The Sword and the Soul Ch. 02

"Telak ask if Mag man have courage," explained Varak.

"Yes," said Telak, nodding and thumping his tail on the cushions. "Courage."

"Ah," said Mag, sipping at his cider. "Yeah, I guess so. I don't like to brag, but you've got to have some stones if you want to be a fighter. I've seen a lot of cowardly soldiers and mercenaries get cut down like dogs cause they wouldn't stand and fight when it came to kill or be killed."

Varak translated as best he could, and Telak muttered something in return.

"Telak very impressed with Mag. Think most humans weak and craven, but not Mag."

Mag grinned at the compliment and shrugged. "Tell him I'm just as the gods made me, same as him."

"Him?" asked Varak, tilting his head to one side. "Telak is female."

"Huh?"

"Mag man not notice? Look at thin frame of Telak, and bright color. Very beautiful lizard. Human really not know?"

While Mag stared at Telak, trying to make himself see how she looked different from Varak, the lizard warrior translated their conversation for Telak, who rasped with laughter and pounded the table in front of her. It was true that she was much skinnier than the bulky Varak, and her scales were a bright emerald compared to his more earthy hue, with only one stripe of brighter green running from his forehead down his back.

"Mag man stupid," she said. "Strong, but stupid."

Mag was blushing with embarrassment now, and wondering how many of the other lizard women he'd mistaken for men. He cursed himself inwardly for assuming every lizard he met was male. Of course there were bound to be plenty of female lizards, he'd just thought, ignorantly, that the difference would be more obvious. Did I think they'd all have great big tits or something?

"Mag man think all lizards male?" asked Varak, as if reading his thoughts, and rasped out a laugh. The lizard pounding him hard on the back. "Not worry. Varak and Telak find nice lizard female for Mag man to lie with. Learn difference very well then."

Mag shut up then, not really wanting to provoke any more of that kind of talk, for the thought of bedding a lizard concerned him greatly. What would I even do with one? He tried to imagine kissing Telak, and how he'd avoid cutting his tongue on all those sharp teeth. Did lizardfolk even kiss? And what did they really have going on down between their legs? These were questions he wasn't sure he wanted the answer to.

After that he decided it was probably better to just be quiet and pay attention. So he enjoyed the meal and the smoke and watched the open circle in the center of the hall. A group of performers was demonstrating a quick and complicated dance where four lizards passed each other closely, turned, and passed again, each time weaving a slightly different pattern. A drummer beat the rhythm on a large instrument that made a deep, rumbling sound, and a flutist played a kind of oversized panpipes in accompaniment.

When the performance was over, all the lizards thumped their tails on the stones in applause. Mag just clapped and stomped his feet, unsure of what else to do, but nobody seemed to mind. As the performers bowed and departed Varak jumped to his feet without warning and walked into the center of the chamber. To Mag's surprise, he addressed his crowded tribesmen in common.

"Guest tonight is human called Mag. Very brave and strong. Slay Soulkin called Norn. But Varak say that if Mag man could defeat Norn, then Varak could also. Varak say Mag man not equal of lizard. What Mag man say? Accept Varak challenge?"

Mag realized what was happening then. He'd seen challenged like this last time he visited the hollow. So it's a fight you want, eh? He laughed, slammed down the cup of cider he'd been nursing, and jumped to his feet.

"Hell yes I accept," Mag called in return. "You ain't so tough, Varak."

Varak translated Mag's reply for the crowd, who hissed with approval, excited at the prospect of a wrestling match between the human vagabond and a proud lizard warrior. Mag was pretty excited himself, if he was being honest. He'd never fought a lizard clansman, and he wondered how he'd stack up against Varak. Mag unbuckled his weapons, yanked off his boots, and peeled off his shirt before stalking into the center. Varak had discarded his polearm and stood clad only in his skirt. Some lizard or other came forward with a block of yellow chalk and drew a circle on the ground around them.

"Only two rules," said Varak. "One. No poke eye, no bite. Two. Loser is first out of ring, or give up, or cannot fight anymore."

"Got it," said Mag. "When do we begin?"

"Now," said Varak, and he dropped into a low stance, hunkered forward, arms wide.

Mag copied him, spreading his legs to plant himself, leaning forward to meet any attack the lizard fighter might make. He'd seen lizards wrestle before and had a vague idea of their technique: overpower the other wrestler and throw him if you can. Given the relative size difference between himself and Varak, Mag didn't think it very likely he'd be able to beat the lizard with brute force, and throwing him was out of the question. He decided the only hope was to use the lizard's own weight and strength against him, as he had the Soulkin.

They circled each other warily, Varak flicking the air with his tongue, Mag watching the lizard's feet to see when his weight shifted. There was only the barest tell before Varak charged, barrelling towards Mag with alarming speed for a creature so big, but Mag was quicker. He spun out of the way, slapping Varak in the side of the head as he passed.

The lizard was off-balance now and rounded on Mag, but he'd closed into punching range now and clocked Varak a solid blow across his chin before the lizard got his arms up to guard. Varak back off, wary now, and Mag advanced slowly, knowing that if it came to a straight trade of blows he'd probably lose.

Varak struck out with a kick and Mag took it on the thigh, the blow radiating pain through his leg. He twisted away, avoiding Varak's follow-up, and dove in low, hoping to catch the lizard by the legs and get him on the ground. Mag got his arms hooked around Varak's thigh and heaved with all his might, feeling the lizard lose his balance and topple over. They were near the edge of the ring now, and Mag figured he might have a chance if he could grapple Varak over the line.

But as Mag scrambled to pin the lizard down, Varak whipped his tail out savagely, smacking Mag in the face and filling his head with bright, painful stars. When he came to, Mag was lying in an awkward heap on the ground, halfway out of the circle. He was too woozy to even register that he'd lost, but he felt a pair of strong arms haul him to his feet, where he leaned heavily against some surprisingly smooth greenish-brown scales. He was aware of his arm being raised, and lizards thumping their tails around him to create a great cacophony.

"Did I win?" he slurred.

"No," hissed Varak. "But Mag man fight like lizard. Great honor. Tribe accept Mag man."

Mag brightened up, his senses returning, and he basked in the adulation of the crowd. Varak led him back to their seats, where he was happy to sit down and nurse his hurts with a pipe of thack. Two more lizards jumped forward to take their turn at wrestling as Mag took a deep pull of the herb.

"Not really a fair fight," he said, exhaling. "I don't have a tail."

"No," said Varak. "But good fighter would account for tail. All attack, no defend."

Mag burst out laughing, so loud that he drew the concerned attention of several lizards nearby. Varak hissed some words of explanation to them, and they turned their attention back to the show. This second match was more of the traditional lizard style, with the two combatants levering their great bulks against one another, slowly driving backwards towards the circle's edge, until one managed to grasp the other firmly and toss him out of the ring. Amidst all the tail thumping applause, Varak leaned over and spoke in Mag's ear.

"Mag man all right? Can find place to sleep without Varak?"

"Sure," said Mag. "Why, you leaving the celebration early?"

"Varak mate with Telak now," said the lizard in his even monotone.

Mag glanced over, eyebrows raised, and saw now that the emerald-colored lizard had moved next to Varak and leaned against him, nuzzling the larger warrior with her snout. Their tails had entwined together as well.

"Oh," said Mag, smiling a bit wolfishly. "Well, you two have fun. We'll catch up in the morning."

Varak nodded, saying nothing more. He and his companion rose and headed off down one of the countless hallways towards a private chamber where they could enjoy some time alone. Mag had half a mind to follow them and spy on the show, just to know what it was like. Did those tails get in the way? Could they go more than once in a night? He chuckled, imagining his friend and Telak together. It didn't seem as strange as it had an hour ago. Varak, you dog. Good for you.

He thought back to Norn. Not so long ago he'd been locked in the witch's intimate embrace, and his cock was still a bit sore from the encounter. That had been easily the best fuck he'd ever had, and the most draining too. Mag wondered if he'd ever see the witch again. And he wondered if he and Varak would be able to squeeze that reward out of the humans in Seleca. He shrugged. That was for tomorrow. For tonight was wrestling, and mutton, and cider, and thack.

***

In the finely tended gardens of the Ducal Palace, Marilla Silver was watching the sun go down. She was walking among the chrysanthemums and the marigolds on the winding stone path that curved beneath the shade of an ancient elm, pretending that she was deep in the Selecan Forest, far from the palace and the city, with no other human around for miles and miles. And here in the lush gardens, replete with flora of all kinds, the walls of shrubs so high they obscured everything else from sight, she could almost believe it.

A dying rose bush caught her eye, and Marilla sighed sadly. She did her best, she really did, but Seleca was on the northern reaches of the kingdom, and relatively high in elevation compared to central Cairen. Some plants tolerated the cooler climate better than others. Her pink roses, unfortunately, did not care for the Selecan air, nor the chill of late summer evenings. Marilla sympathized. She also would have preferred to be someplace else.

There was nothing to be done today. Perhaps tomorrow she could return with some shears, prune the dying flowers, and save the rest if possible. For now, in the red light of dusk, she was seeking a private moment. It had been a long day. The new mine expansion was nearly ready to go, but there were endless suppliers to haggle with, and surveyors to consult, and craftsmen to hire. Soon enough she would be expected in the Great Hall for supper with her father's retainers and guests to celebrate the new source of silver soon to fill the Duchy's coffers.

Needless to say, today there had been little time to tend her gardens, let alone her own needs. Marilla was hoping to find her secluded gazebo, hike up the skirt of her dress, and engage in the easement of spinsters before the duties of state summoned her back again. It had been far too long since she'd had a partner to aid her in that regard, and anyway, she found she knew her own wants better than most fumbling men.

Seldom few appreciated her that way, anyway. She hadn't the pale, delicate beauty of the ladies popular in Cairen City. Her skin was tanned from sun, her dress a simply green affair far from high fashion. She didn't much care to paint her face, and she kept her chestnut hair in a useful, if intricate, braid. Her hands were much-calloused from working in the garden, which she found a much more rewarding use for them than endless sewing. At least her breasts were large and firm, she mused, and her backside ample and tight. Those were usually the first things men noticed about her. And in sadly many cases, the only things.

Marilla was nearing her goal, her skin warming with anticipation of private relief, when a voice broke in from across the gardens, shattering her plans.

"Marilla! Where are you, my lady?"

It was Renton Palster, her father's personal private secretary, and she could hear the desperation in his quavering voice. Marilla considered ignoring Palster and going to her gazebo anyway, but he'd only continue shouting, perhaps even discovering her in the midst of flagrancy. With a heavy, dejected sigh, Marilla turned on her heels and followed the twisting path back the way she'd come.

"Here, Renton," she called back.

She heard Palster before she saw him. He was blundering and crashing into bushes, tripping and squawking maladroitly as he ran towards the sound of her voice. Presently he sprawled into view, falling out of a tangle of mulberry bushes into the path. Marilla couldn't help a smile, despite her annoyance. The secretary was a clumsy, nervous wreck of a man, but he'd always been kind to her and truly seemed to mean well, even if he was a bit hapless. Marilla pulled him to his feet and helped him pick the thorns from his doublet.

"Thank you, my lady," said the breathless Palster. "These gardens are truly a labyrinth. I don't know how you manage them."

"The same way you manage my father's finances, I'm sure," said Marilla. "With great care and attention. You've a talent for that I've never had."

He beamed broadly at the compliment. Palster was a tall and reedy man, with a shock of white hair that never seemed to succumb to comb or brush. His fine clothes always seemed a bit too baggy for his thin frame, giving him a perpetually unkempt appearance. Perhaps that's why he's never married.

"I'm sure you could steward the coin just as well as I, my lady," said Palster. "If you devoted as much time to it as you did your flowers. Someday you'll succeed your father after all."

"Let's hope that day is still far off," said Marilla. "Well, what has you seeking me so urgently?"

"Ah!" said Palster, straightening up as he remembered himself. "Yes. Of course. There are visitors to the palace who require your urgent attention. With your father ill, I thought it best you greet them."

Marilla frowned. Ill or not, her father didn't generally greet visitors personally. Palster or some other functionary could handle that. "What sort of visitors could require my personal attention?" she asked.

"Ah," said Palster, and he stammered as he searched for the words. "This, ah, is related to the matter, of, ah, the reward your father recently offered for the, ah, Soulkin, one Norn, which, as you'll recall, was posted at the great urging of Magus Brand. These persons claim to have brought with them a, ah, trophy with which to claim the reward. I thought it best that you, as the personage of the Duchy in your father's stead, greet them before, ah, well, that is to say. Um." He trailed off, clearing his throat at great length.

But he didn't need to say anymore. Marilla understood completely. Brand. I should have known. The Magus had insisted that the reward be offered, even as he had insisted on the new expansion to the silver mines. Her father, weak and ill as he was, had acquiesced, despite Palster's reservations and Marilla's own. And now some idiots had turned up to try and claim the ridiculous fortune offered for the death of some Soulkin bugbear that probably never existed at all. If Brand actually paid the ransom, the ducal treasury would be all but bankrupt. Can't have that, obviously.

But Brand, as the advisor appointed to their court by the Council of Magi, enjoyed a measure of respect second only to the Duke's family, and it wasn't Palster's place to cross him. Thus his summoning of Marilla to do it instead.

"We'd better hurry, then," said Marilla.

She led the way from the gardens - Palster would probably have been lost forever on his own - and soon enough they had reached the edge of the immense walled courtyard. Marilla felt like she was stepping from the pages of a storybook into depressing reality once more. They left the rich plant life behind and entered the palace proper, its stone walls painted blue and silver, the colors of her house. Now Palster took over, nearly jogging along an animated path through the halls and passages of her home. They passed tapestries bearing the coat of arms of the House of Silver, the pick and the coin that had won them their name and title. Servants bowed, and said "My Lady," and got out of the way. Normally Marilla would have stopped to politely converse, but they were in a hurry. They reached the side door of the reception chamber near the palace's entrance. Marilla could hear loud voices from within, one of which she recognized as Brand, and she motioned for Palster to halt. Pressing her ear to the door, Marilla listened.

"This trophy is... most impressive, sir," came the admittedly pleasing tenor of Brand's voice. "Please tell me how you came by it."

"The fuck you mean, 'how I came by it?'" This new voice was a deep baritone, male, obviously, and sounded calm but somewhat aggressive. "I killed Norn, like the handbill said."

"I understand you have slain this creature, my good fellow. What I wonder about is, for the purposes of this reward, which is quite considerable: how may we be sure that it is, in fact, the being known as Norn?"

"Mag man not liar." A third voice now, somewhat rasping and sibilant, the common tongue sounding foreign as he spoke. A lizard? In the palace? This was a surprising development. Most lizardfolk stayed far from the city if they could help it.

"Gentle lizard, I do not mean to impune your companion's honor," said Brand, in that obsequious way he had. "But if you explained the tale to me in detail, perhaps I could satisfy my own fiduciary obligations to my lord, and satisfy your request for payment as well."

Why is he dissembling? Brand was the one who had urged the posting of the reward, after all. Why now is he hesitant to pay it? Do these people have the trophy or not?

"What the fuck does 'fiduciary' mean?" Baritone again, sounding a bit agitated now.

"It simply means I must safeguard my lord's interests. Two thousand gold pieces is quite a lot of money, after all."

"Yeah, well, he offered it. Why can't the Duke come talk to me himself?"

"I am afraid Lord Silver is indisposed. He suffers from a persistent malady that keeps him bedridden most of the day. As the Magus assigned to his court by the Council of Magi, I am empowered to speak on his behalf."

"Humans strange." The lizard again, his tone even and clipped. "All talk, no do. Duke not meet, Duke not pay. What good Duke?"

He's got a point.

"I assure you, my friend, the Duke is an honorable man. But he is also a cautious one. He thinks before he acts. This is the way of doing things in the human world. Perhaps your clan could learn from our example."

Marilla heard some agitated hissing in the lizard's own tongue, which she understood only the barest amount of, but she gathered the reptile was not happy with this statement.

"My companion doesn't like your tone, wizard. Say something like that again and maybe you'll find out how your silly little magic tricks stand up to good steel."

Marilla decided that was the right time to make her entrance. She threw the door open, gliding smoothly into the room, Palster hot on her heels, near apoplectic with worry. The three occupants of the reception room focused their attention on her, momentarily forgetting the brewing conflict she'd interrupted.

Magus Brand sat behind a solid oak desk, his hands folded before him. He wore a cream and silver robe, and his spellbook sat near at hand, a thick tome bound in heavy, dark brown leather and held shut by a bronze clasp. Brand had handsome features, neither too soft nor too stern, an easy serenity to him. His long black hair was tied back in a tail that trailed nearly to the floor behind him. If he was perturbed at Marilla's interruption, he didn't show it.