The Chaos Balance

XLVI

Nylan stepped out into the morning-shadowed courtyard, carrying Weryl. Ayrlyn followed, closing the heavy-timbered door with a dull thunk that echoed in the open space between the walls.

Across the courtyard, outside the stables, were the three regents, as well as a muscular sandy-bearded armsman.

Fornal was inspecting one of the big blades, but handed it back to the armsman as he caught sight of the angels. He stepped toward the two.

“Good morning,” offered Nylan pleasantly.

“A good morning to you, ser angel. I was talking to my fellow regents. Some here in Lornth have said that the angels hold their domain by wizardry, and that they could not stand up to cold iron,” declared the black-bearded man. “I would not dignify such a statement, yet in our positions as regents, we must act on what can be proven. It is regrettable.” Fornal shrugged. “And it presents a…difficulty.”

“I’m not certain I see the difficulty, ser Fornal,” said Ayrlyn quietly. “I do recall that the angels have been quite successful with cold iron.”

“So it is said,” answered the black-bearded regent. “But all we have here in Lornth are words. Words are fine and necessary to us all, but our holders often find words less convincing than example.” Fornal smiled politely, then added, “And the color of the hair of those claimed to be angels is unusual, but hair color does not a warrior make.”

“That is true,” Nylan said. “We never asserted that hair color made an angel.”

“I myself believe you are an angel. But how am I to tell our holders and people that you are an angel?” Fornal shrugged. “As I said words are fair, but the holders hold to their belief in honor and cold iron.”

“Words can be more deadly than iron if used properly.” Nylan frowned, shifting Weryl from one shoulder to the other, and steering one of Weryl’s fists away from his chin. “I take it that you would feel more easy about matters if some proof-beyond mere words-existed?”

“That would make our course easier, and your assistance would set easier with those who have lost much.” The younger male regent shrugged.

“What do you wish, Regent?” asked Nylan, deciding to cut through the endless innuendoes.

Fornal stroked his beard, almost indifferently. “You might call it a demonstration, some indication of your skill with a blade. Your blade against mine. Sparring only, of course.” He smiled. “To show some of our armsmen your skills.”

Ayrlyn’s eyes narrowed, and she looked to the impassive faces of Zeldyan and Gethen.

“Just sparring?” asked Nylan.

“With real blades?” asked Ayrlyn.

“Of course,” said Fornal. “How else?”

The redhead glanced at Nylan.

The smith shrugged. “How else? That’s one way of looking at it…if you choose.”

“That is a curious statement, angel. How else would one spar?” Fornal’s lips curled slightly.

“We spar with wooden wands. It allows greater flexibility in teaching. We can also can recover from mistakes more quickly.” Nylan smiled. “When in Lornth, however, we shall do as the Lornians do.”

“That might be for the best,” replied Fornal. “Huruc, here, will act as referee.”

The sandy-bearded armsman inclined his head. “As you wish, ser Fornal. I would suggest that head blows be avoided.”

“No head blows,” said Fornal.

Nylan nodded and handed Weryl to Ayrlyn.

“Think of him as Gerlich,” Ayrlyn offered in a low voice, so low that Nylan had to strain to hear the words. “Ready to bend the rules to maim you at any opportunity.”

“I got that idea,” Nylan returned, shrugging his shoulders and stretching, scuffing his boots against the dusty pink paving stones of the courtyard, trying to gauge the footing. He glanced around the space, nearly three dozen cubits in width between the walls of the keep and the stable, and all in morning shadow. He wouldn’t have to worry about the sun, at least.

Finally, he unsheathed the dark gray iron blade he had forged, stepped forward and inclined his head to the black-bearded regent.

Fornal lifted the big blade and held it before him. “Any time, angel.”

“You may begin,” said Huruc.

Nylan lifted his own blade, but did not move toward the taller man, just waited.

So did Fornal.

“A cautious angel,” said the black-bearded regent, after a moment. “So cautious. So strange for someone with a reputation so fierce.”

Nylan waited.

Fornal took another balanced step forward, leading with the big blade.

Nylan circled right, wishing the smoothed leather of his boot soles offered better traction on the lightly sanded stone surface.

Fornal stamped a foot, dipped the big blade, and then attacked. The heavy blade whistled toward Nylan-like a gray streak designed to pulp the smaller angel.

As he had so many times with Ryba, Nylan slid the blade aside, but made no move to strike, stepping back, rather than moving forward, but keeping his full senses on the other.

“Ha! You missed that chance,” said Fornal, recovering the big blade and edging forward again, with a half-thrust toward the angel.

Had Gethen frowned? Nylan forced his concentration onto Fornal, continuing to let the order field flow around him, focusing on sensing and melding with it, and letting his blade be guided.

“…holds back…why…” murmured Zeldyan.

Ayrlyn held Weryl, brown eyes cold as they rested on Fornal.

Fornal brought the huge crowbarlike blade around in a tight arc, another whistling arc that could have bisected the smith-except that the smaller black blade blurred like lightning, as did Nylan, and his shortsword swept over Fornal’s guard and slammed the crowbar into the ground.

Nylan’s boot pinned the big blade against the stone, and the shortsword was at Fornal’s neck.

“I think we’ve sparred enough, ser Fornal,” Nylan said mildly.

“That was an accident.”

Nylan held in a sigh and stepped back, letting Fornal lift the blade, knowing what would happen.

The black-bearded man swept the blade up and toward Nylan, trying to catch the engineer by surprise. For mere sparring, Nylan reflected absently, Fornal was putting in a lot of effort designed to kill Nylan.

Even as the thought crossed his mind, the engineer was already accelerating into full step-up. He slipped around the arc of the hand-and-a-half blade, caught the crowbarlike weapon on the trailing edge, forcing Fornal to stumble forward or lose his weapon. Then Nylan turned the hand-and-a-half blade into the ground again, pinning it immediately with his boot.

“Wizardry!” Fornal looked toward Huruc, who stood with his back before the stable door. “Did you see that?”

“Ser Fornal,” said Huruc ponderously. “The angel struck only your blade, nor did he throw dirt or even spit.”

“Fornal,” added Gethen firmly. “Had this been a battle, or a back alley brawl, you would have been dead three times. The angel smith is better than you are; he is quicker; and he is being exceedingly generous. Were I you, I would not test his patience any longer.”

“Nor I, ser Fornal,” said Huruc slowly, as if the words were forced from his lips. “I would not willingly cross blades with him.” A smile crossed his face momentarily. “Unless they were wooden.”

Fornal’s eyes traveled from Huruc to Zeldyan and then to Gethen. Zeldyan’s eyes were cold and green as they met Fornal’s, and the oldest regent shook his head.

Fornal took a deep breath and sheathed the big blade. “It appears, ser angel, that your blade skills are as reputed. We are indeed fortunate to have such allies.” He beamed a broad smile that Nylan distrusted.

“You say that the leader of the angels is better?” asked Zeldyan, looking at Ayrlyn.

“Yes. Nylan can usually keep from getting hit too often when they practice, but she is better.” Ayrlyn offered a faint smile.

“How many are as good as the smith?”

“Two,” said the redhead, “but nearly a dozen are almost as good. Ryba is a very good instructor. So are Istril and Saryn.”

“I am beginning to see why it might not be the wisest idea to cross blades with an angel,” observed Gethen.

“Wooden wands…” mused Zeldyan.

“They are painful enough that those who fail realize their failures,” Nylan said dryly, “but they also allow the better blade-handler to use full skill without as much restraint.”

“Hummmmpphhh…” mumbled Fornal, barely loud enough for Nylan to hear.

Nylan turned. “Ser Fornal, perhaps blunted blades are better for those of Lornth, who have long experience in handling such massive weapons, but the angels have had success in training those less experienced with the wooden wands. Each force must find its own way.” The engineer eased the short sword into the belt scabbard, almost awkwardly. He still preferred the shoulder harness.

“Well said, ser Nylan,” offered Gethen quickly. “Traditions and skills rest on long experience, and what works on the Roof of the World may take longer to effect in Lornth.”

“Fornal,” said Zeldyan clearly. “We need to talk about your trip. Would you join me in the tower?”

“I thought-”

“The tower would be better,” Zeldyan insisted. “Do accompany me, brother dear.”

“If you would, Fornal,” added Gethen, “I will join you both momentarily, after I talk to Guisanek about the roan.”

Zeldyan took Fornal’s arm, and the two started back toward the keep proper. Huruc vanished into the stable.

“Ser Nylan…you looked disturbed,” said Gethen as the older man approached the smith. “You are scarcely the painting of an elated contestant. Might I ask why?”

“I don’t care for fighting,” answered Nylan. “It is often necessary, but I don’t have to like it.”

The older regent nodded. “I like that answer. Lord Sillek would have liked it as well. You are older than you appear, I suspect.”

“I couldn’t say how old I look.” Nylan shrugged, almost embarrassed.

“Like a young man, perhaps in his early twenties.”

“I’m a decade beyond that,” the smith admitted.

“I thought as much. You have the look of a man who has seen too much death, the bored skill of self-preservation and the contempt for those who see glory in fighting.” Gethen offered a wry smile. “We older ones must stick together to keep the youngsters from killing themselves off before they learn that fighting is both necessary and evil. And, of course, we can never mention that in any public place, where some fool will trumpet that we are cowards and not honorable.” With another wry smile, Gethen nodded and turned toward the stable.

“Interesting,” said Nylan.

“Very,” added Ayrlyn. “He feels honest, all over. So does Zeldyan.”

“Fornal doesn’t.”

“He probably wants to be lord, rather than just a regent.” Ayrlyn shook her head. “He’s a fool. You were gracious there at the end. I’m not sure I would have been,” she said as they walked toward the rear of the courtyard.

“Gaaa…dah,” added Weryl, thrusting a chubby fist toward Nylan.

“I wasn’t good enough to make the fight look better,” mused Nylan. “I didn’t want to humiliate him, but when his pride is touched, he’s as dense as a stone tower. Relyn was like that to start.”

“All of them are, except the older man,” replied Ayrlyn.

“Huruc seems to have some sense, too,” offered Nylan.

“That’s because he’s no lord.”

Nylan frowned. Now he had to worry about an offended regent, although it didn’t seem as though he’d been given much of a choice. Then again, ever since they’d landed on this impossible world, it didn’t seem like he’d had much in the way of choices, except trying to find the least damaging of a range of bad alternatives.