Ravenheart (31 page)

“He was a man of great foresight and courage,” said Call. “It was a sad loss when he died.”

“It is my belief that this plan of yours will work wonderfully,” said Lockley. “I would imagine that merely by hearing word of it the outlaws will melt away into the mountains, never to be seen again. I would further imagine that there will never be another attack on the tax convoys.”

“That is certainly to be hoped,” agreed Call, “though such an immediate response would be surprising.”

“Of course. I am sure it will take some time for word to reach all the outlaws. But I am sure it will happen soon enough now that we are in agreement.”

“Will you stay for supper, Colonel Lockley?”

“No, thank you. My wife is coming up to Black Mountain to join me, and I would like to be there to greet her. Perhaps another time?”

“You will always be welcome.”

“The Moidart has asked me to reiterate his invitation for you to travel to Eldacre. He is most interested in discussing your thoughts on the administration of the area.”

“That is most kind of him,” said Call. “It would be an honor to meet the lord. Sadly, my health has not been good in recent months, and I fear such a journey could prove hazardous. However, I shall write to him with my thanks.”

Colonel Lockley proved almost as good a prophet as Call Jace himself. Outlaw raids ceased within the month, and less than a year later the complement of soldiers had once more been reduced to two hundred.

Lockley had survived his post for another seven years before succumbing to a disease that stripped his body of flesh and left him dying in agony. Call Jace had attended the funeral. Lockley had been a career soldier, leaving little in the way of a legacy for his wife and two sons. Call Jace made them a gift of one hundred pounds in gold in memory of “a fine and honest soldier.”

There had been two replacements since that time, and neither had tried to alter the agreement.

Call Jace’s instincts and strategy had proved right, and the Rigante had prospered.

But now, as he watched his son fighting for his life, Call Jace knew fear. His instincts had been wrong this time. He had thought Bael would defeat the boy easily, since the southern Rigante had no experience in sword fighting. Call also knew that Bael would not try to kill him. He would seek to wound and scar him. In that way honor would be satisfied.

Not for a moment had Call considered the prospect of Bael being slain. His son was a fine swordsman. Yet the southerner fought like a veteran, his moves fast, his attacks ferocious. Both fighters had taken cuts, Bael to the upper arms and the boy to the left wrist and forearm. Kaelin also had been cut on his right cheek, and blood had drenched his shirt.

The swordsmen were fighting within a circle of watching Rigante warriors. More than two hundred had assembled for
the duel, and it had begun with great cheers for Bael. The fight had lasted more than ten minutes so far, and the crowd had become silent, engrossed by the skills on display.

Call glanced around for a sign of Chara. She was nowhere in sight. He looked back toward the great house and saw her at an upper window. Call felt his stomach tighten.

A few days earlier he had been a revered—aye, and feared—chieftain with a doting son and a loving daughter. Now his son faced death, his daughter had told him she hated him, and the boy from the south was on the verge of damaging fatally the Rigante reputation.

A cry of pain sounded, jerking Call from his thoughts. Bael had taken a stab wound to the left shoulder and had leapt back. Then he counterattacked. Kaelin Ring stumbled, blocked a slashing blow, and sent a riposte that Bael barely avoided.

Tiring now, the two fighters circled, looking for an opening.

Call would have given ten years of his life to be able to turn back time, to accept the apology offered to him the night before, during the feast, to have embraced the young Rigante and made him a part of his own clan. The apology had been gracefully offered, and Call had noted the approval on the faces of the men who heard it. What he had not noticed was the light of love in his daughter’s eyes as she gazed upon the young man. When Kaelin had concluded, he had turned to Bael. “My apologies also to you,” he had said. “I am relieved that you have suffered no lasting hurt, and it is my hope that as brothers of the Rigante, we can become friends. For it is the Varlish who should be our enemies, and it shames me that my recklessness endangered you.”

Bael had stood and bowed to Kaelin Ring. “As you say, we are both Rigante. The matter between us must be settled in the Rigante manner. I see you have no sword. Tomorrow I will see that several are presented to you. You may then choose a weapon that suits you, and we will meet in the warrior’s circle.”

Kaelin had stood silently for a moment. Call saw him glance at Chara. Then he returned his attention to Bael.

“I do not wish to fight you,” he said.

“You have no choice,” Bael told him.

“Then so be it,” responded the southerner. He swung to face Call Jace. “I had hoped to ask for your daughter’s hand this night. I fear it is now inappropriate. I doubt she will want to wed the man who kills her brother.”

With that he had left the table and walked from the long room.

The silence that followed was intense. Bael looked shocked and was staring at his father. Call turned to Chara.

“What in the seven hells was he talking about?” he demanded.

“I will hate you forever for this day,” she said. Then she, too, ran from the room.

The fight was entering its last stages now. One mistake would see a man fatally wounded or killed outright.

Call could hardly bear to watch.

At nineteen, Bael had been a fighting man of the Rigante for four years. In that time he had led one of his father’s outlaw bands and taken part in seven skirmishes with Beetlebacks. He had fought sword to sword eleven times and knew that he was as skillful as any man with the blade.

But this southerner was like no one else he had ever faced. His speed and aggression were inhuman. Only lack of experience had so far prevented him from finishing the fight. Bael parried and moved, saw his counterattacks brushed aside. Twice Bael had come close, once cutting the youngster’s left arm. A lightning thrust, partly parried, had opened a long cut on his cheek. Against that Bael was bleeding from several cuts and gashes to both arms, and a fierce slashing blow had split his tunic shirt, slashing the skin of his shoulder.

Bael’s sword arm was tiring now, as indeed was that of his opponent.

They circled warily.

Bael leapt forward. Their swords sang together, the sound of clashing blades ringing out. Bael hacked and thrust. Kaelin parried and countered. Then Kaelin launched an attack. Bael blocked, spun on his heel, and hit Kaelin in the face with the back of his left fist. The youngster stumbled, righted himself, and swiftly brought up his sword to parry what would have been a death thrust to the neck. His riposte was sudden. Bael threw himself to his right. Kaelin’s sword sliced the skin above his left hip, bouncing off the bone.

Now they circled again.

Bael was oblivious to the silent circle of watching warriors. He locked gazes with the young Rigante, seeing no fear in the other’s dark eyes. The left side of Kaelin’s face was blood-drenched from the cut to his cheek, his oiled doeskin shirt heavily stained with crimson.

Despite his initial outburst about spearing the young man’s heart, Bael had always intended merely to wound his opponent and then spare him. He had been impressed by Kaelin’s acceptance of the invitation and doubly impressed by the gracious apology he had offered at the feast.

He had believed it would be easy to defeat an untrained southerner. A swift lesson in swordplay, a few cuts for good measure, and the matter would be resolved.

Not so now.

This man, he knew, would fight on with any but the most mortal of wounds.

Their swords clashed again as Kaelin moved in. He left no opening for a counterattack, and Bael battled furiously, always on his back foot, to prevent Kaelin’s sword from breaching his defenses.

His arm was beginning to burn with fatigue, the sword seeming to have magically gained twice its weight. It was no different for the southerner, he noted, as they pulled away and circled once more.

“Finish him, Bael!” came a cry from the crowd. He recognized the voice of Wullis Swainham.

It created a discordant moment, and Bael could feel the unease in the warriors forming the circle.

Ignoring the cry, Bael tried to gather his strength for another assault. With luck he might be able to roll his blade and make a cut on Kaelin’s bicep, forcing him to drop the weapon. But Bael hesitated. Such a cut would surely cripple him for life!

You can no longer afford to think of such strategies, he warned himself.

One mistake and he will kill you.

Sweat dripped into his eyes. He wiped it away with his sleeve, smearing blood on his face.

In that moment Kaelin attacked. Bael’s sword came up, but he was off balance and barely deflected the sudden lunge. Kaelin’s sword thrust past his defenses, hammering into his bronze belt buckle. It did not penetrate, but the force of the blow sent Bael staggering back. Kaelin stumbled. Bael struck him in the head with the fist guard of his sword. The southerner fell heavily. Bael tried to follow in, but Kaelin rolled to his knees, then surged up to meet him.

Once more their swords crashed together.

Kaelin’s blade broke, shearing off just above the hilt.

A gasp went up from the crowd.

Defenseless now, Kaelin stood his ground. Bael glanced down at the shattered blade on the churned ground. Then he looked into Kaelin’s eyes. Even now there was no fear. Bael smiled. Kaelin was waiting for Bael to attack and would try to bury the jagged remains of his broken blade in Bael’s belly.

“Your apology is accepted,” he told the southerner. “Or would you prefer another blade?”

Before Kaelin Ring could answer the gathered warriors began to applaud and cheer. Call Jace moved into the circle. “You both fought well,” he said, relief evident in his voice. “Like true Rigante warriors. Let this be an end to it.”

Bael continued to watch the southerner. He had not relaxed, and Bael realized with sick horror that he was considering requesting another sword.

Then Chara pushed her way through the gathering, moving alongside Kaelin. “Let me see to your wounds,” she said, gently prizing the ruined sword from his hands. He glanced at her, his expression softening, but then he looked back at Bael. The Black Rigante warrior could see him struggling with his emotions. Chara took his arm. “Come,” she said, “we need to clean away that blood and seal the cuts.”

Call Jace stood close, his tension rising. Then the young man let out a sigh and relaxed. Without a word to Call or Bael he allowed himself to be led back to the great house.

Bael plunged his sword into the ground, relieved to be free of its weight. Warriors gathered around him. “Man, that was some fight,” said one. Others clapped him on the back. A great weariness descended on the young man.

Call Jace came alongside. “You fought well, my son,” he said. “I am proud of you. Now let us stanch those wounds.”

“In a moment, Father. I need to sit.” Together father and son moved away from the crowd and sat on the wall of the well. “How could he have been so skilled?” asked Bael.

“Grymauch,” answered Call Jace. “I should have thought of it. He trained him.”

Bael let out a soft curse. “Trained him too damned well.”

“I made a mistake, Son,” Call said, sadly. “It almost cost you your life.”

“Aye, but it didn’t. You were not wrong. Had we allowed him merely to apologize, word would have leaked out and others would have begun to question the tribute. As you have always said, fear is our most potent weapon. It has ended well, Father. He will go back scarred. People will hear of his fight. The Rigante will lose nothing by it.”

“Aye, it has ended well, but it might have been otherwise. Had you killed him, Grymauch would have come. He would have wanted to challenge me.”

“And you would have had to kill him,” said Bael. “I know that would have saddened you.”

Call laughed suddenly. “Kill Grymauch? I am a good swordsman and, though I say it myself, a bonny fighter. However,
in any battle anywhere, against anyone, I’d bet my fortune on Grymauch being the last man standing. No, Bael, had you killed the boy, I would have had Grymauch cut down from ambush on his way here. But you are right. It would have saddened me. Now let me fetch my needle and close those cuts.”

Kaelin sat silently by the window. Chara was standing beside him, gently wiping away the blood from the deep cut on his cheek. Taking a curved needle, she threaded it with thin black twine and leaned in close. He felt the first prick of the needle but did not wince. Closing his eyes, he saw again the fight: the bright, shimmering steel of the blades, the deadly dance within the circle of warriors. Move by move he replayed them all. Three times Bael had engineered openings for killing blows and had not taken any of them. In the passion of the fight Kaelin had believed Bael to be too slow to see the openings. Now he was not sure.

The long cut to his face required ten stitches, but at the end the blood had stopped flowing.

“It will not look so bad,” said Chara. “You will still be handsome.”

He opened his eyes. Her face was but inches from his own. It seemed to him then to be the most beautiful face he had ever seen. Her eyes were leaf green and flecked with gold. She was examining her handiwork. He leaned in to her, kissing her cheek. Chara pulled back. “This is not the time,” she said, her words stern. But she smiled as she said them. “Let us see to your arm.”

He sat and watched as she expertly drew the skin together, drawing in the stitches and tying them neatly before snipping them with a tiny pair of scissors. When she had finished, he slowly clenched his fist. The wound felt tight as the muscles of his forearm rippled under the stitches. “How do you feel?” she asked, dabbing away the last of the blood from his arm.

“Tired.”

She sat quietly for a moment. “I want to thank you for not killing Bael,” she said at last, not meeting his eyes.