It's strong enough, I think. I've given it a name: Onslaught.'
'A good name for a good weapon,' said Jarl. 'But second- best is not good enough for tomorrow. You'll use the weapon Lord Regan gave you.' 'But I might damage it! It's fearfully valuable!'
Jarl laughed, and clapped Sarazin on the shoulder. Feeling the young man's linen wet with sweat.
It's your liver to worry about,' he said. 'Never your steel. That's war. Listen: here's a lesson for your life. Always take your best steel to war. Best sword, best horse, best boots, best men. Expense saved means nothing to a corpse.'
Lightly he spoke, yet his words brought home to Sarazin the reality of the doom which faced him. As Jarl took Sarazin through a series of stretching exercises, Sarazin realised that this time tomorrow he might be dead. He tried to imagine his death, but found it impossible. The world was but an extension of himself – so how could the world exist if he did not?
– Yet once, before I was born, the world existed without me. Or so it claims.
The thought was so improbable that Sarazin – not for the first time – doubted that the world really existed. Quite apart from its denial of the centrality of Sean Sarazin, there were other things about the world which struck him as unreal. Mortality, for instance.
– A world of people, all doomed to certain death. How could that be possible? If all flesh were truly mortal, how could there be laughter?
– If the world were a fact, and death universal a fact in that fact, surely the streets would run screaming from dawn to dusk. To be born, just to die? What kind of reality is that?
As he had done in the past, Sarazin conjured with the notion that perhaps he was really a god, dreaming. That he would wake, shortly, and resume his true life of power and creation. Death? A word beyond meaning.
This ends our training,' said Jarl, for Sarazin had worked through the last of his stretching exercises while doing his thinking. 'I judge you tired enough to sleep by now. Mind you do! A warrior gets his head down and sleeps whenever the chance is given. That's one of the first lessons of war!'
But, though Jarl had thought Sarazin tired enough to sleep, Farfalla's son lay sleepless long, staring at the dark, conjuring with skulls and bloodclot disaster.
Throughout the night, Thodric Jarl slept soundly on a pallet outside Sarazin's door. If the young man had been fool enough to venture forth to search for card companions or other distractions, Jarl would have woken on the moment. As it was, his guard duty proved eventless.
Sarazin did in fact divert himself. With wine – yes, and with Amantha's flesh. And (lust cruel, direct and shameless, like something done by the body of one insect to another) the very heat of his mother herself. But all this, of course, took place within dream's world of delusions.
Sarazin was still sleeping, still dreaming, when Jarl shook him awake. The young man who would be king startled awake. Smelt the roughwork sweat of the Rovac warrior. It's dark,' said Sarazin.
'Yes, but near dawn,' said Jarl. 'Rouse yourself. It's a great day for it.' -A great day to die.
To his discomfort, Sarazin found he had diarrhoea. He refused breakfast, but accepted the cup of hot green tea which Bizzie brought him. Tea was drunk by few people in Selzirk, but Sarazin indulged himself in it daily. Every morning its savour conjured up memories of Voice, and he wished himself back in that city. 'Fighting, are we?' said Bizzie. Well, good luck to you.' Thanks,' said Sarazin.
Grateful, despite himself, for such good wishes, even though they came from the low-bred mother of his bastard brother Benthorn.
'Get this inside you,' said Jarl, offering Sarazin a tot of rum to follow the tea. 'I thought you told me never to drink and fight.' 'A smahan of rum will do you no harm. Drink I'
Sarazan drank. It was good. Heat in his belly. Warmth in his veins. He longed to linger to enjoy that heat. To rest. To sleep a little more – till noon perhaps. But Jarl was setting the pace and, all too soon, Sarazin was fastening his swordbelt. 'My shield?' 'I'll carry it,' said Jarl.
Then they were on their way to the battlements where Sarazin would confront Tarkal at dawn. The morning was cold, yet the last icechip stars were melting. Pink clouds swathed the eastern horizon. Sarazin shivered. 'Are we late?' he said, seeing Tarkal and his courtiers clustered on the battlements ahead. 'Let's not be late. They'd think me a coward.'
'No need to hurry,' said Jarl. They won't run away. Step loose. Step even.'
Jarl persuaded Sarazin to unstring his battle-tense muscles, making him take it slowly.
Think now,' said Jarl. Think of a stone in water. Deepen your breathing. Deep and slow. Think of a stone steady amidst water. You are that stone. Deep and slow. Breathe in. And out. Deep and slow.. .'
The lull of Jarl's voice and the steady rhythm of walk- ing calmed Sarazin. Then he looked up, and saw the opposition close ahead, a gaudy cabal of silks and smirks, ready, waiting. The morning light was stronger. Conjuring with colours. His footsteps faltered.
'Take the shield, then,' said Jarl, loudly, to give the impression that Sarazin had halted to ask for that object. Sarazin took the weight. 'Onward,' urged Jarl, low-voiced.
Sarazin closed the distance. Amantha, her hands buried deep in a wolverine muff, studied him with disdain. Her maids exchanged glances and giggles. A courtier indulged himself with a pinch of snuff. Yawned. As Tarkal stepped forward.
'So,' said Tarkal, beginning a devastatingly witty speech which he had carefully prepared the night before. 'Our young peasant friend has condescended to join us at last. I see he-'
Without warning, Jarl slapped Sarazin on the back and shouted: 'Draw!'
Sarazin drew. Sword lept from sheath. He shouted as he had been taught: 'Ah-hai!'
The battle-cry came from his gut, focusing energy on action. He quivered with warlike aggression. Which made Amantha laugh. Her laughter tinkled like fractured glass. It shivers,' she said. 'See? It is frightened.'
'That,' said Tarkal, no sword in his hands but no fear in his voice, 'reflects its breeding.' 'Draw, dog!' shouted Sarazin, enraged.
'No need for amateur theatricals,' said Tarkal, his voice as cool as bone beneath water. 'Shall we wait until the sun has warmed the world before we fight?' 'We wait for nothing,' said Jarl. We fight. Now!'
Sarazin, quick-breathing, was gladdened by Jarl's voice. He remembered to slow his breathing. The iron grip of the shield was warming beneath his fingers. He was ready. 'No games now,' said Jarl. 'Fight to kill.'
But Tarkal, with studied insolence, delayed while he cracked his knuckles one by one, donned leather gauntlets, accepted sword and shield from retainers, then paused to test the weight and balance of his equipment.
Then, finally – when Sarazin was tense enough to scream – Tarkal settled himself for combat. A sardonic smile on his face. And Sarazin found himself- Paralysed. Incapable of action.
Strange gnat-sized squiggles of darkness scrawled across his field of vision. His legs were shaking. And Tarkal, smiling, smiling, was leisuring towards him, sword on guard and- 'Strike!' screamed Jarl.
The word snapped Sarazin into action. His blade leapt for Tarkal's throat, as if of its own volition. Sword clashed with sword. Then the two broke apart. Panting.
Jarl shouted: 'Lunge!'
Tarkal moved to parry a lunge which never came. The unaccustomed shield-weight tricked his feet. Momen- tarily, Tarkal stumbled. Sarazin seized his chance. He charged. Shield smashed against shield. All Sarazin's bodyweight was behind the charge. Tarkal staggered backwards, went down. 'No!' screamed Amantha.
But already Tarkal was getting to his feet. He scrabbled for shield and sword, found sword alone, brought the blade to the challenge – and saw Sarazin's shield flying through the air towards him. Thrown full force. No time to dodge. No time to duck. Steel must avail. Tarkal met shield with sword. 'Hal' screamed Jarl, expecting the sword to break. But sword deflected shield. Take him as I've taught you!' shouted Jarl.
Sarazin advanced upon Tarkal. Breathing harshly. Both hands on the hilt of his sword. As both combatants had lost their shields, it was bare blades now. To the death. 'Ska!' screamed Tarkal. Striking with all his force. 'Hal' screamed Sarazin. Striking full-force at Tarkal's oncoming blade.
The blades met. The full strength of two men was devoted to their meeting. And one blade broke. Steel went flying, somersaulting, sun-spangling. Tarkal dared a thrust – then realised his fist held nothing but a swordhilt. The Chenameg princeling gaped at the hilt of the sword. The blade had been torn clean away from the hilt. 'Kill!' yelled Jarl.
But before Sarazin could lunge, Tarkal was running. He fled slap-bang into the arms of his startled
