He waited, point hovering, backing with an economical shuffle and his feet at right angles. Clang-ting-clang, and the saber knocked against his buckler, rang on his blade, shed itself from that with a long scring sound and deflected off his helmet and a shoulder piece with bruising force and there was the sting of a slight cut on his upper shoulder.
Good steel, he thought absently—to be that shaving-sharp after a long day’s work. They had good smiths here in the Isles.
Franzois’ face was a deeper purple now, his mouth open below the splayed nasal of his helmet. Esmond waited, backed once more . . . then lunged, with all the dense muscle of his weight behind it, the springing power of his rear leg, and a wrist locked to put it all behind the punching tip of the sword.
The Islander stopped, blade still raised for another slash. It came down and faltered weakly as Esmond’s point ripped free of his inner thigh. From the sudden arterial rush of blood, he’d cut the big vein there. The Emerald stepped back and raised his sword again in salute.
“That was a brave man,” he murmured as the body kicked and voided, the usual undignified business of dying.
“Esmond! Esmond!”
He jerked his head up suddenly. The chant had begun during the fight, but there was no room for it in the diamond-hard focus of a death duel. The men were yelling it, pumping fists and weapons in the air.
“Esmond! Esmond!”
The roar echoed back from the walls of the great room, bouncing back in confused waves of sound as the last of the defenders were disarmed and marched off. Not only his own Strikers were shouting it, but the Royal troops as well—only the knot of noblemen around King Casull weren’t, and many of them were waving swords in salute as well. Even the King was, and smiling; there was a cut on his face, and blood on his sword—Casull was a fighting man whose praise you’d respect, and Esmond felt a sudden lurch as the truth of it rammed home.
Well, dip me in shit! he thought. I not only won, I won big with the big boss looking on. The news would be all over the Royal army and fleet by sundown, too.
Esmond bent, pulling off Franzois’ helm. There was a purple-gold circlet around the dead man’s brow; he paused a minute to hold the eyelids shut and close the staring gaze, then rose with the symbol of Vase’s sovereignty raised high. The chanting gradually slowed, stopped, left a silence full of rustles and creaks and clanks as armed men shifted their feet and murmured to each other.
With sword and buckler in his right hand and the circlet in his left, Esmond paced across the throne room to where Casull stood. He went to one knee and held both forward.
“My lord King,” he said, in slow, clear, carrying tones. “Vase is yours!”
Another roaring cheer. Cries of “Casull!” and “Esmond!” were mixed, together with “Hot damn!” and “Loot! Loot!”
Casull took the circlet, a wry smile on his face; he winked slightly as their eyes met.
“Well, you’re a showman, as well as a fighting man,” he murmured as he accepted the symbol of sovereignty. “Maybe you’ll find a realm of your own someday; a man who’s actor and fighter both is born to rule.”
He straightened, took Esmond’s sword and rapped him sharply on each armored shoulder.
“With swords such as yours, my throne is secure!” he cried. From everyone but the people carrying those swords, went unspoken between them—warning and mutual recognition at once. “Let the farmer-clods of the Confederation interfere if they dare—let all men take note that what we have, we hold, we and our valorous nobles and troops. Rise, Excellent Esmond Gellert!”
Esmond’s eyes widened slightly, and his men redoubled their cheers. Well, there’s a step up, he thought; he’d just gone from outland mercenary captain to the lowest level of Islander nobility. Mind you, what the King gave, the King could take away; and from the smolderingly jealous looks of the courtiers gathered about him, he’d also acquired a set of instant enemies. Casull’s wry smile as Esmond rose—for an instant, until he noticed the added pain of the stiffening face cut—told the Emerald that the King was perfectly aware of that, too.