The cursive rim of the buckler was now pressed hard against Paulos’ flesh. As the dripping sword point neared his eyes, he jerked his head to the side . , . and cut his own throat!
Paulos remained briefly erect, the two bucklers dangling from one limp arm. His lips moved, but only a gargling sound issued from him. Then his knees buckled and he pitched onto his face.
The cool, dry air of the guards’ armory was as refreshing to Alexandros as a cool swim, after the mugginess and heat of the practice yard. Furthermore, its thick granite walls muted the laughter and shouted conversations of the crowd to a dull muttering, so that the long, narrow room seemed a place of peace, despite its rack upon rack of weapons.
The Sea Lord sat slumped in a camp chair, his cuirass replaced by a thick cloak, that he might not chill and stiffen, while Djeree Pahtuhr sponged his head and face with a mixture of warm water and wine. Feeleepos dragged over a low chest and lifted the young victor’s booted feet, now filthy with blood and dust, onto its top, then started to unbuckle the greaves.
Alexandros opened his eyes, raised his head enough to see the officer, and shook it, saying, “No, Fil, leave them on. They don’t bother me. And, remember, I’ve another match this morning. Don’t let that sword I used get away, either; it’s nicely balanced.”
“Small chance of that, Alex,” chuckled Djeree, whose broad grin had never left his face since the gory demise of Vahrohnos Paulos. “I entrusted your steel to a couple of my lads to clean it and restore its edge.”
Drawing up another chest, Feeleepos seated himself and commenced to knead the twitching thigh muscles of his charge. Djeree laid aside his sponge and applied his powerful hands to the neck, shoulders, and upper back. Since both were veteran warriors, they knew just where their ministrations would be most effective, and soon had their subject completely relaxed, his arms and legs no longer trembling.
There was a tentative rap on the heavy doors. Then one opened enough to admit one of the guards’ officers. Feeleepos arose. “What is it, Stahvros?”
Smiling, the officer rendered Alexandros a formal salute. “My lord, that was a beautiful piece of work out there! I am sorry to disturb you, but another of the late Vahrohnos’ pack is in the corridor. He demands audience.
When the doors were opened, in came Lord Shaidos, flanked by two men who had also been guests at Paulos’ ill-starred party. The Vahrohnos’ former second was very pale, his lips had become a thin, tight line, and a tic spasmodically jerked at his cheek. But Alexandros could detect no panic or fear in the black eyes, only a dull resignation.
Old Djeree straightened and chortled, “Hawhaw, Alex, boy, look who’s come to try and weasel out!” If the visitor heard Pahtuhr, he gave no indication of it, addressing Alexandros directly. “Lord Alexandros, I must confess that I was not expecting this outcome. I have sent some friends to my home for my panoply, but it may be as long as an hour before they return. If you wish to fight me immediately, however, it is your option; if so, sir, I am sure I can be fitted out from the arms in this room.”
The Sea Lord shrugged and spoke in flat, disinterested tones. “Lord Shaidos, I’ll not force you to fight with unfamiliar weapons. Take all the time you need or wish. Also, why don’t we change our meeting to a blood match? I’ve no real reason or desire to kill you.”
Shaidos’ lips twisted wryly. “You are most magnanimous, sir, and I thank you. But, no, I’d as lief be dead as live in penury; you see, I wagered all I owned on poor Paulos.”
The Sea Lord shrugged again, then pushed to his feet. “As you like, sir. But should you experience a change of heart, your gentlemen can find me in the guards’ officers’ baths. I feel the need for a hot soak.”
As he walked toward the door, he heard old Djeree grate, “I’ll expect my twenty-five hundred thrahkmehs to be paid me before your suicide, lordy-boy Shaidos. I dislike collecting from widows!”