Legacy of Steel

16

Sara found Fewmet eventually just outside one of the taverns not far from the ramshackle huts of the little Aghar colony and the mountainous city dump. The tavern's location was not auspicious for human business, but draconians and ogres did not seem to mind the constant low-level stench or the occasional ox-stunning odor that drifted over from the dump when the wind was right.

The stumpy gully dwarf was sitting on a wooden sidewalk, humming softly to himself and gnawing on a bone. When he saw Sara, he bobbed his head and offered her a shy smile, at the same time stuffing his bone out of sight in the rags of his shirt.

She squatted down beside him. "I've been looking for you," she said lightly.

He gazed at her in amazement. "Was I lost?"

"No," she chuckled. "I just didn't know where to find you."

He suddenly clutched his bone and glared at her suspiciously. "Why you look for Fewmet? No one look for gully dwarf."

"I just wanted to thank you for helping me the other night. That was very brave of you."

Fewmet's wrinkled face beamed. "Knight woman nice. Should not feed to horaxes."

Sara laughed. "No, I was very glad to get out of there."

The gully dwarf hunkered down and glanced both ways before he said, "I hear you fight mean knight who kicks gully dwarves."

"News certainly travels fast around here," Sara observed. "Yes, I challenged him."

"Good. I no like. You remember this: Knight have bad knee. 1 see sometimes. He go to many taverns in city."

Sara's brow drew together in a frown. "I've never noticed that Massard had a limp."

"Not always. He try to walk straight. But knee is weak. Remember when you fight." He wagged a filthy finger at her.

Sara thoughtfully tucked that piece of information away. She expected Massard would choose swords for weapons, which meant she would have little opportunity to exploit the gully dwarf's information. But one never knew when such a tidbit could come in handy.

Ignoring the nasty looks and rude remarks of the draconian customers, she went into the tavern and ordered a bowl of stew, a wedge of cheese, and a honey cake. The barman, when he heard what she was going to do with the food, insisted she pay for the utensils, too. Sara shrugged and paid, then carried the food outside to the gully dwarf. The barman flatly refused to let him eat inside.

Fewmet was delighted. He never got to eat an entire hot meal all by himself. Sara stayed with him, her sword close to her hand, just to ensure no one tried to interfere with his repast. Other gully dwarves gathered close by to watch enviously, but they dared not bother him while the quiet woman stayed beside him.

He shoveled in his food with both hands, licked every utensil clean, and ate the honey cake in three crumbly bites. Watching him, Sara guessed he could probably get a second meal just by combing his beard. She presented the bowl and plate to him as a gift and solemnly shook his hand.

When she left, he was busy stuffing his new dishes into his bag and humming the same tuneless song.

The appointed day of the duel came with the first clear sky Neraka had seen in weeks. The sun climbed into a flawless sky, and for the first time in days, the cold eased to a bearable cool. By noon, the weather was positively balmy for Neraka in late winter, which brought the crowds to the Arena of Death in droves.

Challenges among the knights had been rare lately due to the scarcity of officers, so a duel between two of the older knights was cause for much anticipation. The fact that one was a man and the other was a woman just made it more interesting. Betting grew heavy the morning of the duel, and by noon, Massard was favored two-to-one.

In the tents of the Red Quarter, the members of the Sixth Talon hovered around their junior officer until Sara wanted to scream. She appreciated their solicitous efforts to feed her and advise her and prepare her for battle, but all she really wanted was a little distance and some quiet to settle her nervousness. Instead, Derrick insisted he should polish and sharpen her sword. Saunder had found a mail shirt that fit her and was repairing a broken link. Marika fussed over her tea and toasted bread; Kelena polished her boots, and Jacson paced back and forth, demonstrating defensive moves she already knew.

Sara tried to smile and be gracious, but it became so difficult, she finally took her food and her weapons into her tent and firmly fastened the flap shut behind her. The five knights-in-training exchanged mournful glances and counted the minutes until noon.

In her tent, Sara drank a cup of her tonic for headaches and lay down on her cot to rest her head.

Knight Officer Massard appeared shortly thereafter, blowing in like a thunderstorm. He stamped around the tents and shouted, "On your feet, you yellow-backed spawn of gully dwarves. You have work to do." He sneered as they jumped to attention. "Yaufre, put that thing down. Conby won't be needing it. Put out that fire! Clean up this mess! What do you think this is, a latrine?"

Sara, still in her tent, decided wisely to stay out of sight. Sometimes discretion was the better part of valor. From his overly loud voice and ugly behavior, she got the impression he was trying to lure her out into the open. But this was neither the time nor the place to pick a fight with Massard.

Massard charged around, snapped orders like bolts of lightning, and punctuated his demands with furious insults. When he was satisfied at last with the order of the camp, he lined the recruits up before his tent.

"Now that you're finished putting this dump in order," he growled, relishing every word, "you will report to Knight Officer Darcan at the stables. He has some muck for you to rake."

"No! We can't-" Jacson inadvertently cried.

Massard took one step forward to stand before the young squire. His eyes narrowed to mere slits, and before anyone could move, he viciously backhanded the youth across the mouth.

The blow sent Jacson reeling. Catlike, he caught himself before he stumbled into the fire ring, and he crouched, his hand reaching for his dagger.

"Jacson, no!" Derrick hissed. The bigger youth grabbed his friend's arms and wrestled him back into line.

Massard's black eyes glittered. "Wise," he said, his voice full of venom. "Now, move!"

They knew all the pleading in the world would not help. For some reason, Massard did not want them to accompany Sara to the duel, and because of his rank, they couldn't gainsay him. They shifted in their places. Jacson's face glowed red with fury, and Marika hunched her shoulders and clenched her fists as if ready to strike Massard's sneering face.

Derrick forced his hand to salute his talon leader. "Yes, sir," he said stiffly. He turned to the others and drooped his right eye in a slow wink. His gesture acted as a balm to the others. They understood and allowed themselves to relax. Still angry but resigned, they followed Derrick away from the tents and off to the western edge of the tent ring, where a large complex of paddocks and stables housed the knighthood's horses.

Massard watched them go. Worthless, the lot of them, he thought. He had never seen such a group of weak, spineless, whining children in his life. They were worse than goblins. Well, as soon as he dealt with that conniving, boot-licking tramp, he'd beat some backbone into those brats or kill them trying.

He wrenched off his sword belt and stomped to his tent. Flinging open the flap, he tossed his sword on the rumpled blankets of his cot and was about to leave when something caught his eye-a bottle, sitting on the stool near his bed. A familiar clay bottle, with the wax-sealed cork and the maker's mark of his favorite dwarf spirits. His mouth went dry. He should not drink, not this close to a duel in which he would have to fight for his rank and reputation. He realized the drink slowed his reflexes and did strange things to his vision.

Yet again, why should he worry? The woman he was facing was no knight. She hadn't trained for twenty years or fought with Lord Ariakan during that glorious summer the Knights of Takhisis conquered Ansalon. True, she could handle a sword, but he was certain she would not be able to survive what he had in mind.

His hand reached for the bottle. He pulled the cork and inhaled the earthy fumes with a sigh of pleasure. Without bothering to wonder why a bottle of dwarven spirits had been left in his tent, he tipped the bottle up and let the fiery liquid burn a trail to his stomach.

Sara woke with a start. A noise, a light scratching noise that sounded like nails on fabric, disturbed her. She sat up, dazed, and stared at the dim yellowish light that leaked through the tent walls. She had been doing this all too often since Red Eric's brigands cracked her head. Every time she sat or lay down, she fell asleep.

The scratching came again, louder this time, and the tent Material jiggled under the pressure. Someone was at the door.

Sara groggily rose and opened the flap. A goblin face full of obsequious goodwill peered up at her. She recognized General Abrena's messenger in his filthy tunic and bits of purloined armor.

Her eyes flew to the sky to find the sun. "Oh, no! What time is it?" she cried.

The goblin peered upward, too, wondering what the fuss was about. "It's midday. High sun. General sent me to fetch you. She says almost time."

Rubbing her neck, Sara tried to calm down. She tied her hair back out of her way, then she picked up her new sword and her dagger and strapped them on. If Massard chose any other weapon, the general would supply one. She had no armor to wear-she'd never had more than the basic pieces she had worn during training years ago, and those were long gone-so she slipped on the heavy chain mail Saunder gave her. It was better than nothing.

She strode outside into the bright sunshine, the goblin at her heels. The camp seemed strangely empty without the squires. Now that the time had come to leave, she missed their noisy support. It was just like Massard's vindictive pettiness to send them to some onerous task instead of letting them witness the duel.

"Has Knight Officer Massard already left?" she asked.

The goblin shrugged his knobby shoulders. "Not in tent. Must have."

"Good." Sara pulled out her new thong decorated with dragon-scale disks. She had made a new one to replace the missing one the same day she woke from her long sleep.

"You won't need that. I'm right here."

Sara twisted around at the sound of the deep voice and saw Cobalt's horned head lying lazily on the ground beside her tent. The rest of the large dragon lifted himself off the ground from behind her tent and ambled around beside her. In the noon sun, his deep blue scales glowed with a richness all their own.

The goblin yelped and hid behind Sara's legs.

"Would you like a ride to the arena?" Sara asked goblin in an effort to be polite.

"No," said Cobalt and the goblin in one voice. The goblin scurried off before she could make any more dreadful suggestions.

Cobalt waited while Sara quickly saddled him. He extended his leg so she could climb up to his back, and as soon as she was settled in the saddle, he thrust off with his powerful hind legs into the cool blue sky.

Sara was grateful that he did not question the wisdom of her challenge. All she wanted now was a few minutes of quiet. She ran her hand down his long sapphire neck, enjoying the smoothness of his scales beneath her palm. She could feel his life-force surge beneath the protective scales in a hidden current of power and energy. She was thankful more than she could say that he freely gave her his support and companionship.

The dragon winged over Neraka, past the main gate, the Queen's Way, and the temple ruin to the southeastern side of the city, where the Arena of Death sat just to the south of the ex-lord mayor's playground.

The arena, a remnant of Queen Takhisis's days in the city, was an oval-shaped coliseum used for various bloody entertainments and killing sports. Its attractions were quite popular with Neraka's residents and quite lucrative for officials, who charged a few coppers for admission, sold beverages and food, and ran a betting ring. Consequently the lord mayor, and now General Abrena, made a habit of presenting events whenever possible. A duel between two officers wasn't quite as exciting as watching a mass slaughter of captives by hungry tigers, but there would be enough interest to draw a crowd. Especially since the news of Sara's brush with the horaxes in the ruin had spread through the city.

Cobalt circled around to overfly the arena, giving his rider a chance to see it from above. It was no wonder there was talk of repairing the place. It was a wreck. Too many years had passed, too much blood had been spilled in the sands, too many overenthusiastic fans had trampled over the seats, hacked at the stone with their weapons, or broken every awning and railing in sight.

This day, a fair-sized crowd gathered in the dilapidated tiers of seats and cheered when the large blue spread his wings wide and coasted to the sand-covered door of the arena.

General Abrena, several of her commanding officers from the Order of the Lily, and the Nightlord from the Order of the Skull walked across the sand to meet Sara. Lord Knight Cadrel carried the scepter of the adjudicator, the knighthood's judge in matters of contention.

Sara had seen duels often enough to know the procedure. She slid down from Cobalt's back, formally saluted the officers, and bowed to the Nightlord in his gray robes. "May Queen Takhisis walk with me this day and guide my efforts in her service."

"Fight with honor, Knight Warrior," replied the priest.

Governor-General Abrena frowned over Sara's mail shirt. "You wear no armor," she observed critically.

Sara stood straighter under the heavy mail. "My armor was lost, General. I have not been able to replace it yet."

"And yet you willingly fight a duel in simple mail?" She shook her head at the stupidity of certain knights. "I would prefer to keep you alive, Conby. Knight Officer Massard has not appeared yet; we have time to find you something better than that."

Cobalt suddenly growled deep in his throat. "He comes."

Another ragged cheer rose from the crowd as a lone figure entered the arena at the far end and swaggered across the open space to the group of officers. He tripped once but regained his balance and came to a halt in front of Governor-General Abrena. Knight Officer Massard saluted rather crookedly.

Mirielle's eyes narrowed, and her full lips tightened in disapproval. Her nose wrinkled suspiciously.

Massard suddenly belched. The reek of spirits on his clothes and breath reached out to them all. The adjudicator rolled his eyes. The others stifled mingled sounds of disgust and amusement.

"Knight Officer," snapped the general, giving him a withering glare, "you are a disgrace. Where is your pride? In the bottom of some latrine? How dare you show up here to fight a duel of honor in this condition?"

Massard planted his fists on his hips. "What difference does it make?" he bellowed belligerently. "I can fight her on one leg."

"Do you wish to let the challenge stand?" the adjudicator said in a hard voice.

"Blast it, yes! What'd ya think I came here for?"

"What weapon do you choose?"

"None." Massard turned his black gaze on Sara. "I'm gonna kill her with my bare hands."

Shocked, the knights began talking among themselves in harsh whispers. Bare-knuckled fighting was not considered an honorable alternative in duels. That sort of brawling was usually relegated to the lowest ranks of mercenaries and draconians.

Sara leaned back against Cobalt and tried to mask her emotions-. The idea of fighting a big hulk like Massard with nothing but her fists scared her silly. At least with a sword, she would have a chance to wear him down and wounded him This way she wouldn't have a hope.

General Abrena obviously had the same thoughts, for she turned her swift glance to Sara and said, "No. Weapons must be chosen. I will not allow the duel for rank to be turned into a street fight."

Massard curled his lip. "Daggers, then. And that dragon must leave. I don't want to be scorched by him when she dies."

"I wouldn't worry about the dragon if I were you," Sara said caustically. "I'd worry about breathing near open flames. Your breath alone could kill an ogre."

Mirielle held up her hand to stem the gathering tide of insults"Daggers are acceptable. Knight Warrior Conby, do you want armor?"

Sara noticed that Massard wore his usual tunic and padded leather vest. "My opponent is not wearing any. I will abide as I am."

The adjudicator held out his scepter for the crowd to see and shouted for quiet. As soon the audience settled down enough to hear, he continued. "The defender has chosen daggers. So be it. The fight is to the death. Let the dragon withdraw to the limits of the arena."

Whistles and cheers met his announcement. The knights withdrew to the walled seats above the arena floor.

Cobalt gently nudged Sara's arm. "He may be drunk, but he is strong and wily. Be careful," he warned in a soft hiss. She patted his neck in reply, then hooked her sheathed sword to the saddle and lovingly slapped his leg. He leapt up into the stands, crushing a few more wooden rails as he went, and took a precarious perch on the uppermost level of the coliseum, where he could see Sara but still be considered at the "limits of the arena."

All too quickly the expanse of the arena was empty except for Massard and Sara. A hush of anticipation settled over the crowd.

The adjudicator stood on a platform above the sands and shouted, "You may begin."

Massard pulled his lips back in a sneer. Deliberately he drew his dagger and threw it into the sand. "I want to feel your death with my bare hands," he grunted to Sara.

Sara drew her own dagger, letting its blade shine in the sunlight. "You'll have to catch me first, you drunken lout," she taunted.

Like a bull, Massard roared in anger and charged forward. But the spirits were working deeper into his system, and their effects began to interfere with his vision. Suddenly he saw two identical women laughing at him. Before he could clasp either one of them, they ducked out of his grasp and ran around behind him. He staggered, caught himself before he fell on his face, and turned clumsily.

Sara looked into his eyes and recognized that unfocused look. "Massard, you're a fool!" she yelled. "Mush-rooms are smarter than you. Ogres are better-looking. You couldn't fight a blind kender in a barrel."

The officer charged her again, and once more she slipped out of his reach. She hoped she could exhaust him by taunting him into these thoughtless rushes, As long he couldn't see her very well, she could easily stay out of his reach. She knew well he was so strong and heavy, he could kill her if he were to catch her.

They continued this deadly dance back and forth around the arena for some time, until Massard's face was flaming red and bathed in sweat. He breathed hard whenever he stopped, and his hands clenched at his sides.

Sara was tiring, too. The chain mail felt like a shirt of lead on her chest and shoulders and was becoming very hot. Her bruised ankle ached from the constant turning and twisting; her head had begun to pound.

Massard came at her again, his head lowered, his powerful legs thrusting his weight forward to crush her. This time she waited a fraction of a second longer, and as he bore down on her, she slashed outward with her dagger. The blades slid along his leather vest and skittered into the flesh of his upper arm. Blood had been drawn. Sara dropped and rolled away.

The crowd had grown restless during the charge-and-dodge game. Now they roared their approval and stamped their feet for more action.

Massard ignored the wound. It was only superficial, a mere scratch to him. He shook his head and mopped his face with his tunic sleeve. His vision seemed better; for the moment, he could see only one image of Sara.

He sprang for her again, but this time he slowed down and controlled his rush enough to see which direction she leapt away. As she dodged, he pivoted in the same direction and caught her by surprise. His fist swung up and slammed into her midriff. She staggered, wheezing with pain.

Massard punched her again and felt with tremendous satisfaction his fist connect with her cheek. The crowd roared with delight.

The impact knocked Sara off her feet. She fell flat on her back, while her head rang and her face felt as if something had shattered it. The flesh around her eye began to swell. Gasping for breath, she looked up and saw Massard take a flying leap to land on top of her. Desperately she wrenched her body sideways just as he crashed to the sand where she had lain. She managed to scramble upright and put some distance between herself and the knight.

Massard climbed slowly to his feet. Blood trickled down his arm and sand covered his clothes. "Almost," he said with a sneer. "Just lie down-you're good at that. Lie down and I'll kill you quickly."

Sara laughed in spite of the pain in her face. "At least I'm good at something. You never were, Massard. Isn't that why Lord Ariakan sent you away? Because you couldn't do anything worth an ogre's spit? Isn't that why you drink yourself into a stupor every day?" She snorted in contempt and finished with, "How did you ever get to be a knight?"

Massard's rage roared in his ears and his blood burned with fury. He lunged forward to catch her again, but this time, instead of trying to punch her in passing, he grabbed for her clothing so he could hold her down. His right hand closed on her upper wrist, and his left fingers caught a fistful of her chain mail. He forced her wrist back until she cried out in pain and dropped the dagger to the sand, then he dragged her close and pressed his lips to her mouth.

The audience in the seats laughed and cheered him on.

Sara spat in his face. She struggled wildly, trying to break his grip. Realizing that her panicked struggles got her nowhere, she forced her fear back and tried to think-quickly! Her son, Steel, had spent hours teaching her methods of self-defense, but she hadn't practiced them in so long, she had forgotten much of what she had learned. Leverage was everything, he used to say to her. Leverage… sparks of memory fired in her mind. Images became clearer. Phrases and words came back to her.

Another little snippet of information swam back into clarity. The gully dwarf had said Massard had a bad knee. It was too bad he hadn't told her which one.

These thoughts passed rapidly through her mind, and in the time it took for Massard to tighten his grip on her chain mail, let go of her wrist, and pull back his fist to punch her in the mouth, she decided what to do next.

Immediately she collapsed her knees and dropped to a crouch. Her move took him by surprise and forced his balance forward over his toes. Sara abruptly straightened her legs, driving her shoulder into his stomach. She grabbed his arm and, using his forward balance to assist her, deftly flipped him over her back. The knight crashed to the ground and lay gasping in the sand.

"Kill him!" The words echoed from one side of the arena to the other. "Kill him!"

Sara groped in the sand for her knife. Massard rolled over and staggered up. He pulled a second knife, a black stiletto, from his boot and reared back to stab her. Shifting her weight to her arms, Sara lashed out with a booted foot at Massard's left knee, the one she had noticed he favored in the past. Her hunch was right. The force of her blow slammed his knee sideways, and he fell like a stricken ox. His knife dropped to the sand.

But if Sara hoped he would lie on the ground and groan or nurse his knee, she was disappointed. Massard slipped beyond reason and the limitations of pain. Bellowring with rage, he scrambled over the ground and grabbed her leg.

Sara suddenly saw her dagger half buried in the sand, where it lay just beyond her fingertips. She tried to reach for it, only to be wrenched back by a vicious yank to her leg. Her face banged into the arena floor; sand ground into her nose and mouth and tore into her swollen skin. She spat out the sand with a mingled cry of pain and fury.

Somehow she twisted around to her back and used her free foot to kick at Massard's head. Her first kick missed, but the second connected solidly with his chin and knocked him backward just enough so his hands loosened their grip on her leg. With all the strength she had left, Sara jerked her leg loose and shoved herself back to her dagger.

The knight bellowed his anger. He threw himself forward over her, crushing her down into the sand with his greater weight. His hands grabbed for her neck.

She felt his fingers tighten around her throat like a noose. They dug into her skin, cutting off the flow of blood and air to her exhausted body. Her face turned a sickly red; her lungs burned from lack of air. The pain gripped her like a red-hot iron band around her neck and head. She wanted to scream, but she couldn't make a sound.

Terror welled up from the depths of her soul. Almost every conscious thought in her mind screamed at her to struggle, to fight back, to pry those killing hands from her throat. But a few strands in the cold, reasoning part of her brain held her terror at bay for just a few heartbeats, long enough to give her hand time to reach for the dagger. She could feel it still, under the small of her back. If she could just get her fingers on it and pull it out, she could get him off.

Massard screamed incoherent oaths at her as he squeezed the life out of her. He paid no attention to her drumming heels or the struggle of her left hand to claw at his face. Nor did he see her right hand worm its way under her back and laboriously pull out the dagger that Derrick had so carefully sharpened to a razor's edge.

Somewhere in the far distance, Sara heard the murmur of a crowd like the hum of insects, and even fainter, she caught the cry of a dragon. Cobalt, she wanted to cry. Cobalt, wait! The noises faded away into the thundering cry of her struggling heart.

Her eyes bulged as the world grew dark. The dagger felt like a bar of lead in her hand. It was so heavy she could barely lift it. She didn't waste time trying to aim for a killing stroke; all she wanted to do was get his hands off her neck so she could breathe again. With the last dregs of her failing strength, Sara drove the blade into his side just above his belt.

Massard screeched in pain and twisted around to grab at whatever jabbed his side.

Sara's chest heaved upward in a frantic effort to breathe through her constricted throat. She gasped and a coughed as he struggled to pull out her dagger. The blessed air in her lungs brought back her vision and a trickle of energy. The black roar faded from her head.

Massard was weakening. She could feel his body sway. Her nose, free to breathe again, caught the odors of mingled sweat and liquor and the metallic smell of blood. he thrashed around so much, she couldn't reach her dagger. But she could reach his. The black-handled stiletto he had dropped lay just an arm's length away.

Her fingers groped for the handle. At that moment, Massard wrenched her dagger free from his side and raised It triumphantly above her, the bloody point aiming for her bruised throat.

Sara gathered the last vestiges of her strength. She closed her fingers around the black stiletto and brought it around and up. The slender blade slid deep into the knight's stomach and sliced upward behind his breast-bone. A look of astonishment slid over his bearded face, He gazed down at the handle protruding from his abdomen as if he couldn't believe it was there. The dagger in his hand fell out of his nerveless fingers, clattered off her chain mail, and dropped harmlessly to the sand.

Slowly Massard toppled forward on top of Sara, crushing her into the sand. His weight was more than she had the strength to lift.

She sighed once and let the world go dark around her.