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Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!
They brought him and Trip to the fighting-ground at about noon the next day.
T'Pol would have come with them, declaring that she was perfectly well enough to do so, but it was apparently forbidden for a woman to witness a duel. She stayed in the tent, wishing him success as he left. Vulcans, it seemed, didn't believe in 'luck'.
It was rather overwhelming to walk through what felt like a small village of tents, laid out in rows with military precision, and be the focus of so many eyes. Naturally word had spread. As soon as the visitors emerged they were the subject of intense curiosity. Mahé'lanné had given orders that they were not to be impeded in any way, but a crowd soon gathered and followed along behind them, murmuring and whispering. The sensation of being a rare exhibit being put on display for the first time was rather unpleasant. And these bloody people were so tall.
The duel was to be fought out in a cleared space at the far side of the camp. A section of meadow had been trampled flat and marked out with ropes bound around stakes hammered upright into the earth. Quite a number of people were already there waiting, having arrived early to make sure to get the best view.
On one side a low wooden dais held a solitary chair, empty as yet. The Emperor's second-in-command would hardly be expected to jostle with the common crowd to watch what went on.
Reaching the field of combat, Malcolm and Trip ducked under the rope and stood waiting. Trip was pale and grim, Malcolm shifting gently on the spot to keep his body loose (he'd spent the last twenty minutes warming up) and smiling a small cruel smile that had its origins long before his service aboard Enterprise, was part of the world of Section 31 and half a dozen dirty little knife fights he'd survived.
Moments later an opening lane in the crowd announced the arrival of Mahé'lanné and Atio'annan. Along with them came the lieutenant's opponent. As the First Warlord mounted leisurely to the dais, the Healer accompanied the soldier into the ring.
It seemed rather odd that nobody was going to introduce them, but apparently this wasn't done either. Reed walked forward to stand facing his enemy, eyeing him with a stare that was deliberately flat, insolent, meant to to provoke.
Though by no means as tall as most of the others ringing the ground, the bird-man was the taller of the two of them by some measure. That was always going to be a given. He was also broader. Ditto. He was wearing the regulation tunic, tucked into the regulation belt. His face was neat and clever, like a peregrine falcon's, with black and cream feathers. The only difference was that the neck of the tunic was open, showing battle-scars on the muscular chest.
Scars weren't for survivors. Scars were for people who hadn't moved fast enough.
"The rules?" he asked a little disdainfully.
The Healer was carrying a wrapped bundle under his arm. He laid it on the ground and threw aside the wrappings. Perhaps it was imagination that he didn't look happy as he did so.
Two swords. Two knives. No rules.
He looked up at the Human. "Your word has been challenged. You are allowed the choice."
"I choose – neither."
"Your enemy is then allowed to choose," Atio'annan warned.
Malcolm shrugged and stepped back. He watched the soldier bend and pick up a knife. The assassin's choice. He'd have picked that himself, of course, if he'd intended to use either.
The doctor looked at him a little helplessly. "You can still change your mind and take the other knife."
"Malcolm!" A hiss from behind him, which he chose to ignore. I don't tell you how to fix your engines.
Then the arena was empty, except for just the two of them.
Suddenly things felt better. Now he was on familiar territory.
He'd already sized up the ground; now, after retreating enough to allow himself a few seconds to finish loosening up (a proceeding that appeared to amuse the bird-people hugely) he came back to square up for the business of the day, watching carefully for any clues he might get from the opening move. It wouldn't pay to underestimate the man because he was big: all of these soldiers were, compared to the average human. They even towered over Trip. There was no way of saying why his opponent had been selected to represent the rest, either. It might be because he was particularly good, or just because he was the smallest among them and therefore it seemed fairer – though going down that route was dangerous. His best option was to watch and wait. True, it wasn't going to be half as easy to read intention in those inhuman eyes, and as for facial expressions he might as well try to interpret a brick wall. But the whole success of the endeavor rested on him now, and in this kind of situation, as far as he was concerned failure was not an option.
He was as ready now as he'd ever be. The bandage was no longer on his head, and the wound wasn't even hurting, though perhaps that was just because of the adrenaline coursing through his body. He was well aware that his opponent would have heard about that weakness, even if he could no longer see exactly where the injury was. He'd have to watch out for any attempt to take advantage of it,
The ring of watchers disappeared from his consciousness. He dropped immediately into a fighting crouch. Deliberately he blocked the knife from the uppermost level of his thoughts. It would only distract him if he paid it too much attention.
The first lunge told him what he needed to know. It was fast and dangerous: his opponent was a clever and well-trained fighter, certainly no half-trained butcher in armor, but then so was he. He evaded it without too much difficulty and landed a slamming backhanded blow to his foe's body with the blade of his hand. Had he been dealing with a human he'd have expected to break at least one rib with it. As it was, it fetched a grunt, but seemed to have little more effect than that, while the shock of it numbed his arm almost to the elbow.
So much for fighting clean. He rolled to get himself more space and revised his options. Right now an offensive battle was not going to work in his favour; he had to concentrate on staying alive and watching for an opportunity. Sooner or later one would present itself. He just had to make sure he was still in a position to take advantage of it, for he doubted that there would be a second. Still, he had hours and hours of training under his belt for just such a situation, and he was cool and confident. This was brawn versus brain, and given care – rather than overconfidence – brain would win.
The noise from the audience reached him distantly. It indicated that they did not approve of his tactics. Obviously they were not used to a fighter who slid away from attacks instead of countering them or making his own in response. But time and time again the blade went flickering past a blue-clad side or over a shoulder, while its wielder grew at first puzzled and then angry and then contemptuous. His anger did not make him any less dangerous, of course, just a very little less wary. His frustration was palpable. It took little imagination to deduce that in his eyes the small otherworlder was like a darting terrified lizard, difficult to trap. The more entrenched he became in that view, however, the more he would forget that some lizards are venomous….
Malcolm bided his time. He allowed a couple of strikes to come closer than was comfortable; one nicked his uniform, taking with it a tag of skin and leaving behind a bright red line across the skin beneath. He hadn't intended it to come quite that close, but it was no more than a scratch, and it would serve his purpose. The bully thought he had his measure now, that he was worn down or getting careless. The roar of applause that greeted this was premature. He'd established a pattern now, and he simply waited for the attack he wanted that should finish the matter.
It did. The blade came in fast and low, and if he'd been a split second slower it would have gutted him. He seized the wrist behind the blade, twisted the outstretched arm in the wrong direction and hurled his weight down on it. There was a double crack as the arm popped at the shoulder and the elbow joint broke, and the knife dropped from a hand that could no longer grasp it. A vicious kick sent the disabled soldier sprawling – a snake with a broken back can still bite – and the lieutenant stooped, adder-swift, and snatched up the weapon. Instantly he revolved it in his fingers and raised it to throw. None watching doubted his ability or his accuracy, or his willingness to finish the job, and his fallen foe raised his uninjured arm in what was obviously a plea for mercy.
For long moment Reed stood poised, eyes glittering, then with a long breath he lowered the weapon and stepped back.
"Yes!" Trip punched the air and jumped over the ropes to clap the victorious lieutenant on the back.
"The fight was fair. If unusual." Mahé'lanné held up a hand. "His life is yours, Lathaichan, to dispose of as you will."
"I don't want his bloody life. I want the services of an experienced doctor for my senior officer. As we agreed." Having proved his right to the title of 'warlord' by his victory, Malcolm was not likely to be particularly interested in its other fruits. Nor, with his body still pulsing with adrenaline, was he likely to exercise anything remotely resembling tact. "You do have such a thing?"
"It can be arranged." The First Warlord looked down indifferently at the soldier on the ground and nodded a command to his subordinates. "He has challenged a warlord. Take him away and kill him."
"No!" Reed had turned his back to exchange celebratory 'high fives' with Trip, but at this he spun around again, appalled.
Mahé'lanné too was turning away, and looked back in surprise. "Why not? He is your property, and you do not want him."
"I fought him because I needed you to believe us and help us, and because my officer's life's in danger. That was all. And he fought me because you ordered him to." There was a white line around the tactical officer's compressed mouth; standing beside him, Trip could feel the rage coming off him in waves. "He fought well. The only reason he lost is because he's not used to the way I fight. That's no bloody reason to kill him!"
The noble's deep eyes had narrowed slightly. "Do laithaichani on your world forgive those who rebel against them, then?"
"Nobody on my world kills without a reason," Malcolm spat back. "If I'd wanted him dead I could have killed him myself. The most valuable lessons I ever learned were from the people who beat me. If you kill everyone who loses, you'll never have anyone who learns anything!"
"I will have soldiers who understand the price of raising a hand against their superiors." The voice was flat and cold. "He knew the situation. If he had killed you, it would have proved you no lathaichan and he would have been rewarded for exposing your falsehood. But he did not, and he knows the penalty for rebellion. You are not on your world now, but on mine."
At this point Trip realized that it was time to intervene. It was the first time he had seen Malcolm exhibit this kind of raw aggression, and the revelation was troubling: Reed was usually so extremely self-contained. "If I can make a suggestion?" he said loudly. "Malcolm, if you don't want the guy as a slave and you don't want him killed, why don't you say what you do want done with him?" He trapped the grey glare, trying to make his lieutenant understand. At the edge of the crowd, Atio'annan was standing, watching with what appeared to be apprehension; a doctor who knew at least some of what would be necessary to restore even partial use to the arm of a man whose fighting days were probably over. Trip leaned closer. "Liz Cutler," he whispered.
"Liz...?" For a moment Malcolm looked completely blank. He'd spent more time trying to get away from Sickbay at any price than trying to get acquainted with the staff. Nevertheless, at some point the name of Dr Phlox's assistant must have registered with him – perhaps he'd heard it at some point when the Denobulan was ordering her to prevent him escaping as soon as his back was turned. The grin that he found from somewhere was more that of the mischievous friend Trip could recognize. "Right." He turned back to Mahé'lanné. "I've made my decision. I don't want him killed; if you say he's my property now, because that's the way it is on this world, he's mine to give away, yes?"
"That would follow." The nobleman watched him closely. So did his victim on the ground, the dark intelligent falcon-face waiting for his incalculable fate.
"Excellent." He picked up the knife, walked over and handed it, hilt first, to the doctor. "This was his property, he is my property, now they've both become your property."
There was a split second of absolute silence, and then Mahé'lanné started to laugh: genuine, hearty laughter, even if it was pitched strangely high for a man whose speaking voice was deep. "No warlord is complete who is not also cunning!"
The amusement spread rapidly on a rising volume. Admiration among these people was apparently expressed by pounding the breast with the flat of the hand, producing a loud drumming sound. Trip felt relief break over him like a wave, and at that moment he didn't even give a damn that Malcolm had collected all the credit for his idea.
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