I did not laugh. I set my knife to the base of his throat. I pushed and he lay back on the snow. Words came out of my mouth. “Did the women of my holding know your warrior’s honor when you were raping them? Did my little kitchenmaid think you honorable as she staggered away from your friend Pandow? When you cut the throats of my unarmed stablemen, was that honor?”
He tried to pull back from the tip of my knife but I let it follow him. With his lamed leg he could no more flee than my little kitchen girl had. He lifted his bloody hands. I dropped my knee on his injured leg. He gasped at the pain and found blurred words. “They were not warriors! They had no honor as warriors. All know women can possess no honor. They are weak! Their lives have no meaning save what men give to them. And the others, those men, they were servants, slaves. Not warriors. She was not even right as a woman! So ugly and not even right as a woman!”
He screamed as my blade bit deeper, opening a gash in his neck. Careful. Not yet.
“Strange,” I said quietly when he ran out of wind. I moved my knife up to his face. He lifted his hands. I shook my head. “My women gave this meaning to my life: I hurt those who hurt mine. Without regard for their imaginary honor. Warriors who rape and kill the helpless have no honor. They possess no honor when they hurt children. If it were not for my women, the women of my household, and my serving men, I would think it dishonorable for me to do this to you. Tell me. How long did it take you to rape one of the women of my household? As long as my knife has been playing with your face?”
He bucked away from me, cutting his own face as he did so. I stood over him and picked up Verity’s sword. He was squeezed dry of all information. Time to end it. He looked at me and knew it.
“That night, that night they all ran away. Kerf might know. He fancied the woman in the red dress, mooned about her like a baby that wants his mother. We mocked him. He watched her all the time. Sneaking around in the bushes to watch her pee.”
“Kerf.” One tiny bit of information. “The magic-boy and the woman who commanded him. What became of them?”
“I don’t know. It was all madness and fighting and blood. Maybe they were killed. Maybe they ran away.” He gave a sudden sob. “I’m going to die here in the Six Duchies! And I don’t even remember why I came here!”
Two things happened simultaneously. I heard a horse whinny and the picketed animals answered it. And the crow screamed, “’Ware your back!”
My quenched Wit had not warned me. The old training kicked in. Never leave an enemy behind you. I cut Hogen’s throat, and went low and to the side as I spun around.
I’d underestimated the old man. Working his hands loose of my sling cord must have limbered his arms, for the stolen sword rang loudly against mine. He was a sight, his wet gray hair wild around his face, his teeth bared in fury. The glancing blow of my stone had purpled his brow and shot one eye with blood. Blood had darkened a swath of his shirt. I had a knife to his sword. I could see Verity’s sword behind him, still sheathed in the snowbank where I’d stupidly left it. He grunted, our blades screamed a kiss, and then he disengaged, caught a breath, and swung again. I parried him, but not without effort, and stepped forward and pushed him back hard with my blade. I leapt back. He smiled and took a step forward. I was going to die. He had the reach.
I gave ground and he grinned as he advanced. Ellik was old but he was powered by battered pride and a thirst for vengeance. And, I decided as he made yet another reckless attack, the desire to die as a warrior. I had no wish to assist him in that. I gave ground again. Bloodied as he was, I was fairly certain that I could simply let him attack until he exhausted himself. Fairly certain. Not absolutely certain. I tried to back toward Verity’s sword and he cut me off. His smile grew broader. He wasted none of his laboring breath on words. He surprised me with a sudden leap forward. I had to both duck and retreat.
Hoofbeats, muffled by snow. I was not at all certain that I could hold out against the number of riders I could now hear coming. I dared not look to see if they were Chalcedean or the Ringhill Guard. Then someone shouted, “Get the horses!” In Chalcedean.
Ellik looked aside for an instant. “To me!” he shouted to his men. “To me!”
I forced myself to believe that they could not and would not respond to his shout. I had to do something he didn’t expect, something stupid in any other setting. I stepped in, beat my knife-blade hard on his sword, and very nearly disarmed him, but he managed to step forward and shove me off with a display of strength I had not expected. It so startled me that I felt a moment of giddiness. I sprang back from him, disengaging, and had to endure his mocking grin. He shouted then, “Men! To me! To me!”