The Forbidden Land (36 page)

The challenge caused a flurry of surprise on the battlements. There was a long pause, during which Leonard stood straight and tall, then finally there came a response. The Fealde herself stood upon the battlements, dressed in golden armour, carrying a great golden sword that caused Elfrida to cry out in anger and dismay, ‘That be my father’s sword! How dare she!’

The Fealde had a brusque, uncultivated voice, showing her origins as a cobbler’s daughter. With many coarse swear words and calls to the heavens, she accepted the challenge, crying contemptuously, ‘If this devilish
uile-bheist
be indeed the angel o’ death and wields the sword o’ God let
him
prove it so on the field o’ combat, in a fight to the very death!’

‘And so the trap is sprung,’ Lachlan said with satisfaction.

‘Let us just hope that ye are no’ the mouse,’ Iseult replied curtly.

It took a week of negotiations before the location of the ordeal by combat was agreed upon, and marshals appointed to ensure a fair fight, and weapons determined upon. The Fealde was understandably reluctant to open her gates to the Greycloaks, and it took much jeering and taunting before she agreed. Leonard the Canny tried to force her to have the battle in the public square before the Great Kirk, but the Fealde was too canny to agree to allowing a force of enemies within all three rings o’ Bride’s walls. So at last it was agreed to hold the ordeal in the massive public arena in the centre of the merchants’ quarter. Here there were tiers of stone seats where hundreds of the city folk could sit and watch, as well as grandstands where the principal parties could sit and still be well protected from any enemy attack.

‘I do no’ trust that cursehag as far as I could throw an elven cat,’ Duncan Ironfist said. ‘Are ye sure this is a wise manoeuvre, Your Highness?’

‘The Bright Soldiers are bound by a rigid code o’ chivalry and honour, Ironfist, ye ken that,’ Lachlan replied. ‘Any obvious act o’ treachery will be hissed upon by both the army and the common folk, I am sure o’ that. It is the hidden act o’ treachery I must guard against, the hidden blade in the tip o’ the boot, the poison-dipped dagger, the dust thrown in the eyes.’

‘Ye will have a care for yourself?’ Duncan said anxiously and Lachlan nodded, smacking him on his burly shoulder.

‘Aye, o’ course, auld friend. It is your job to guard Iseult and Elfrida, and to watch my back.’

At last the day arrived, a cool spring day with the sun veiled behind grey clouds and very little breeze. It was perfect fighting weather, and Lachlan smiled at Gwilym and thanked him, for he knew the sorcerer had a talent for weather and would have arranged it so Lachlan did not have to contend with heat, flies and the sun in his eyes.

‘I wish I could do more, my liege,’ Gwilym answered.

‘Ye could give me Eà’s blessing,’ Lachlan said grimly and Gwilym made the mark o’ Eà upon his brow, murmuring, ‘May Eà shine her bright face upon ye this day.’

Leonard the Canny had tried to persuade Lachlan to don the heavy metal armour of the Tìrsoilleirean but Lachlan had refused. He was not used to the extra weight or lack of mobility, and so wore only his battered leather cuirass over a light, closely woven chain-mail shirt that had been a gift to him by the silversmiths of Dùn Gorm. On his head he wore a light helmet with a broad brim and pierced visor, giving exceptional protection to his head, face and neck. He wore his kilt, as always, his legs protected by long leather boots. On his back was strapped his heavy claymore, with a short court sword and dagger at his belt, and his little
sgian dubh
, a narrow but deadly dagger, thrust in the boot. Over it all he wore a dark green surcoat with a white stag leaping across his breast.

Lachlan was not allowed to carry the Lodestar, since that was a magical weapon, forbidden under the rules of the trial by combat. Since it was death to anyone but a MacCuinn to touch it, it had been rolled in silk and locked securely in a chest which was left back in the army camp in the care of one of the Blue Guards. If Lachlan should fall this day, it was the guard’s sole responsibility to escape Tìrsoilleir and take the chest back to Lachlan’s five-year-old son, Donncan MacCuinn, who would then be Rìgh.

As the procession approached the gates into Bride, all felt the hairs on the back of their necks lift. Once they had passed through that long ill-lit tunnel, there was no retreat. If the Fealde broke her surety of safety, all could be cut to pieces in minutes.

Lachlan had tried to limit his retinue to the three hundred soldiers agreed upon by the Fealde and Leonard the Canny, but Iseult had refused to stay behind and so had Elfrida, rather to Iseult’s surprise.

‘Ye risk your life on my behalf,’ Elfrida had said. ‘I must go.’

The League of the Healing Hand had also insisted on accompanying Lachlan’s retinue, though Lachlan had at first been incredulous and then angry. But as Finn said, ‘As if we want to miss the battle o’ the century! I’d rather eat roasted rats than no’ be there. Besides, if there is treachery, happen we’ll be able to help.’

Given how helpful the League of the Healing Hand had been in the past, Lachlan had protested no longer, though their presence only added to the heavy weight he carried. Now that it was time to face the Fealde’s champion, Lachlan was conscious of a sick, cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. No sign of it showed on his face, though, which was set as pale and cold as carved marble.

As he strode through the gateway into the public arena, there was a great uproar from the stands, much hissing and cries of ‘demon’ and ‘heretic’. In the grandstand, Elfrida clenched her hands together, closing her eyes and muttering a prayer under her breath. Iseult sat still and proud, dressed as a banrìgh in heavy white damask all edged and scalloped with gold. Her red hair was plaited into a thick heavy braid that hung down her shoulder, reaching past her waist. Although none there knew it, her dress had been designed to be loosened with a single tie so that, if need be, Iseult could discard her ornate gown and be ready to fight at a moment’s notice.

The Fealde’s champion strode out to meet Lachlan and they bowed to each other and then to the two grandstands at opposite ends of the stadium. The champion was a tall heavy figure, clad all in silver armour, with a long white surcoat emblazoned with a scarlet fitchè cross. All that could be seen of her was a pair of glacial-grey eyes, glaring from the slit of her helmet. Her armour had been forged in order to proclaim her status as a berhtilde, having been shaped to fit only one large breast, the left side being fashioned into a hollow. She too carried a heavy, two-handled sword, with her dagger and court sword hanging at her waist.

There was a long flourish of trumpets and then both Lachlan and the berhtilde each in turn swore that their case was just and their testimony true, and that they carried no weapons other than those decided upon by the marshals and no magical aids.

‘Then let the ordeal by combat begin!’ the Fealde declared in her coarse, angry voice. Again she wore the suit of golden armour, her face concealed behind the visor of her ornate helmet, her gauntlets resting on the hilt of the sacred golden sword.

At first the two combatants tested each other’s strength and looked for their weaknesses. Claymores were heavy, double-bladed weapons, designed for hacking rather than thrusting. Since both hands were engaged, there was no opportunity to use the dagger to feint or parry. Occasionally one or the other was able to kick or elbow their opponent, but otherwise there was only the clash of sword against sword, the constant circling and rushing forward, sword swinging, the dance back out of reach, the sudden duck or roll when the enemy drew too close.

Although Lachlan was a shade taller and heavier, his upper body strongly developed as a result of his wings, it was clear the berhtilde was his master at the art of swordplay. She had many a tricky swing or parry stroke that came close to disarming Lachlan on a number of occasions, and she fought relentlessly, without anger or fear. Once the blade of her sword sliced along Lachlan’s arm, tearing the chain mail so that blood came welling up, making the ground beneath his feet slippery. Many in the Rìgh’s box sucked their breath in sharply but Iseult sat as still and poised as ever, her hands clasped loosely in her lap.

The sting of the wound seemed to excite Lachlan to action. He attacked the berhtilde in a wild flurry of blows, causing her to retreat back across the stadium. Her movements here were ponderous. It was clear to all watching that her armour weighed her down, made her slow to respond to Lachlan’s lithe and graceful movements. Suddenly she spun on one foot, her sword held low and close to her body. It seemed Lachlan would be sliced in half, so swift and powerful was her movement, but he spread his wings and leapt high into the air, the sword passing below his boots. Then one foot suddenly lashed out, kicking the berhtilde hard in the face. She fell with a crash of armour. Lachlan landed lightly, bringing his sword down in one quick, hard blow. It smashed into her chest, denting the concave of her left breast but not piercing it. She cried aloud in pain, but knocked Lachlan’s sword away with her gauntlet, bringing her own sword up in a rather wild swipe. Lachlan leapt back, and she scrambled to her feet, one hand to her chest, her breath coming harshly.

For a long time they fought with neither regaining the upper hand. Lachlan’s face could be seen to gleam with sweat behind his visor, and occasionally the berhtilde paused for breath, leaning on her sword instead of pressing the attack. There were many cries and moans from the crowd, all caught up in the drama of this fight to the death between two combatants so evenly matched in strength and skill.

Then the berhtilde seemed to decide the battle must be finished. Whether she was growing tired in her heavy armour, or whether she felt she now knew all Lachlan’s weaknesses was impossible to tell, but she attacked with blow after heavy blow, forcing Lachlan ever further back. Soon the wall was pressing up behind him and he had nowhere else to go.

He glanced behind him, then suddenly set his sword in the dust and used the wall behind him as a springboard, somersaulting high into the air. This was a Scarred Warrior trick and had never been seen before by the Tìrsoilleirean audience, who all cried aloud in amazement. Lachlan lifted his sword as he somersaulted high over the berhtilde’s head, smashing her on the crown of her helmet with the massive hilt of his claymore. As he landed behind her, she rotated drunkenly to face him, overbalanced and fell with a clash of steel. Lachlan leapt forward and drove his sword down between the join of her breastplate and guardbrace, deep into her shoulder. She screamed and struggled to rise, but she was pinned there, the sword having passed through her body and into the ground below. With her other hand she seized the hilt of Lachlan’s sword and slowly, painfully, dragged it out. Using the sword as a crutch she staggered to her feet, and stood there, facing Lachlan, leaning on his sword, her own sword held out in defence. Slowly she straightened, then turned and flung Lachlan’s sword out of the arena.

‘She be as strong as a horse,’ Duncan Ironfist hissed in amazement. ‘That should’ve ended it, that blow.’

‘But now Lachlan be without his sword,’ Finn said, gripping her hands together.

The Rìgh had drawn his court sword and his dagger, both much shorter and lighter than the great broadswords. She swiped at him with her sword, and he ducked under it, came up close to her body and stabbed at her visor with his dagger. It glanced off the edge of the metal, scoring it deeply but failing to penetrate. So he bashed at her injured shoulder with the hilt of his sword and she staggered back, dropping her sword. Lachlan kicked it aside, lunging at her with the court sword and tearing the chain mail at the join of her thigh and groin. She seized his arm and threw him over her shoulder and to the ground. Before Lachlan had a chance to regain his feet, she was stabbing down with her short sword. The Rìgh rolled first one way, then the other, then came to his feet with a nimble backflip, spinning on one foot and kicking out with the other. His boot took her full in the chest, and she stumbled backwards, lost her balance and fell heavily. For a moment her arms and legs moved weakly, like an overturned beetle trying to regain its feet. In that instant, Lachlan bent and dragged her helmet free, seeing his opponent’s face for the first time.

She was only young, with a square, brutish face that stared up at Lachlan without expression as he knelt upon her chest, his blade against her throat. ‘Do ye ask for quarter?’

The berhtilde did not reply. Her glacial-grey gaze did not waver. Lachlan leant a little on the sword. Blood ran up its edges. Still she did not speak. With a sigh Lachlan stepped back, lifting his sword. She did not hesitate, scrambling to her feet as quickly as her heavy armour would allow her and attacking him ferociously with sword and dagger.

‘The chivalrous fool,’ Duncan Ironfist said affectionately.

The clash of steel against steel filled the arena. The short sword was a different weapon entirely than the great claymore. It was much lighter, with a sharp point made for thrusting and edges designed for parrying, rather than slashing. Because wielding it involved only one hand, the other could be used to feint and stab with the dagger, to jab or throttle or throw dust or poke at undefended eyes. In the next few frantic minutes, both combatants took full advantage of this freedom. It was soon clear, however, that here Lachlan had the advantage. Aided by his wings, he was able to leap and sidestep nimbly. He had been trained to fight by a Scarred Warrior. Swords were not weapons used on the Spine of the World; fists and feet and elbows and the side of the hand were employed as deadly weapons, and so Lachlan had many tricks and manoeuvres the berhtilde was not familiar with. In addition, she was weary and sorely wounded. Soon it was clear she was failing. Then Lachlan suddenly lunged forward, his sword at shoulder length. Cleanly it pierced the berhtilde’s unprotected throat, emerging on the far side smeared and bloody. She gave a horrible little gurgle and fell back, her weapons falling from nerveless fingers. Lachlan was dragged down by her weight, falling on one knee beside her body.