The Fell Sword Read Free

said the giant.
    Mortirmir shrugged. ‘Leave the lady alone,’ he said.
    The taverna had fallen silent. Every eye was on him, and he felt a fool – the more so as the giant was a head taller than he and would probably have his guts for garters, and he knew – with bitter remonstrance – that he was too stubborn to back down now.
    ‘Whore,’ said the giant. He shrugged. ‘If you want to fight me – I like a fight. Outside, though. Inside, we’ll be arrested.’
    Mortirmir had never been called a whore before, but he knew it meant a fight. He wasn’t walking too well, but the jolt of pure spirit that came to him as he rounded the table steadied him. With his left hand he reached ino his purse and scattered coins on the table – any gentleman would do as much.
    That jolt of the spirit – was it fear? It was like the levin-power that the natural philosophy magisters produced out of the metal globes, and his fingers tingled.
    The giant backed steadily away from him. ‘Put the sword away, and we’ll have a proper fight,’ he said. ‘If you insist on using it I’ll probably kill you. She’s a whore, younker. Wake up.’
    Mortirmir had the sense, just, to slide the sword back into the scabbard, and he did it without much fumbling. He felt as if the giant nodded at him in approval. He looked back and saw that the Morean lady was scooping his coins off the table.
    He took his time out in the yard, unbuckling his sword belt. The giant was huge. He sounded like a Nordikan, the foreigners that the Emperor kept for his bodyguard.
    Dozens of men poured out of the taverna’s open doors into the hot summer night, and a few women with them. The giant pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a body that seemed to be composed of sharply angled slabs of flesh-coloured rock. He had muscles on top of his muscles.
    Mortirmir was wearing his best jupon, and he took it off carefully, folded it, and wished he had a friend to hold his purse. He wished, in fact, that he had a friend at all.
    ‘I just want so say you’re a brave little shit to take me on, and I intend to make you look good before I put you down,’ the giant said. ‘And you need to know that she’s a prostitute, and even now she’s watching your purse like a drunk watches a new vase of wine.’ His Archaic had a strange accent. ‘I like her – she’s my favourite.’ The huge man shrugged. ‘I’d even share her with you if we were sword brothers.’
    Mortirmir laughed. It was insane, but he was suddenly released . He was happy. His laugh rang out, and men betting in the doorway listened and bets changed a little – not much, but a little. He wanted death – no suicide required.
    ‘I’m ready,’ he said.
    The big man bowed. ‘Harald Derkensun,’ he said. ‘Of the Guard.’
    Mortirmir returned the bow. ‘Morgan Mortirmir,’ he said. ‘Of the University.’
    At that, men in the crowd roared. The Academy was loved and hated in the city – a bastion of brilliance and a nest of heretics, all in one.
    Mortirmir was not untrained. He began to move on his toes as his father’s master-at-arms had taught him, and, with nothing to lose, his first attack was all-out. He stepped forward in mock hesitancy and kicked – hard – at his opponent’s knee.
    He connected – not with the giant’s knee, but lower, and the giant hopped, off balance, and Morgan moved in, suddenly sober enough to do this, and landed a strong right with a right foot lunge, actually rocking the giant back half a step when he connected with the man’s gut.
    Mortirmir felt as if he’d punched a barn. But he changed feet and tried another kick—
    And had to pick himself out of the manure heap. He’d missed the move that flung him a body length across the torchlit night, but while he was more odiferous for his fall he was uninjured, and he bounced back at his opponent, who seemed to be made of iron.
    ‘That’s one fall,’ said the giant. ‘Good kick. Very good, really.’ The huge