thank you for it. He would have sidelined me, had me sent out into the wild highlands to die in the name of the dead gods. In a way, I suppose, I owe you for my current position.”
“But you still intend to try and kill me.” I nodded at the man by him.
“No one intends anyone to die,” said Gamelon, his hands fluttering about his face theatrically. “This is a wager. We will fight only to wound.”
Fureth grunted out a laugh.
“You are an ignorant man, Gamelon,” he said. Beside him Vinwulf looked like he could barely contain his excitement at the thought of blood.
“I fail to see …” began the seneschal.
“What he means, Gamelon,” I said, “is that the reality of war is that most significant wounds are lethal, eventually. Look at the size of his man,” I said, pointing at the Landsman warrior. “A wound that would stop him is not the sort that it is likely he would recover from.”
“The same could be said of you, Girton,” said Fureth. “You are not big, but I have seen you fight and you are not a man who gives up.” Fureth’s eyes remained locked on to me. “Though, unlike the boy, I would not say you are the most skilled swordsman I have ever seen.”
“Why are you doing this, Fureth?” He was baiting me and I knew it. Gamelon watched us with the air of a man who had sat down only to warm his hands on a brazier and ended up setting his hair on fire. Vinwulf grinned to himself, anticipation burned in his eyes. I wondered how many Landsmen besides Fureth’s ten were hidden in the gloom of the menageries. I had the unpleasant feeling of hostile eyes burning into my back.
“I would like a say in who becomes high king. If I win I want Gamelon to give me a vote, it is in his power. And I think you are a dangerous man, Girton Club-Foot,” said Fureth: “one who would work against me.” I nodded. “But Danfoth says you are the Chosen of Xus, and we must bide our time until you come to him. He says his god has shown this happening.”
“He is mistaken.”
“Oh, I agree,” said Fureth, “but I thought I would test what Danfoth says. If you can survive against my man here,” he reached out, but did not touch, the huge warrior, “then maybe he is right. Maybe you are Chosen by Xus.”
“So, even if I survive, it proves the gods to you?” He nodded.
“Strange, is it not?” he said. “Gamelon has you fighting to prove something you know is a lie.”
“Oh, Xus is real,” I said, “but he does not interfere in our affairs.”
“Fureth,” said Gamelon, “gods or not, I have decided this cannot happen. Girton is part of Rufra’s entourage, he is under Ceadoc’s protection.”
“You have already agreed to this,” snapped Fureth.
“But I did not know it would end in death. And now that I do I forbid it.”
I was grateful for Gamelon’s interruption, which may sound cowardly, but it is a fool that fights when he does not have to. And I did not believe in Danfoth’s talk of Xus, his god was not the Xus I had experienced.
“You have no real power here any more, Gamelon,” said Fureth.
“If the seneschal of Ceadoc Castle does not confirm the high king, it will be meaningless.” Fureth paused at that, and I think he had been bluffing when he said Gamelon had no power. Things may be changing in the castle but Fureth was not confident enough to push the seneschal too far.
“But you accepted the bet, so if you are to renege the Landsmen get a vote,” said Fureth. He should have stopped there. For all his bluster, Gamelon was weak and would have given him what he wanted to escape a situation he found unpleasant. But Fureth hated me for making fools of the Landsmen in Maniyadoc, many years ago, and he could not contain it. “But Girton may choose to fight if he wishes. Then it has nothing to do with his king.” He stared at me.
I should say no. I knew it. Rufra would tell me to say no, as would my master. Even Aydor, who loved to fight, would have told me to walk away. One vote would not matter that much. But I did not like Fureth. It would be good to bloody his nose, even metaphorically.
“No,” I said, somewhat surprised at the sound of my own voice. “Rufra has had enough trouble in Ceadoc already and I will not add to it by killing a Landsman. I did that once before and I have learnt my lesson.” Fureth’s eyes narrowed. “Rufra would not will it and I will not gainsay his will. Also, Gamelon has not denied you your bet—I have. And as I was no part of it I do not believe it entitles you to a vote in this case.”
If looks could have killed, Fureth would have struck me dead on the spot.
“Maybe there will be other ways to test Xus’s will then, eh?” he said.
“I will it.” Everyone turned to Vinwulf. His eyes were bright with excitement. “I am the king-in-waiting of Maniyadoc and I speak with my father’s voice in this place.”
“Vinwulf,” I said, “your father will—”
“Not be happy having his Heartblade, his champion, back down in front of the Landsmen. They have publicly insulted him more than once.” He raised himself up to his full height, taller than me even though he was only a youth. “Fight this man, Girton. Fight him in the name of your king and because I will it.” He looked to Fureth with a wild grin on his face, though whether it was because of the prospect of violence or the joy of exercising his power I did not know.
“You are sure of this, Prince Vinwulf?” Gamelon, now the responsibility had been removed from his shoulders, looked equally excited.
“I am sure,” he said.
“Very well.” I stepped forward, drawing my Conwy stabsword and pointing it at the man. “Until either he or I cannot continue.”
“As agreed,” said Fureth, giving me a nod.
“Very well,” I said again and spun the blade in my hand.
His man stepped forward, moving like the slow crumble of a sea cliff—inevitable and unstoppable. He held a plain and unornamented longsword out to one side, tip pointing at the floor, and a shield studded with hooks along the trunk and branches of the painted white tree on the front. Some may have been fooled by his lumbering walk but not I. Too many thought big meant slow, but I had fought with Aydor for years and knew how lightning quick he could be. If this man was one of Fureth’s finest, if he was pitting him against me, then there was no reason to believe he would be slow. I was glad that we fought in the menagerie where there was plenty of space. In a confined area a man such as this could use his bulk as a weapon and nullify the advantages I had—speed and manoeuvrability. The floor beneath my feet was smooth, paved with heavy stones that made a slip unlikely. I felt the lives of those around me as points on a compass, clouds of gold, and further out the red of the poor, ravaged bodies of the menagerie’s occupants. Again, I wondered how this was possible within the souring and pushed that thought away. It did not matter, not now.
In my left hand I spun the stabsword I held again. It was a trick I had learned to amuse Vinwulf when he was young and had become an unconscious habit in the years since. I also knew it intimidated the weak-minded who thought it a show of skill—if so it made even the poorest village juggler a warrior of much renown.
Fureth’s warrior rolled his shoulder. He made my head ache. He was a mix of both gold and red, a roiling inferno of colour. A coldness settled upon me. I did not know what this man was, some strange mixture of the Landsmen’s fighting skills and arts in subduing magic? Was he linked to whatever made the menagerie? There was more going on here than I knew. The ice within hardened, was this a man meant to fight sorcerers? Did they know what I was?
No.
Fureth would not be skulking around in this temple to torture if that were so. He’d come with force and in public to humiliate Rufra with my arrest. What he said about Danfoth was probably true. But what was this man I faced? Why did he feel so—
Two strides and he was on me.
Fourth iteration: the Surprised Suitor. Jumping backwards out of the range of the sword that cut through the air, singing a sharp and wicked song. He comes on, not stopping, thick legs pumping, and I back up as the shield, white tree shining in the torchlight, comes at me. He fights in silence. Not a word, not a grunt. Before we are out of the light of the torches, he stops and retreats, slow steps until he is standing by Fureth again.
Curse him. If he had followed me into the darkness, with the lodestone lights of life burning about me, the advantage would have been mine.
“Afraid of the dark?”
He does not rise to the bait, does not reply with an insult like most warriors would. Simply stands next to Fureth and hides behind his shield.
“He will not speak, Girton Club-Foot,” said Fureth. “He is a silent warrior. His all is given over to the blade and the tree.”
I walked back into the light, stabswords at my side, and Fureth’s warrior planted his shield on the flags so as not to tire himself with its weight. The metal edging sparked in the dim light as it hit the stone. I had never heard of these “silent warriors” before, but I supposed if I was going to find a secret order of Landsmen I should not be surprised to find it here.
“Is this all your man will do?” said Vinwulf, incredulous. “Simply stand there?”
“Unless Girton engages him, yes. Part of his training is patience, and a fast warrior such as Girton always seeks the advantage by tiring a larger opponent.” Vinwulf nodded thoughtfully.
I came forward. The mirrored visor made the warrior behind it unreadable and he had placed the shield in such a way as to hide his feet. With the souring beneath me, the magic of the land was denied to me—not that I could use it in front of Landsmen—it left me devoid of my usual tricks and feeling strangely naked in front of this warrior, naked and confused. I came close, feinting at him, not going near enough to actually touch him, simply wanting to see his reaction.
Not once did he move. He may as well have been a rock.
I committed, not fully, not impatiently, only to see what he would do when really threatened. My blade came in and he raised the shield—so swift! The Conwy blade bounced off the shield and he followed up, forward, forward. Fourteenth iteration: the Carter’s Surprise. Tumbling to the left as his sword came round in its arc. Vaulting over it. There. The gap in his defence.
See.
Act.
A flash: my blade snaking out, the tip reaching for a point between his armour and helmet. Impact: sudden and massive. Pain: the ripping of flesh as the shield hits me and the tiny hooks dig in. The world tumbling and dancing as I slide over the floor until I hit the cage of one of the horrors of the menagerie. A thick pain as my back meets something solid, cracking at my spine. My hands convulse as if grasping to catch the air forced out of my lungs by the impact.
My blades?
The warrior coming at me, his sword high.
My blades are lost.
His caution gone, he comes on, silent, unnerving, and I am frozen like a praying lizard. For the count of one breath I think, “This is right. This is the Festival Lord’s prophecy being brought into being.” I ignored what they had told me. This is the price. The sword will come down. I will be ended and Rufra will have only one jester. His misfortune will be gone.
A sound.
The dance of metal over stone drawing my gaze. A blade on the floor, shining Conwy steel. I am filled with energy. Roll. Blade into hand. Landsman’s sword coming down. The mirrored face unreadable.
Twenty-fifth iteration: the Rising Tide. Using the momentum of the roll, springing off one hand, the stabsword extended for the groin of my attacker. My movement so sudden and unexpected he cannot stop, cannot defend. At the last moment I remember only to wound and bring the tip of the blade up. It carves through his armour, parting the wires that hold the enamel plates, entering his flesh between his ribs and going into his lung.
A stillness.
We stand. We watch. The silent warrior takes a step back and I withdraw my blade from him. He limps away. Drops the hooked shield first. Then his blade. His last few steps are faltering, his breath coming in great gasps as he comes to a stop by Fureth. His breathing is the only thing louder than my own as it fights its way in and out of my lungs. The air in the menagerie becomes thicker, hotter, filthier.
“He is wounded,” I said, pointing my blade at him.
“He is,” said Fureth. The silent warrior fell to his knees and Fureth motioned to two of the men with him. “Take him to the root of the tree. See he is cared for.” The men placed the warrior’s arms over their shoulders and carried the dying man away. “Maybe Danfoth is right, and you are the Chosen of Xus, Girton Club-Foot. I thought you were lost for sure when he hit you with the shield. I thought you had dropped both of your blades.” I did not answer. “I was sure my man was better than you.”
“I still stand. That decides who is better.” Behind me I heard Gamelon giggle. Vinwulf stood by Fureth and I could not fathom the look on his face. He seemed satisfied, not happy or sad, only satisfied, as if the violence had fed something within him.
“True,” said Fureth. I tried to slide my Conwy blade back into its scabbard but maybe I was more shaken than I would admit. Despite it being an almost automatic motion the blade would not fit. “There will be other times,” he said.
“I should take Girton back to his king,” said Gamelon, “unless you have another warrior you wish him to wound?”
“Not at the moment,” said Fureth. “I must think on what today means.”
“Vinwulf,” I said, “return with me to your father.”
“I have not seen all the menagerie holds,” he said. “Fureth has promised to—”
“I am Heartblade to your father and, as such, protector of you.” There was rage boiling within me at this boy who stepped around suffering so lightly and had nearly engineered my death. “You will return to the Low Tower with me. I am responsible for you and you have spent enough time with the Landsmen for now.” I could see a war on the boy’s face, a war between obeying me, as he had all his life, and throwing my words in my face.
“Go, Vinwulf,” said Fureth. “I have duties to attend to.” And he walked away into the gloom and the whimpering of the menagerie, leaving Vinwulf looking confused and young before he shook it off.
“Girton,” he said, “take me back to my father.” As he spoke I heard giggling in the gloom and Gamelon’s crowd of children and dwarves flooded out of the darkness to surround the seneschal.
“Go, Girton,” he said, “return to your king and tell him of our wonders. I am sure there is much I need to do also.”
“He will want to burn this,” I said, pointing at the cages with my sword. “You should do it now and save him the bother.”
“But, Girton,” said Gamelon, his face blank, “you presume your king will win the throne. If he does not then others may require entertainment. With Darsese gone there will be no more subjects for the menagerie. This is a unique collection.” He bowed to me and turned away, taking his crowd with him. As he passed the cages they flowed around his legs, cooing and squawking excitedly at the mewling inmates.
“Come, Vinwulf,” I said, “we should get out of here, it is a miserable place.”
“I find it fascinating.”
I ignored him, choosing instead to study my blade which still stubbornly refused to fit back into its scabbard. I expected to see some damage, but there was none. Wrapped around the top of the blade was a rag of material and tied within that was a single tooth.
Arketh, the torturer.
She must have been here and slid the blade across to me, but why? Was she really so desperate to have me under her tools that she would defy the Landsmen of Ceadoc? It seemed madness, but then again there was no doubting the woman was broken. Who knew what drove someone who found their pleasure in others’ pain?
“I enjoyed watching you fight, Girton,” said Vinwulf.
“I am not sure you will enjoy telling your father that you made me fight,” I snapped back. The boy simply shrugged his shoulders.
“He will be angry at first, but he will forgive me.” He looked around the menageries, a smile playing about his lips. “He always does. And anyway, he will not be here for ever.”