knee could carry him. His sword whistled from his sheath as he moved, coming to his hands almost unconsciously, as it had a thousand times before. The Marcher took notice of the gleaming red blade, realised to whom he was about to give battle, screamed louder and spurred his horse onward.
But Bas had chosen his position well. In his excitement the Marcher failed to notice the depression, and just as he was set to make his killing strike his horse half-stumbled. The traditional skill of the barbarians was enough to keep him upright, but he had to drop his lance to do so.
With an Aelerian blade it wouldn’t have worked; the steel would have caught in the horse’s sinew or turned against bone. But Bas’s Other-crafted sword carved through the equine’s legs like a knife through melted wax. The horse pitched forward, mewling piteously, and the Marcher went with it, tumbling heels over hands.
He was up quickly, one of the advantages of riding bareback. His lance had followed the horse to the ground, but from the soon-to-be corpse of his mount he pulled a hand axe and a battered Aelerian short blade. Neither weapon would be enough, not against the God-Killer, but if the Marcher realised it he didn’t seem to care. He beat his breast twice with the hand holding the axe, and came against Bas in a low crouch.
Bas’s buckler rested on the side of his dying steed, and so he held the sword two-handed, blade elevated slightly. A younger man, or one more desirous of glory, would have surged forward, secure in his strength and prowess, hoping to best the Marcher in single combat. But victory was all for Bas; he would no more risk his own life needlessly than he would that of one of his subordinates. He gave a step, then two, knowing time was on his side, that his men would return to help him soon enough.
But the youth was wise enough to realise the same, and decided to stake the outcome on one single moment rather than allow himself to be overtaken. The axe spun through the air, not at all a bad toss given that it had been hurled from his off hand, which is to say that it went well over Bas’s head. But then, the Marcher hadn’t intended to kill Bas with it, though he’d happily have accepted that outcome. The thrown hand axe was meant to distract Bas from his own movement, to create an opening behind which the Marcher could attack.
Bas was not easily distracted. Had he been more familiar with Bas, the Marcher might have kept a hold on the hatchet, known better than to try to shake the God-Killer. Had he been more familiar with Bas, the Marcher might never have turned his horse round, might have made for the horizon with everything he had left in him.
The end came quickly. Bas thrust his blade forward, the Marcher stumbled trying to stop his momentum, made a desperate parry. Bas turned his own blade in a little half-circle and the sword the Marcher held was gone, as was the hand that held it, and almost before the pain could register Bas had pivoted and planted half of his weapon into the man’s chest. They were very close when he died, close enough that Bas could see his eyes go dim as his body collapsed around the metal, till Bas was the only thing keeping him up.
Bas let the corpse slide off his blade. He crushed a handful of the wild grass in his hands, stalks of which reached up nearly to his breast, and wiped clean the blood from his weapon. Then he went back to check on his mount, saw it was beyond help, ended its pain quickly and dispassionately. He spent a few moments trying to remove the saddle, an awkward task given that three hundred clove of dead horseflesh was lying on most of it. Finally he gave up and just cut the straps with his knife. It had long since ceased to astonish Bas, how many of life’s problems could be solved with naked steel.
6
T he Lord jumped smoothly from the gently rocking bow of his pleasure craft to the soft sand of the beach. Next came Calla, and then the three bearers, young
But Bas had chosen his position well. In his excitement the Marcher failed to notice the depression, and just as he was set to make his killing strike his horse half-stumbled. The traditional skill of the barbarians was enough to keep him upright, but he had to drop his lance to do so.
With an Aelerian blade it wouldn’t have worked; the steel would have caught in the horse’s sinew or turned against bone. But Bas’s Other-crafted sword carved through the equine’s legs like a knife through melted wax. The horse pitched forward, mewling piteously, and the Marcher went with it, tumbling heels over hands.
He was up quickly, one of the advantages of riding bareback. His lance had followed the horse to the ground, but from the soon-to-be corpse of his mount he pulled a hand axe and a battered Aelerian short blade. Neither weapon would be enough, not against the God-Killer, but if the Marcher realised it he didn’t seem to care. He beat his breast twice with the hand holding the axe, and came against Bas in a low crouch.
Bas’s buckler rested on the side of his dying steed, and so he held the sword two-handed, blade elevated slightly. A younger man, or one more desirous of glory, would have surged forward, secure in his strength and prowess, hoping to best the Marcher in single combat. But victory was all for Bas; he would no more risk his own life needlessly than he would that of one of his subordinates. He gave a step, then two, knowing time was on his side, that his men would return to help him soon enough.
But the youth was wise enough to realise the same, and decided to stake the outcome on one single moment rather than allow himself to be overtaken. The axe spun through the air, not at all a bad toss given that it had been hurled from his off hand, which is to say that it went well over Bas’s head. But then, the Marcher hadn’t intended to kill Bas with it, though he’d happily have accepted that outcome. The thrown hand axe was meant to distract Bas from his own movement, to create an opening behind which the Marcher could attack.
Bas was not easily distracted. Had he been more familiar with Bas, the Marcher might have kept a hold on the hatchet, known better than to try to shake the God-Killer. Had he been more familiar with Bas, the Marcher might never have turned his horse round, might have made for the horizon with everything he had left in him.
The end came quickly. Bas thrust his blade forward, the Marcher stumbled trying to stop his momentum, made a desperate parry. Bas turned his own blade in a little half-circle and the sword the Marcher held was gone, as was the hand that held it, and almost before the pain could register Bas had pivoted and planted half of his weapon into the man’s chest. They were very close when he died, close enough that Bas could see his eyes go dim as his body collapsed around the metal, till Bas was the only thing keeping him up.
Bas let the corpse slide off his blade. He crushed a handful of the wild grass in his hands, stalks of which reached up nearly to his breast, and wiped clean the blood from his weapon. Then he went back to check on his mount, saw it was beyond help, ended its pain quickly and dispassionately. He spent a few moments trying to remove the saddle, an awkward task given that three hundred clove of dead horseflesh was lying on most of it. Finally he gave up and just cut the straps with his knife. It had long since ceased to astonish Bas, how many of life’s problems could be solved with naked steel.
6
T he Lord jumped smoothly from the gently rocking bow of his pleasure craft to the soft sand of the beach. Next came Calla, and then the three bearers, young
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