The Last IceBreaker, Part X I
"Last IceBreaker, I am glad that you are here," said Hend Valindsson.
"You have saved us the trouble of hunting you down."
"I remain true to my purpose; to lessen the strength of Winter."
"Haw haw haw!" laughed Hend. The laughter was taken up by Winter's
Host. It boomed and echoed for several minutes, and gradually died away.
"After our great victories over Inandana DaughtersBlood and Kalikos
that will prove a difficult task," replied Hend. "You would have to rout half
of this Host to produce a measurable result. Still, I am not beyond admiring
the courage of an enemy; Last IceBreaker, I salute you!"
There was a long silence, then a troll began pounding a drum from the midst of the Host. The uzhim began to howl a short chant, over and over. "We salute you, Last IceBreaker!" The hollri chittered like insects, but their meaning was the same; "We salute you, Last IceBreaker!" Harlios knew no Dark Tongue, let alone whatever passed for speach amongst the ice demons. But on the HeroPlane, meanings were plainly understood....
Valind's son raised his hand, and the cries died away. "A pity that we took no other prisoners. I might then have been tempted to offer you mercy, if you would forswear your goddess and bend your knee to my father. As it is, I am under strict orders to bring you to him, as undamaged as possible."
"Of what value is the fealty of a turncoat? Pass it by, and come to
grips with me. However little I may slow your forces and weaken them, that
I mean to do. Here within this sacred Arena, we shall meet in single combat.
No spells may be cast, excepting those cast upon your own self. No attacks,
no summonings, no deceptions. This is a trial of strength and skill at arms.
Will you join me, Hend Valindsson?"
"I do not accept you terms, Last IceBreaker. Neither do I accept
your challenge. Here are your first opponents, and your last." Hend gestured,
and four snow trolls stepped forward. Each carried what looked like
a leg bone of some large creature. The knob of each club was wrapped in
several layers of leather. "They will pound you flat, but hurt you not.
With this padding, you shall be little more than bruised when your
senseless body is cast before Winter's King."
Harlios backed away, shifting his right hand to the hilt of his sword. "You misunderstand. The Terms of Engagement are not a request, they are firmly bound into our Ritual Combat." The crystal bound into Ichor's pommel began to glow an all too familiar yellow when Harlios touched the hilt. It's sickly light cast his face into stark relief, shadowed by his helm. "I carry a weapon no padded club can match. And I wear armor of iron; be ye warned!"
The trollish laughter died suddenly; though they had never seen iron, the Ice Lords had heard old legends of it. The Hurt Metal, invented by the dwarves to burn the flesh of Uz. Hend gestured them forward. They spat in their palms and took firm grips upon their mauls. The bone weapons began to waver slightly, surrounded by dark auras. All four stepped forward, as they began to spread out. They stepped up to the boundary of the Dueling Grounds, then slowed, then stopped. All four stood stock still, as if frozen.
"You see?" said Harlios. "More than one at a time is not permitted."
Hend scowled and held out his arm. As he closed his fist, a wind sprang up. A north wind, a cold wind, growing steadily in strength. Hend clenched his fist till the knuckles gleamed, the wind grew into a howling fury. But Harlios was unmoved, he felt no wind within the Dueling Grounds, no northen chill. Neither did the motionless trolls.
Hend strained until his arm began to waver. Blood dribbled slowly down the side of his chin, from where he had bit his lip. It froze there, as his hair whipped and clinked in the gale. But to no avail. He stopped, and lowered his arm. The hum of the Black Rock cut through the moans of the dying wind.
"You first," said Harlios, pointing to the right-most Uzhim. The
troll began to move forward again. Finding himself unaccompanied, he stopped
and looked back at his motionless comrades. He jerked around to the sound
of metal leaving it's scabbard.
Harlios stood in the middle of the Arena. He had loosed his grip on the four foot sheath, and it slid from the blade with a whisper of oil and leather. The blade was slim and straight, sharp on both edges, tapering to a keen tip. It was also putrid yellow. Yellow as the glowing pommel, held in place by the talons of a fancifull silver claw. Yellow as the stain on the sole of his left foot. It was an ugly sight.
The Ice Lord thrust his hand out, roaring a spell. Then he faltered, as he saw no sign of a result. "I warned you," Harlios said, bringing his sword up to a guard postion. "Shall we begin?"
The troll bit into the leather, swathed about his club's head. But he could not pull the leather free. "Swore an Oath, did you? A broken Oath is an offence against the gods; particularly Yanafal Tar'nils, who is a god of Truth and Honor. Also there is Rashtingall, which enforces any Oath sworn as part of a Challenge."
The uzhim swept forward, wavering darkly as his allied spirit wove spells around him. Drel was busy too. A hail of blows were met and parried. Harlios spent little effort on attack at first, preferring to observe a maul in combat. He wove a tight defense, and slashed out occassionally.
Then he launched a heavy blow, with the expected results. The Ice Lord parried with his club of bone, and a splinter of bone was chipped away. Harlios struck again and again, blows easily parried, notching the bone club. The maul's aura began to falter slightly with the damage it endured.
Finally, the troll realized what Harlios was doing. With a great bellow, he threw the club and charged barehanded. Having ducked the club, Harlios could not evade the uzhim; he turned slightly sideways and was overborn. His right arm was pinned to his side, but his left was free; up and over the troll's shoulder. He grabbed his foe's head and pressed forward. His vambrace pushed from the back, as the troll's face pressed up against his helm's side.
The uzhim shrieked with pain before even they hit the ground. The iron armor burned the troll's head from face and back. Harlios gagged on the smell of burning flesh. There was a dreadfull hissing sound, as of a lump of fat tossed onto a smoking gridle. The troll's body was protected by the furs he wore, but his hands were burning too, where they met on the back of his iron breastplate.
Screaming with pain, the troll rolled away. The wounds stopped burning one by one, as magic healing put them out. But they were not healed. Harlios stood up and hefted Ichor. Then he stepped forward and made an end.
Harlios stood and watched as troll blood soaked into the grass. He looked at his vambrace, then knelt and rubbed it over the ground at his feet. It came away blackened, but clean. He took off his helm and rubbed it clean as well. Then he spoke.
"Rashtingall, I make a sacrifice to you, and ask a favor. I give
unto you the arms and armor of my foe. I give to you even his body, which
is of value to his comrades. All I ask is that the sacred Arena be cleansed
for the next combat. Pray, let it be so."
The Ice Lord's body twitched and began to roll towards the Black Rock. The club skipped up and tumbled end-for-end, fetching up by the wyvern's claw. Harlios looked at the grass where his opponent had lain. It was darker in color, but not slick underfoot.
"My thanks, Rashtingall," said Harlios, bowing.
"My thanks," whispered Drel's voice in the back of his mind.
Harlios moved back to the center of the Dueling Ground. A little
winded by the fall, but otherwise unhurt, he was ready to begin again.
"You next," he said, pointing at one of the three remaining trolls.
The troll began to move forward. Finding himself alone, he stopped
and looked back at his two statue-like friends. The Ice Lord turned and
thrust his hand out, roaring a spell.
"Here we go again," thought Harlios.
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