Heart of a Warrior

26

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BRITTANY WAS NERVOUS AS ALL HELL, AND BEING AFRAID that it was obvious only increased it. She'd worn a pullover sweater today with her jeans, so she could conceal the Altering Rod up her sleeve for easy access. Since City Hall was air-conditioned, she'd figured she'd be okay in the thick winter sweater and had been comfortable-until she came face-to-face with Jorran. She was sweating now.

How did she get herself into this mess? This was no longer just helping a man she'd flipped over locate a wacko foreign thief. That had seemed easy, something anyone could have done, adventurous even. These people were dangerous. She had little doubt that the fat man's "dispose of" was of the permanent sort. This was a play for power, serious power. With that kind of stake involved, they wouldn't care who got hurt-or died-in the process.

And where the hell was Dalden? One of the newspeople had told the mayor they were having camera trouble, that someone had pulled the plug on their connection, so it would be a few more minutes before they were ready for his speech. That speech was going to turn this town upside down if Dalden didn't do something before Sullivan had a chance to speak.

Or if she didn't.

What would be the chance of her using the rod she had up her sleeve on Jorran before one of his two bruiser bodyguards put her out of commission? She wouldn't have to say much, just tell him to call this off, well, maybe also mention that he didn't want to be mayor-or president, maybe even suggest that he should go home.

She was standing close enough to him to do it. He'd moved in front of her, was so close that the few extra inches he had on her was blocking a good portion of the room from her view. But then the rotund fellow named Alrid was standing just as close to her at her back…

God, should she take the chance, or wait and see if Dalden was in the crowd gathering behind the camerapeople? She peered over Jorran's shoulder to get a better view of the room, hoping to spot the big guy, and caught her breath when she did. He was there and marching purposely toward the gathering in front of the mayor's offices. But half naked and with a sword in his hand? A sword, for crying out loud?

Jorran had seen him, too. Jorran was smiling, not at all confused by what he was seeing the way she was. They knew each other. That was apparent. Perhaps Jorran hadn't noticed the sword yet.

He turned to tell his men, "A Sha-Ka'ani warrior among us, how interesting. Do not interfere. This is going to be my pleasure."

"Jorran, if there is one, there will be more." There was distinct worry in Alrid's voice, in his expression as well. "We should-"

"Enjoy the diversion," Jorran cut in. "They are men, subject to the rods just like any other, and will make excellent bodyguards for me after my empire is established. But this one's family thwarted my plans. This one dies. The rest that we find, we will tame."

Such confidence went beyond mere bravery, it was certain knowledge of having a huge advantage. Brittany couldn't see what that advantage might be. Jorran lacked the muscle, the height, the brawn to compete with someone of Dalden's immense stature physically in close combat, which the sword Dalden held seemed to suggest he had in mind to do. How, then, did Jorran think to win without a gun or other long-distance-type weapon that could stop him before he was within arms' reach? And he had no weapon of that sort…

He had something. It was taken from the pocket of his coat before he shrugged out of it and tossed it at Alrid. A tube of some sort, it looked like, no more than six inches in length, grasped in his right hand. But it wasn't pointed at Dalden, it was squeezed, which caused an extension to shoot out of it, a little more than three feet of shining metal that was so thin, it could barely be seen if viewed from the side.

"What the hell is that?"

She said it aloud. Alrid heard her and answered, "A razor sword, capable of slicing a man in half with little effort. The Sha-Ka'ani is about to find that out."

Brittany blanched, and was rendered nearly immobile by the accompanying weakness that spread through her limbs. Jorran had said it. Alrid had just confirmed it. The plan was to kill Dalden, not just stop him or use the rod on him.

It was so utterly bizarre, that scene in the middle of City Hall. A bare-chested giant in tight jeans and knee-high boots with what looked like an old-fashioned transistor radio hooked to his belt, a mammoth sword in hand. And what appeared to be no more than a simple businessman in tailored slacks, silk shirt, and tie, with something hooked to his belt as well, a round disk flat on the side facing him, the size of an orange-and a sword so thin it couldn't really be called a sword, was more like an exaggerated razor blade.

It was no wonder everyone there was staring open-mouthed, disbelieving. People just didn't come into City Hall carrying swords and looking like they intended to use them. But then she noticed that one man was ignoring the two facing off in the center of the room. Corth II was there, and working his way around the side toward Jorran's bodyguards.

She came to life herself then, figured the tall though lean fellow was going to need help with the two bruisers, and she was the least likely to raise their suspicions. She started with Alrid, whom she needed to get past to reach the other two, touched his arm and told him he couldn't move or speak. She did the same with one of the bodyguards, but wasn't quick enough to reach the other before Corth II did.

The bodyguard might look the stupid sort, but apparently he wasn't. He recognized the threat to himself immediately and used his own rod on Corth II. Brittany was close enough to hear Martha's son say, "Sorry, big guy, but those don't work on me," before he grasped the offending hand touching him and, with absolutely no effort, broke it.

She didn't stop to wonder why Corth II was immune to the rods when no other man seemed to be. She was in active mode herself, and went ahead and used her rod on the bodyguard, telling him the same thing she had the other two, though she added for him, "You feel no pain."

Corth II chuckled at that, and told her, "You're too soft, beautiful."

"No, I'm just having a nervous breakdown," she answered in an agitated tone, "since nothing going on here right now makes any sense."

Others were beginning to be of the same opinion. The immobilizing initial shock had worn off, and now gasps, shouts, a general sense of panic were going on-and the loud clash of metal. Brittany turned to see that Dalden and Jorran had engaged in combat, and the audience, not having believed it could possibly have come to that, was reacting normally, some backing away intent on getting the hell out of there, some calling for the police, the newspeople avidly watching, those with cameras shooting the fight.

The people trying to leave the building were in for yet another surprise, no less equal to Brittany's, though, when she noticed the exits to the building were presently blocked, The several men standing there keeping anyone from entering or leaving were just as tall as Dalden, just as brawny, just as barechested, golden-skinned, golden-haired-actually, identical to Dalden except for their facial features, and with sword belts strapped to their hips. It was the identical part that gave her a clue. She didn't know how they'd done it, but it had to be an illusion, those extra bodies, to make Jorran and his people think the odds had just been upped in favor of the Sha-Ka'anis. She did what she could to alleviate some of the panic, working her way quickly through the crowd, repeating over and over, "It's a local theater troupe, enjoy the performance, nothing to be alarmed about." The spectators could now discount any blood they saw as fake. She wished she could as well. She had been deliberately avoiding looking out in the center of the room herself. She still heard the clash of metal on metal, knew they were still at it, but couldn't bear to watch. She stopped by Corth to demand, "Why don't you help him disarm Jorran and get it over with?"

"He would dismantle me if I presumed to interfere in his personal fight," Corth II replied. "Warriors are touchy about such things.

"Dismantle?" she growled. "I'll dismantle you myself if he gets hurt."

A smile. "As long as there is life, he can be fully repaired." What an odd way to say doctors could patch you up, if the wounds weren't mortal. His lack of worry should have reassured her. It didn't. And she finally looked toward the center of the room-and wished she hadn't. It was impossible to turn her eyes away now.

Blood was splattered on the white floor, though not too much of it, and apparently just Jorran's so far. There was a minor gash on his upper left arm that had cut the silk sleeve and left a red path in the material to his elbow. But most of the blood was conning from his nose and a cut on his cheek, which indicated that the flat of Dalden's sword might have smashed against his face.

Neither injury stopped the whirlwind motion of Jorran's other arm, which held his weapon. It was nonstop, his efforts to slice into Dalden, and with such speed, it was fairly obvious the razor sword weighed next to nothing. But he was having no success yet, because Dalden's arm shields, rather than his own sword, were constantly there to meet the razor blade and slide it off harmlessly to the side.

Dalden was also using his own weapon, just not as one might expect. When Jorran extended his reach too far in his impatience to inflict damage, Dalden grasped Jorran's right wrist to prevent another swing and slammed his own sword against a vulnerable spot, but with the flat of his blade, not the edge. He could have disarmed him. He could have killed him. He cracked ribs and broke noses instead.

"He's just playing with him," Brittany said aloud, some annoyance now mixed in with her worry.

"Yes," Corth II agreed.

"But Jorran isn't."

"No, indeed."

"Then why take the chance that Jorran will get lucky?" she demanded.

"Because he's a warrior."

"So instead of getting the job done by the easiest and quickest means possible, he's got to do the macho thing instead? That's positively medieval."

"Actually, barbaric would better describe it," was Corth II's reply.

It was said with that cheeky grin of his, as if it were some kind of inside joke she should have grasped. She didn't, and it made Brittany want to hit him, a barbaric impulse of her own. Was she the only one who could see the difference, that macho grandstanding was misplaced when life hung in the balance?