‘If they do, likely you’re in luck,’ Daken decided. ‘The best’ll have been in the battle at Moorview and most likely killed. If they drag out any old white-eye he’ll be quicker’n you, but still most likely dumber. All strength and no skill.’
Amber glanced up at the empty sky again and made his way out into the centre. More soldiers had arrived at the circle now, both Narkang and Menin. A few of the younger recruits attempted a cheer as their army’s champion reached the centre, but Amber scowled at them and the sound withered.
The recruits were part of the cavalry scout groups — most of the infantry were formed up in their companies, ready either to march or assault. For the main it was officers and elites here, those who weren’t bound by orders from dawn to dusk. The Menin contingent was near-silent, far more typical of Menin soldiers than Amber’s own quarrelsome Cheme legions had been.
‘Thank you, Carel,’ Amber said, glancing back. His face was set like stone, the hard lines of a veteran soldier about to fight once more. ‘I’m glad you’re here. There is a distance between my men and me; though they are loyal they fear me. Death omens follow me and my namesake’s defeat lingers in my shadow. If I am to die, it will be in the company of a friend.’
He turned to Daken, the white-eye’s easy grin absent for now. ‘As for you — well, keep your bastard hands off my brandy.’
Before either man could reply, the Chetse soldiers on the far side of the circle parted suddenly, allowing General Dev and a second man through into the circle. A murmur went up on all sides: there could be no doubt that this was Amber’s opponent. Half a head taller than the general he accompanied, the soldier could have easily been mistaken for a wildman from the Waste, but for the fine detailing on his axe and pauldrons.
His long, tangled mass of sandy-brown hair was kept out of his pale blue eyes by red bands, until he put on a shallow bowl-helm. His clothes and mail shirt looked like they had been patched repeatedly; they were festooned with fetishes. From the man’s dark skin Amber could see he was an easterner, probably from the desert clans on the edge of the Waste, where the Chetse fought a near-constant war against the Siblis who lived beneath the desert. Any veteran of those savage skirmishes would doubtless be a dangerous opponent.
‘General Amber, Chosenslayer and last survivor of the Cheme legions, your opponent, Dechem of the Wyvern Clan, champion of the Agoste field.’ General Dev’s voice was loud enough to drown out the whispers racing through the onlookers.
In response to Dechem’s introduction the Chetse soldiers gave a single, sudden shout. Amber didn’t catch the word, but it prompted Dechem to turn and salute those behind him with his long-axe. On his back Dechem wore an oval shield, but looking at the length of his axe, Amber guessed it would be staying there.
Just as Amber decided no man could use the weapon one-handed, Dechem turned around and did just that: he flourished the weapon, using long diagonal strokes, first in one hand, then the other, all performed adeptly before he saluted Amber. The Menin reached back with both hands and Carel put the hilts of his scimitars in them, allowing Amber to draw the weapons and bow in one movement. He rolled each wrist in turn, moving the brutal weapons through slow strokes to loosen his hands with out showing Dechem how fast he could strike, and with that the others retired to the circle’s edge.
Neither fighter moved. Though the duel had officially begun, Amber had been told it was Chetse custom to stand a while and size up an opponent. After titles had been announced, insults thrown or respect offered, all bluster was put aside and it was just two warriors ready to do battle.
Amber was significantly taller than his opponent, but the long-axe lent a greater reach and could both chop and hook. Dechem was a champion of the Agoste field, the Chetse veterans’ forum, but it was likely he’d never have faced twin swords like Amber’s before, which gave the Menin an advantage. Temple training in the Menin homeland required them to face warriors carrying all weapons, and Amber had duelled against the long axe many times before.
Dechem decided the moment had ended. He raised his axe and cautiously advanced, while Amber stood his ground, his swords held out before him. The Chetse made some exploratory passes, circling as he cut, poised to leap backwards should Amber try to rush him.
The Menin kept his own movement to a minimum, edging beyond Dechem’s range when necessary, mostly just watching the axeman move. The strokes were superbly dextrous, neat and swift without unnecessary backswing.
At last Amber advanced, stepping forward and lashing up at Dechem’s knuckles with his left scimitar. The right he readied to chop down with, but the Chetse twirled backwards with a grace that belied his bulk and swung around behind his body as he moved. Amber held back, realising in time he’d be caught in the leg before he could strike a blow of his own, then leaping forward in behind the stroke.
His first blade scraped harmlessly down the Chetse’s shield; the second bit the rim and scored his chainmail. Dechem hammered at Amber’s forearm with the butt of his axe then brought the head around to chop at his head. Amber caught the axe shaft on his scimitar and tried to push it down and away, but the Chetse wrenched his weapon back, quick as a snake, and struck high.
Amber twisted and dodged the cut, slashing up at the shaft. Dechem saw the danger and backed off, instinctively aiming another cut in his wake, but Amber held. When he advanced again he had one sword high, the other at chest height. Dechem responded by probing forward with the long-axe, twisting it one way then the next as he sought to snag something with the head’s hook. He feinted at the lower weapon, then went left suddenly and flicked the axe down at Amber’s knee, even as Amber slashed across his face. Neither weapon scored as Dechem’s movement took him away.
Amber didn’t wait this time, but struck down at the axe and followed it past his knee, all the while slashing at Dechem’s head with his second sword. His scimitar was turned by the Chetse’s helm and pauldron and he took a hurried blow on his shoulder as the powerful warrior heaved his axe back.
Dechem drove Amber a step to the side, but the Menin was able to hook the axe again and chop from left to right down into his opponent’s forearm. The scimitar caught Dechem between wrist and elbow, tearing open the chainmail. A spray of blood leapt up and Dechem lost his grip on the long axe and fell backwards. Amber was already moving in for the killing blow before he realised the fight was won: Dechem’s arm was half-severed, the bone exposed, and blood spurted over his legs.
Amber stayed his thrust half a foot from the downed man’s throat. ‘Yield!’ he commanded. ‘Enough have died — yield!’
Dechem croaked something unintelligible, cradling his ruined arm without a thought to continuing the fight.
Amber looked up and scanned the watching soldiers. ‘Nai, get here!’ He checked the main concentration of Chetse, but none were moving, not even as the former necromancer ran forward to the injured man. Amber discarded one weapon to make his point clear, but still none of them took a step to help.
Bastards probably think his life’s mine to spend as I see fit. Great Gods and little fishes, I’ve had enough of honour. Any more and I’ll choke.
Nai dropped to his knees at Dechem’s side then slid one foot under the man’s shoulder’s to support him. Blood leaked everywhere, running through the soldier’s fingers like it was being poured from a jug. Without speaking Nai jammed his fingers into the wound, and Dechem howled.
The Chetse would have punched Nai in the head had Amber not caught his arm, but just the attempt was enough to pale his face and after a moment of feeble struggle he submitted to Nai’s ministrations. Amber, checking the wound, realised it was too grave to save the arm. He’d seen the results of enough cuts like that, even with a priest of Shotir to hand, and after a quick exploration Nai came to the same conclusion.
He wrapped his blood-slick hands around the cut and closed his eyes. A bright light emanated from between his fingers, flaring red, then fading to pink that burned to white. Dechem roared like a wounded lion and fought against at Amber’s grip, but in the next moment he fell limp and the Menin general released him as the wound began to hiss and crackle. There was no smell of burnt flesh, but Amber backed away all the same. He’d seen enough of surgeon’s work; magical or not it was still enough to turn a sane man’s stomach.
‘Happy now?’ Amber muttered, looking from General Dev to King Emin. ‘Or would you’ve preferred I killed him?’
Of Isak Stormcaller there was no sign, but Amber couldn’t tell whether that meant the scarred white-eye was just as sickened of honour, or that he didn’t care about anything any more. Rumour said that General Lahk had been rejected by Nartis and had all emotion burned out of him. Certainly the man bore lightning scars down his neck, but
