The Songs of Slaves (39 page)

Connor looked at A
rastan. The warrior was ready. He was
crowned with an iron helmet with cheek plates and nose guard
ornamented in gold,
crest
ed with a long, black horsetail
. H
is chain mail was light for raiding, not heavy battle, but it was well made and
fringed with ornamented leather. H
is belt and ba
ldric were hung with medals and
amulets to ward off danger. H
is shield was new and made
from willow boards and leather;
metal ridged and with a
sturdy iron boss – as
much weapon as defense. H
is
spatha
was long and sharp, the pattern-welded blade shining in the late day sun as he held it ready. But Connor knew what was mor
e to fear than all these armaments
was the man that wielded them. Was Arastan not born to be a warlord, the son of a great general? Had he not been trained to this end from infancy, taught to use his body and his mind in war, schooled in every manner of fighting and forged to forsake pain and fear to achieve victory? Had he not been fighting on the battlefield and in skirmishes since the first days of his passage from boyhood? Had he not probably killed scores of men? Connor was just
one more. And Connor saw only rage on the warrior’s face, and no sign of fear.

Connor took a deep breath, mastering his thoughts and pushed all this from his mind.

Arastan had a shield and armor. Connor would have to aim for his legs. But Arastan would know this. He would be ready for Connor’s leg shot and block with his shield, holding his sword ready to strike from over top of it, severing Connor’s spine through the neck or upper back. Connor took a second breath and pushed these thoughts too from his mind.

Lucia
stood before him
. If he failed, their anger at him would carry over to her. If he succeeded, how could he be sure that they would honor the agreement? He had to save her from this fate. She did not deserve this. No one did. He must succeed. He had sworn an oath to Montevarius, his enemy that had become his friend who lay dead behind him. And if he did not succeed then what would become of Dania? Taking his third breath, he pushed all of this from his mind.

“No mind,
” Titus had said, standing on the grassy
knoll where young Connor
sparred
him with a
stick. “Fight with passion, but a passion that comes of unification with body, mind, and spirit – not thought, either good or bad. Listen to your enemy. Feel his intention. Do not try to force your strategy, just act. Feel and move and act.
Spirit, soul, and body.”

Connor took a fourth breath and pushed even this from his mind. He drew
Archangel
and stepped into the field of combat.

Arastan was seething. His whole body seemed to expand and contract as he breathed. He held his shield forward with his left arm, covering much of his body. His right hand
gripped his sword poised
just along the upper ridge if the shield, pointed at Connor’s heart. He stared down the length of the blade as if aiming an arrow; his dark eyes clouded, h
is helmet adding to his demonic
appearance. Connor could see by the way he was standing that, regardless of how many civilians Arastan had murdered, that he was used to fighting in battle – in the shield wall – and so he would favor coming in using the shield to bash, and the sword to strike from behind it. Connor dropped in to his stance, knees well-bent and the weight on the balls of his feet. He must be like a spring. All of the weariness
of the last few days – the endless walking and running and riding – was gone. Connor could feel power coursing through him as he stood right leg forward, his
Archangel
i
n his right hand.

With a roar Arastan attacked: rushing forward with his shield towards Connor. Connor leapt to his right, clearing the shield, and swung his sword for Arastan’s neck. Arastan parried with his own sword from the other side of his body – something taking no small skill. Then Arastan spun, striking with his sword and following with the edge of his shield, intent on taking Connor’s head off. But Connor slipped the blows and dashed again to his right, bashing his shin into Arastan’s forward thigh as he went.

Arastan was right behind him, pursuing aggressively with the press of his shield and lunges with his sword. Connor faded away from him, avoiding as he could and parrying as he had to; until Arastan had him pushed back towards the far boundary. Connor took the opportunity of his enemy’s missed stroke to dash by him again, using Arastan’s own shield as a means of cover. As he passed by, Connor pivoted and
cut low. But Arastan was too quick, and moved his leg back in time. 

Connor could not allow Arastan to pursue him back across the fighting area unchecked. He attacked, feinting swiftly, looking for an opening. As Arastan struck back, Connor parried and riposted towards his enemy’s face. He struck only Arastan’s shield. Connor kept the pressure up, forcing Arastan to move and to follow his intent; but in truth there was little else he could do. If he swung his sword to
o
strongly into Arastan’s shield, the flexibility of the willow boards and leather would cause the sword to bounce back, and as he would try to regain control his enemy would strike. If he thrust too hard and met the shield, his point could become lodged. He had to bide his time and find his opening.

Arastan shouted
as he attacked, but neither the arc of his sword nor the weight of his shield could find Connor. But every time Connor blocked he felt the violence of his enemy shake him through the grip of his sword. All at once Connor dug his heal in, done giving ground, and pushed forward. Jamming his enemy’s blade, he hurled all of his mass into Arastan’s shield,
knocking him back. Connor followed as Arastan struggled to regain his balance, thrusting and making close cuts with his
spatha
. He drove
Archangel
towards Arastan’s face. They were fast, small movements, intended to confuse rather than kill; and the few times Connor’s blade touched Arastan’s body it met only the iron of the mail or the leather of the gauntlet.
But then, just as Arastan was about to recover from the backward momentum, Connor shot right and cut low.
Arastan moved at the same time, but could not completely escape.
Archangel
bit into the Goth’s left thigh
, spilling blood across the courtyard stones
.

The wound was not deep into the muscle, but it was bleeding freely. A safe distance away now, Arastan risked a glance. Enraged even further, he attacked Connor – intent now on ending this
duel
quickly, striking as if he meant to cleave Connor in two with a single blow. He closed the distance and began swinging his sword in up and down diagonal arcs, forgetting his shield, a continuous battle cry splitting the air.

But this was what Connor wanted. He
feinted
retreat by one step, but as soon as the ball of his foot touched the ground and Arastan’s wild blow had
missed
, then Connor rebounded
forward. He checked the descending blow with his
spatha
as he closed in tight against Arastan. Almost in the same motion, he brought his pommel across Arastan’s face and wrapped him tight with his left arm. The helmet took the pommel strike, but the force that did penetrate provided the distraction Connor needed to lock in with Arastan. Dropping his hips and driving forward, he hooked Arastan’s back leg and took him down hard.

Arastan’s helmeted head bounced off the ground as he hit. With the fluidity
born of talent, training, and
years o
f practice
, Connor instantly moved to secure his position. He had his enemy’s sword arm pinned by his chest. He moved to side mount and then instantly to top mount, grapevining Arastan’s bleeding leg with his own as he crushed the breath out of him. Arastan tried to bash him away with his shield, but Connor was far too close and the shield too big. In an instant the naked edge of
Archangel
was resting on the right j
ugular vein of the Gothic nobleman
.

“Yield,
” Connor hissed inches away from Arastan’s face.

“Fuck you!
” Arastan growled back.

“Yield!
”
Connor demanded again, increasing the pressure on the blade.

Ignoring the danger – or perhaps taking the calculated risk based on Connor’s clemency, Arastan bucked his hips up and pushed hard against Connor. Connor lost his control over Arastan’s center as he struggled to prevent him from getting use of his sword back. In the scramble, Arastan was able to
slip past Connor’s sword and
get to his knees facing
his enemy. Connor
hooked his
left
hand behind his
enemy’s
neck to keep them locked in together. Arastan shook his shield off. Knowing Connor was too close for swords to be effective Arastan drew his dagger with his left hand. Connor saw his last chance and threw himself into it. Dropping his own sword
to grab his foe
, he dove in wedging his right
leg against Arastan’s waist. Seamlessly, he kicked
his left leg over Arastan’s head
and hooked the back of the warrior’s neck
. He pushed down with all of his weight and momentum against
Arastan’s trapped body, dropping him
down with his back against the ground, pinned by Connor’s leg across his neck. Connor was now weaponless on the ground, but had both of his enemy’s arms trapped. He wrenched Arastan’s
spatha
from his grip and, bringing his knees
together and arching back, he snapped the elbow of his foe’s knife arm.

Arastan screamed in pain as Connor threw the knife away. Before he could recover any attempt to fight Connor easily transitioned back to a top mount and sunk his grip into the collar of Arastan’s chain mail. Pulling his grip tight, the unyielding iron dug into the blood vessels buried in Arastan’s neck. Arastan bared his teeth, grimacing as he fought back as best as he could. His face went from flushed to purple as the choke sunk deeper. Connor could see as he looked into his enemy’s bulging eyes that he would soon go unconscious. And then there would be no resistance to the death Connor would inflict – the death this thief, murderer, and rapist deserved. It was more than just vengeance for killing Lucius – for Connor had no doubt that it was Arastan who dealt the blow – or the attempted rape of
Lucia
; it was all the evil that he had done and that he would otherwise go on to do. The world was a bad enough place as it was. It was time to relieve her of this parasite.

But something restrained him once more. Whether it was the thought of having one more
Lorentius
on his bloody hands or just the restraining voice of prudence, he was not sure. But Connor loosened his grip.

As the blood flow returned to Arastan’s brain, cognition returned.
Connor’s hands were still in place, letting Arastan know that his death was still a squeeze away.

“Yield,
” Connor demanded.

Arastan nodded.

“Guaranty my safety and the safety of this girl; as well as the safety of all of
us here tonight. No retaliation,
” Connor demanded again so that all could hear him.

Arastan nodded, this time emphatically. Connor released him.

Connor rose to his feet, kicking Arastan’s weapons further away and grabbing
Archangel
.
He wiped the blade on his tunic
, and turned in a circle so that he could see all the men. The Goths – both those of Arastan and of
Valia – were all staring
at him. None seemed to have expected him to survive.

Then
Valia
strode forward, smiling broadly. He began to speak well-chosen words, commending the bravery and skill of both fighters; assuaging the hostilities of Arastan’s men and attempting to turn the focus in a direction of accord.

Connor heard none of what was said. His sword still in his hands, he moved towards
Lucia
. The two men who had held her were quick to back away as he neared them.
Lucia
gazed up at him, her green eyes intense in the fading light, her lips open in shock. Without a word he lifted her to her feet, took her by the arm and drew her quickly away. 

XVIII

             
Connor released his grip on
Lucia
’s arm as he pulled the door shut behind them. The girl collapsed on the floor, resting her head on the nearby upholstered bench. Connor listened to her quiet sobbing as he slid the bolt and then barricaded the door
with a heavy
trunk. He looked around the room before smirking bitterly with the realization that this must be
Lorentius
’
bedchamber. Clearly, God must be tr
ying to punish him
.