she will belong to me. King Voth cannot go against the law, for Jarl— who knows of such matters— tells me that the same law is observed in Voth's own kingdom. So do I thank you, Prince Blade. I had wondered how to take Taleen from you, for if I had you killed it would be a base thing and my men would mutter against me. The same had I challenged you over a woman betrothed to you— our laws do not smile on this sort of thing, for it gives too much power to a ruler.
'But you have made matters easier for me. Now I can kill you in good conscience, Prince, and take your woman in the same way. And she to bear witness to this— so that in future, when Voth asks questions, he may know the truth of it.'
Blade followed his glance. Taleen, escorted by four of the kyries, was coming toward the throne. Blade caught his breath and for the moment was not angry with the girl. He had never seen her so lovely, so regal, and so pale. They had combed out her long auburn hair and banded it with gold. Her small feet were shod in red slippers and she wore a long manteau of yellow silk that rippled and clung alternately to her pliant girl's body as she walked. A scarlet sash made her waist impossibly tiny.
Her maiden's breasts, beneath the single garment sheathing them, were larger than he had thought and tremulous now as she caught sight of Blade. A hand went to her red moist mouth and another to the firm breasts, and she looked at him with wet brown eyes that sent their message plain— love of him and fear for him.
They had put lip salve on her and enhanced her color with paint and Blade was angered that Redbeard had had her prepared for himself— As if Blade were already dead.
Taleen held out her arms to him, and would have spoken, but the kyries bustled her past to a chair at one side of the throne. Blade turned away. She would have to watch it, though he would have spared her if he could. And there was nothing to say.
Redbeard was watching him closely. Men were clearing a space in front of the throne.
Redbeard said: 'You have challenged me before all my men. I then have choice of weapons.'
Blade nodded curtly. 'As you will. I will use my bronze axe, Aesculp. Have it sent for.'
Redbeard smiled and his beard twitched. The ribbons fluttered. 'There is no need for that, Prince. I choose these.'
He held up his hands. They were, Blade considered, larger than bear's paws, and would have made two of his own. And his were large.
A roar of delight went up from the men. There would be a fine strangling now. Blade sensed that they had seen it happen before. He set his will to work instantly, bidding it whip his sluggish memory into action. Once, in that other and now nearly forgotten dimension, he had been a killer with his hands. Karate? Judo? Yes, of course. He had been an expert judoka and had killed men with his hands. Could he remember the techniques?
Redbeard slipped off the scarlet robe and tossed it to an aide. He was naked to the waist. Blade's heart muscles tightened. He was himself a big man, and powerful, and he had known bigger and more powerful men, but he had never seen anything like this body before him now. It scarcely seemed human. Rather it was a statue cast in bronze— Getorix was heavily tanned by sea and sun— with every tremendous muscle chiseled by the hand of a master sculptor.
Redbeard's shoulders were wider than Blade's by half a span, and the girth of his biceps nearly twice the size. His legs were more oak trees than flesh, gnarled and corded with sinew.
Blade kept trying to remember— he flexed his right hand at his side, extending the thumb and tightening the muscles, pulling the fingers straight into a chopping edge. That was it! He ran the hand along his bare leg and felt the callouses from the tip of his little finger to his wrist. Yes. It was coming back to him now. His right hand was, literally, a flesh axe.
There was more— much more— and he must remember it. Holds and throws, pressure points, nerve ganglia, every dirty trick of street fighting he had once known.
Blade doffed his leather corselet and his tunic and handed them to a man who came forward. Jarl, sitting at the table staring into his wine cup, did not look up. Blade cast a last glance at Taleen. She was sitting rigidly in the chair, her hands crossed over her breasts, staring at him with a face gone white as milk. He could see her trembling. There was a tiny stain of blood at a corner of her mouth where she had bitten her lip.
Redbeard stepped forward into the cleared space amongst the tables. It was, and Blade was remembering now, about the size of a boxing ring. Boxing? Was there any help there?
Redbeard raised his hand for silence. When it came he did not look at Blade, but at Jarl, and his words, and his mien, were kingly enough for any man. Blade was forced to admiration.
'The gods are strange,' said Redbeard, 'and no man knows how they decide. I, Getorix called Redbeard, have scoffed at gods and taken them were I found them, as we all do— yet I acknowledge their power. If I am to lose my life, and my kingdom, to this puny stranger'— he indicated Blade with a gesture of infinite contempt— 'then it is so written and so it shall be. If I am vanquished I charge all of you to accept the Prince of London as your new ruler. You will obey him. I also charge Jarl that he be guide and mentor to this man— if he is to be king in my stead.'
Blade, falling back a few steps into a posture of defense, had to admit the cleverness of the man. He was doing it well. Redbeard was leaning over backward to be fair, to build a legend that would be sung of by the skalds and, more important, would stand in his favor when the reckoning came with Voth. It was also a gesture of supreme confidence. Getorix had no thought of failure— he counted Blade as dead.
Redbeard lowered his arms and faced Blade. Blade tensed, then made himself relax as he tried to fashion a battle plan. Savate! The word slipped into his mind from nowhere. Foot boxing. He had once been proficient in it.
And yet Redbeard did not move toward him. He made a signal and a cupbearer came forward.
Redbeard grinned at Blade. 'One last thing, Prince of London. It is a tradition with us. We must drink the death toast.'
The cupbearer tipped wine into the cup and handed it to Blade. Blade stared at it. It was contrived of a skull, white as alabaster and chased with gold runes. The teeth were still intact, large and white and perfect, and they grinned at Blade as he drank.
The cupbearer filled the skull again and took it to Redbeard. The massive man held it on high, laughing, an honest mirth that filled the great hall and started echoes.
