The Western Wizard (69 page)

Garn had a ready answer. “Did you think I could resist your humiliation?”

“A coward never can,” Rathelon shot back. “Run when the lion’s free, then laugh when he’s bound hand and foot. Once, Garn, I had you pleading and groveling at my mercy. Had I killed you where you lay on your belly in the dirty, I would now rule Béarn.”

The words incited rage. For Garn, the world narrowed to Rathelon and himself, and the movements of Baran and the Erythanians became meaningless background. “Had you tried,
you
would lie dead and Sterrane would still rule Béarn.”

“You think you could best me in battle?”

“It’s not a matter that requires thought.”

Rathelon fairly leered. “Lucky for you, then, isn’t it? Clearly, thinking’s not a part of your repertoire.”

Garn felt his control slipping, and he reached for the mental restraint that came of Colbey’s training. “And you’re lucky you’re shackled. In Béarn, you caught me by surprise, weaponless and injured. Had we met on the
battlefield, in fair combat, I’d have severed your ugly head from the suffering body forced to carry it.”

“Is that a challenge?” Chain clanked as Rathelon shifted position.

Garn sensed restless movement to his left. Apparently, the Erythanians and Baran found a significance to the question that went beyond two enemies hurling insults. Hedging his bets, Garn gave a noncommittal response. “It could be.” He looked to Baran for guidance.

The captain met Garn’s gaze earnestly, without returning counsel. Whatever his knowledge or opinion, he did not feel in a position to offer it. The Erythanians studied the confrontation in uncomfortable silence.

Rathelon explained what the others had not. “In Erythane, single combat is considered the best means of solving disputes. As a prisoner, I have no right to call you out. But you’re a free man.” He grinned, displaying straight, white teeth. “If you’re not afraid, Garn, prove it. You would even have the right to choose time, place, and weapon. All you have to do is challenge.”

Joy tremored through Garn. He would relish the chance to pit his skill against Rathelon’s as well as to see the Béarnide dead, yet he did not forget that the decision was not wholly his to make. Again, he looked at Baran.

This time, the captain rose to the occasion. “It would be against all custom and propriety for a man in the service of Béarn to fight a prisoner he’s escorting for trial.”

Disappointment tainted Garn’s elation. He would not compromise a friend’s honor. But before he could refuse Rathelon, Baran continued.

“You’re not in my command, Garn. You’re a civilian. Do as you will.”

Garn smiled, certain that this had been Baran’s plan from the start, and he approved. The Béarnian captain could not have forced Garn to battle, nor even suggested such a thing. It had to come directly from Garn. Once he brought Rathelon and Garn face-to-face, the challenge became a foregone conclusion.

Garn turned his attention back to Rathelon. “Consider yourself called out.”

The Erythanians exchanged horrified glances.

Rathelon grinned. “Let’s make this interesting, shall
we? Would the silent, indecisive captain of Béarn’s guards be willing to set up a wager?” Rathelon turned his head to face Baran directly, brows arched in question.

Baran remained impassive. “Don’t taunt me, Rathelon. I’m not going to do anything stupid out of anger.”

Intent on the exchange, Garn missed the backhanded insult to his own methods.

Baran met Rathelon stare for stare. “What do you want?”

Blood fury pounded Garn’s ears, and excitement gripped him. The contest could not begin too soon for him.

“Simply this.” Hands bound, Rathelon tossed his head toward Baran, the movement sending a curl sliding into his eye. “I’ll write up a list with the names of every one of my cohorts: from outside the kingdom to Erythane, to Béarn, and even the few inside the castle.”

Baran stiffened, obviously shocked to learn of traitors in the castle proper. The corners of his mouth twitched, betraying an interest he fought to hide. No doubt, he wanted that list, and Garn could scarcely blame him. That handful of names could end the violence in Béarn forever.

Rathelon continued. “I’ll give the list to him.” He indicated the second Erythanian guard with his chin. “If Garn kills me . . .” He paused to snort at the possibility. “The names become your property. If I kill Garn, I get that list back, unread, and no mention of its existence leaves this room.” He glanced from guard to guard in turn, receiving a nod of confirmation from each. If Baran agreed to the terms, they would keep their silence. “And I get my freedom.”

Baran went rigid. Without reply, he turned away, paced the few steps to the exit, then whirled back to face Rathelon. “Why would you do that? How could you put your loyal followers at risk?”

Rathelon loosed a deep-throated laugh that reverberated disjointedly through the antechamber. “Because I believe my followers would want to stand or fall with me. Should the guards root them out, my men would probably die. But Sterrane, with his grand and magnificent innocence, will treat them with the same mercy as
he has the others.” He laughed again. “And it’s all moot, really, a way to make an agreement that satisfies you. I don’t believe for a moment that I might lose to this puny
wisule
who’s more brag than brains.” He indicated Garn with a brisk head gesture that also flung the hair from his eye.

Baran rolled his gaze to Garn. Though nearly a hand’s length shorter and little more than half Rathelon’s weight, Garn did get to choose the weapon. That might even the odds. “All right,” Baran said, though he still sounded reluctant. “You have a deal, Rathelon.” He waved at the Erythanians. “Release him.”

The guards exchanged wary glances. Neither moved to obey. Nhetorl cleared his throat. “Are you certain, sir? Would you like reinforcements first?”

Baran’s gaze swept back to Rathelon’s face. “Do you swear that you will do nothing but make the list and meet Garn’s challenge according to the laws of Erythane?”

Rathelon scowled at the need for oaths. “I do. Until such time as the contest has finished and I’m freed.”

“Or dead,” Garn finished with a growl.

Rathelon’s scowl deepened, and he did not bother to look at Garn. “That goes without saying. And so should my honor. Whatever designs I had on the throne, I never hid or distorted them. I didn’t break the terms of banishment, and my men and I worked within our best interpretation of the law.”

“Free him,” Baran said.

This time, the Erythanians reluctantly obeyed. They inserted keys into the shackle locks. The irons slid from Rathelon’s wrists, the chains falling in a clanging heap to the floor at his back. Nhetorl pulled the leg fetters free. Without waiting for Rathelon to move or explore his partial freedom, Baran shoved a sheet of parchment, ink, and a stylus into his hands.

Rathelon retired to a corner to write.

The Erythanians slid the chains and shackles to the prison exit, metal scraping and belling against the granite floor.

Garn approached Baran, his voice soft beneath the clamor. “Do you always carry writing implements on duty?”

“Not usually,” Baran returned. “But I spent a long time thinking about how to respond to the knight’s note. A
long
time. I considered everything, including resigning.” He drew Garn into the farthest corner from Rathelon. “That’s not the issue now. You—”

Garn interrupted. “Do you trust Rathelon to give you what he promised? What if he writes down the wrong names? Or none at all?”

“He’ll do it right.” Baran seemed certain. “He’s a bastard in every sense of the word, but an honest bastard nonetheless. For all his evil, he does live by a code of honor and by his word.”

“Finished,” Rathelon called out. He handed paper, ink, and stylus to Nhetorl. Unburdened, he headed toward the room’s center, attention fixed on Garn, a cruel smile playing over his lips. “It’s you and I, rodent. You made the challenge; by Erythanian law, you decide the weapon. Choose one that gives you an advantage if you want to live longer than a heartbeat.”

Garn felt his control sliding again. For an instant, the opponent he faced became a lithe, blond Renshai and the room Santagithi’s gladiator training quarters. He pictured the guards, standing nervously aside with crossbows leveled. Rache had always wielded balanced steel to Garn’s wooden, practice blade. Always, Garn had believed equal weapons would have assured the sword master’s death. Yet, in the end, it had been the simplest weapon of all, Garn’s bare hands, that had crippled Rache. “Advantage? I don’t need one. In fact, let’s fight weaponless, strength to strength. The best man, not the best sword, should win.”

“Garn.” Baran caught the ex-gladiator’s arm, but the warning came too late. The declaration was made, though the reasons behind it dispersed back to memory and obscurity.

Garn studied Rathelon’s gigantic form without comment. The Béarnide would surely prove his strongest enemy ever. Yet, he had fought men of all sizes in the pit and placed full faith in his own ability. “Would it even the fight more if I closed my eyes and let you hit me from behind?”

Rathelon did not grace the taunt with a reply. “You also get to select time and place.”

Garn decide he’d better consult Baran about this. The captain had gone back to pacing, this time in a line so short it seemed more like a circle. “I’m in no hurry. Take the time you need. As to place, this seems perfect. It’s controlled, and we don’t have to worry about spectators getting offended or underfoot.”

Rathelon stretched, muscles rippling. The Erythanians backed away.

Garn also preferred the lack of onlookers. He savored the clarity of mind that had eluded him until Colbey’s teachings. That control had allowed Rache to best Garn repeatedly on the practice floor. Now that power was his. “Here seems as good a place as any other. And now as good a time.”

The issue decided, Rathelon did not waste a moment. He sprang with the blood frenzy that Garn had overcome. Garn sidestepped too late. Rathelon crashed against him with a force that sent them both tumbling to the stone. Locked together, they bucked and kicked. They rolled, the guards jumping out of their path, and Garn managed to disentangle himself. Both men surged to their feet.

Rathelon swung with the incaution and fury of a cyclone. His fists thudded repeatedly against Garn’s skull, causing flashes of pain that burned like fire. Garn returned fewer blows of better aim. Rathelon clawed for Garn’s eyes. Garn offset the attack with an arm, and the Béarnide’s nails opened Garn’s forehead. Through a veil of blood, Garn jolted a fist into Rathelon’s face. Impact staggered the Béarnide.

Gasping for breath, Garn leaned against the wall, not bothering to press his advantage. Rathelon swayed momentarily. Suddenly, he threw himself at Garn. His superior weight bowled Garn over and bore him to the ground, the breath slammed from his lungs. Rathelon’s hands latched onto Garn’s throat.

Garn’s hands jerked instinctively to the thick wrists. He tightened his neck to a solid cord. Still, Rathelon’s fingers gouged into the mass of taut musculature, and Garn fought for breath. The imminence of death filled
his head, and the significance of the battle with it.
Baran’s counting on me.
Panic touched him, but he borrowed the strength from his mind to amplify his body’s power.
So much more than my life or death lies in the balance
. Both men held their grips. Suddenly, Garn shoved upward, and Rathelon’s wrists gave.

Rathelon sprang back with a howl of pain. His shoulder blades slammed against the slime-coated wall, turning his cry into a broken gasp. Garn gulped a haggard breath, then plunged onto his opponent. His knee crashed into Rathelon’s groin, and the Béarnide stumbled. Garn jolted the ball of his hand against Rathelon’s nose, driving bone into brain. The Béarnide’s eyes blazed, then went dull. He plummeted, dead before he hit the ground.

Bruised and battered, Garn swayed dizzily amidst Baran’s hazy, unrecognizable words. Then he fell into oblivion.

*  *  *

That night the moon was nearly full, so dawn brought little change to the brooding wasteland on which Colbey and his companions had camped. The change came from elsewhere. A proud, helmeted figure on a chestnut charger descended from the cliffs, with two men riding at his flank. They made no attempt to hide from the Renshai encampment, and none of the three carried a bow or arrows. Colbey supposed that this was the reason that the guards behind the cave, Rache and Tannin, had allowed the Northmen to ride, unhindered, toward the camp.

Colbey checked his own companions. Arduwyn and Shadimar watched the approaching figures carefully. Secodon crouched, soundless. Mitrian had awakened, her blue eyes open, though she made no movement that might reveal her alertness to the newcomers.

Colbey turned his attention back to the approaching Northmen. He recognized the one in the lead as Valr Kirin, knowing him by the solid set of his body and the smooth efficiency of his few movements. The Northmen pulled up their horses a polite distance from the camp that would require strong or loud voices for conversation. There, Valr Kirin slid the metal helm from his head, freeing a mane of silver-tinged, yellow hair. Blue eyes lay
widely set above a hawklike nose. His usually broad mouth was set in a grim slit. His gray linen shirt did not rest flat against his chest, and Colbey knew it covered light armor. His woolen britches and cloak bore intricate embroidery. Many emotions wafted from him, yet they came individually, pure and separate, with none of the confusion that usually accompanied such a vibrant mixture. Colbey found a hatred so thick and raw it seemed primal, as sanctioned by nature as a predator’s hunt for food. To Colbey, it typified the Northmen’s long-standing hatred for Renshai, a feud that had lost meaning generations past. Yet Valr Kirin’s hatred seemed far more specifically focused than that of the men flanking him. Clearly, the Renshai as a tribe no longer galled him. It was only Colbey.

Without the need to probe, Colbey read more. He found a calm and ordered fear that seemed more like hopeless necessity. With it came knowledge of impending violence, hemmed and defined by an honor so distinct it could never be circumvented. Colbey understood that Kirin would fight, but not until the rules and circumstances had become clearly defined. If the Northmen planned a trick or a trap, Valr Kirin was not a part of it. His morality would not allow it. Beneath it all, Colbey discovered a grim certainty without so much as a pinhole of doubt. Whatever Kirin’s cause, he followed it with a faith stronger than religion. To Colbey, this seemed the man’s most extraordinary talent as well as his biggest flaw. The old Renshai could not help admiring a man so willing to fight and die for his convictions, no matter how much they opposed Colbey’s.