Someone came out of the crowd with a leather thong and tied it to the left wrists of the combatants so that they were separated by about a yard when the cord was stretched taut. In the instant after this man stepped back, Zoltan swept his dagger through the space between them. Gord reacted well, but not quickly enough to prevent Zoltan’s blade from tracing a stinging path across the front of his blouse, breaking the skin beneath but doing him no great harm. So, thought Gord, this is how we begin!

As he circled his opponent warily, Gord could just barely distinguish the voices shouting out the odds. In the space of the few seconds following Zoltan’s opening swipe, they had risen from seven to two all the way to ten to one-in Zoltan’s favor. Even though concentrating hard on the matter at hand, Gord could not help but feel indignant at that. Hell, one little slash across his belly didn’t mean he’d lost the duel!

The rules of the ritual dictated that if either combatant cut the tie that held them together, then that person was considered the loser and must either pay the winner a dozen silver nobles or be outcast. Gord actually considered slashing the thong and ending the contest, for what did a few coins mean? But the backing of his new “family” kept him at it. Gord assumed that they had wagered everything they owned on him, judging from their shouts of encouragement and their catcalls about Zoltan’s ability. He had to go on, even though it looked bad. Miklos expected him to prove himself worthy.

The years of schooling he had undergone would now be put to a real test. These conditions were almost the same as those prescribed in practice matches with less lethal weapons, but he wished they were using swords rather than shorter blades. Gord was a better swordsman than knife fighter, though not by much.

Slash and stab, parry and thrust…. The match went on for minutes, but seemed like it lasted hours. Both contestants were sweating from strain and exertion, but Gord marveled to himself that the tension was not actually affecting him, and that he was still feeling fresh and ready. He moved with fluid ease and was unwinded. Zoltan, on the other hand, seemed to be tiring a bit. He was panting, and moving his legs as if they were heavy. Interesting…

Gord stepped up the pace with a flurry of feints, movements, and actual attacks, intermixed with much circling designed to keep Zoltan on the move. He was cut twice more in the process, but both wounds were merely scratches, although they must have appeared worse to the audience from the sound of their reactions to the touches. He now heard someone offer odds of a dozen to one, but no cry of acceptance followed. Great!

Now, suddenly, Zoltan carried the fight to him-stamping forward, his blade moving with blurring speed. Gord danced back, parrying wildly, saving himself barely, and taking a cut on his weapon hand in the process. Now his grip would be less sure, for the blood flowing into his palm would make the handle of his small knife slippery. It was certainly time for him to come up with a winning attack or be beaten… and either shamed or killed.

Zoltan was most certainly tired from his furious onslaught. His breathing was labored, and he was gulping air as often as he had the opportunity. When he eased his attack a bit, Gord again countered with his own series of cuts, rushes, and so on. He feigned exhaustion also, and gradually slackened the pace of his offense. The bigger man thought he saw his opportunity and went for it.

Zoltan jumped forward suddenly, body crouched low, right arm looping forward, dagger set for a killing thrust into the kidneys or gut. But Gord wasn’t there when the attack ended. He had suddenly leaped back as far as possible, pulling on the leather thong with all his might. Zoltan, off balance, continued forward and fell heavily on his face, his left arm extended by the tie, dagger likewise before him. In a flash Gord leaped atop the man, looped the thong around his neck, and poised his knife at the edge of his throat.

“Who is a dog?” he asked.

“Not my brother Gord!” came the strangled reply from Zoltan.

“I am yours then, Gord!” cried the Rhennee girl Estrella, rushing to his side.

Chapter 11

“What do you mean, I can’t give her back?” Gord said with surprise, but in a low voice. “I didn’t want her in the first place.”

“It would be a mortal insult to Zoltan, Estrella, and the Rhennee code,” Yanoh told him. “Every hand would be turned against you if you did.”

“But I don’t want Estrella-not that she isn’t desirable!” Gord hastened to add, casting a glance toward where his prize sat a few paces away. “Why can’t I just make a present of her to Zoltan? I could say that I… I’ve taken a holy vow of celibacy-no women allowed!”

“Stop talking like an outsider, brother Gord of the Rhennee. We have no such silly thing as celibacy amongst the True Folk.”

Gord tried another tack. “Zoltan will be my enemy forever unless I return her to him.”

“Poo!” Yanoh sniffed. “He’s your sworn enemy for life now, that much is true. It would be a good insult to cast Estrella back at him, but that would not soothe Zoltan-and it would bring everyone else down on your head as well. Wait! I have it.”

“Have what?” Gord asked, finding it hard to keep the volume and tone of his voice under control.

“The solution, stupid. You can solve the problem easily. Do you have silver? You’ll need at least fifty silver pieces to do it.”

“Dammit, Yanoh! Do what?”

“Get rid of Estrella and let Zoltan know that you think he is worse than pig shit. All you have to do is kill her. The silver will pay off her family, and-”

At that, Gord was up and gone. He strode over to where Estrella was sitting, took her arm to help her up, kissed her, and marched the beaming Rhennee girl off toward the barge of his “family.” This brought a cheer from the assemblage of onlookers, at least those who weren’t too drunk by then. Gord resigned himself to his fate: he now had a woman whether he wanted one or not. Zoltan, meanwhile, stood in the background glaring daggers at both. Somehow, thought Gord, the fellow betrayed something more than hatred, however. Was that a hint of relief he saw in those sullen eyes?

Completing repairs and finishing the celebration took another week. The six barges at Caverncliff Cove were joined by several others in the interim, and most of the original ones left within a few days. As surely as if directed by the fates, the first new barge to arrive bore none other than Adaz, his friend from his earlier days with the Rhennee. She was now mature and more lovely than Gord’s remembrance of her. She was delighted to see him too, at first.

“Gord, you have grown so big and strong and handsome!” Adaz cried when they first met. She ran her hand over his muscular arm.

Gord flushed at that and murmured vaguely about having had to do much growing up. “And you, Adaz, you… you… are as beautiful as ever,” he finished somewhat lamely.

“Thank you, Gord. I know that you mean it, too. Why else would you have come all the way from Greyhawk just to find me?”

They talked a bit, casually, as Adaz linked her arm in his and steered him toward the community encampment. It was all downhill, in a manner of speaking, after that. When she saw Estrella and learned of the fight with Zoltan, she shunned Gord entirely. That made him sad and furious at the same time.

“Don’t worry,” Yanoh reassured him. “As soon as you become a chief man in the tribe and you have your own barge, then you can have as many women as you can keep!”

Worst of all, Estrella was a nag and a bitch. She was pretty, but the constant whining tone in her voice drove Gord mad. At every opportunity she was after him to get her presents-jewelry, clothing, any number of things she must have-all of it, she assured him, to enhance Gord’s status, of course. When she wasn’t on that tack, Estrella was urging him to get rid of Zoltan, challenge Miklos for lordship of the barge, take her to some rich town, and so on and so on and so on. If she caught him looking at Adaz or any of the other young girls, or even thought he might wish to look, she would verbally abuse him or physically attack him, scratching, biting, hitting, and kicking him until he had to subdue her.

“Beat her more frequently,” Miklos advised sagely.

Gord was certain that Zoltan was somewhere nearby laughing. Every time he looked up from a scene with Estrella, he saw the fellow’s back as he walked away. Zoltan’s shoulders were either shrugging or shaking with

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