By Force of Arms by William C. Dietz Read Free Book Online

of the occasion, and flapped back and forth.
    The rocks offered a sort of rough and ready seating and were half occupied by the time the Ramanthian party made its way down from the hill on which they had landed and entered the crater.
    The War Omo had been there before, on three different occasions, to test the surface on which he would fight. Yes, he knew each dip, each patch of gravel, and each pocket of sand. Critical knowledge, given the fact that good footing is one of the most critical components of good swordsmanship.
    The Hudathan was big, very big, and that meant slow. Slow and potentially clumsy. There was power in those shoulders, however, the kind of power generated by an internalized skeleton, and a mistake could be fatal.
    Senator Alway Omo removed his counterpart’s cape, took pride in the way he looked, and stepped out of the way.
    A buzz ran through the crowd. Balanced on his powerful retrograde legs, his chitin shiny with oil, the Ramanthian was very imposing. There was the rasp of high grade steel as Horgo drew his weapon, slashed the air into four equal sections, and restored the blade to its scabbard. The odds changed again. The cabal and its champion were favored to win.
    Maylo made an adjustment to her nose plugs and spoke to her uncle. The words had a nasal quality. “That was impressive.”
    “Ceremonial displays usually are,” the industrialist observed. “It’s what happens when blade meets blade that matters.”
    The sun was hot, but Maylo shivered.
    DomaSa looked strangely vulnerable as he entered the arena. His robe flapped around his knees, and he carried a bundle bound with twine. He paused, turned a long slow circle, and nodded as if satisfied. Then, with the care of a surgeon preparing her instruments, he gave a tug on the string, and flicked the roll toward the east. Dust spurted up around the edges of the fabric as the quilt-like material hit the orange-red dirt. Sunlight rippled along the surface of the thousand-year-old blade
    It was called Head Taker and had been handed down through DomaSa’s family the way all things of value were allocated: by force. Like all such weapons, it had two edges, one straight, one with razor-sharp teeth.
    Another buzz ran through the crowd. Did the Hudathan know how to use the weapon? Why have such an implement if he didn’t? The odds turned and surged the other way.
    That’s when DomaSa dropped his robe, the audience watched his skin shift toward white, and realized how big he truly was. Leather crossstraps bulged where they sought to span his chest, muscles rippled along massive arms, and his legs looked like tree trunks. The diplomat bent to take the sword. Light danced the length of the blade and more bets were placed.
    A robot named Harold had been designated to officiate the event. His day suit had been painted on. A hover cam appeared. Once shiny metal had been dulled by hard use. Maylo knew who the device belonged to. Though unwilling or unable to venture out onto the surface of their planet, the Arballazanies were interested nonetheless. Somewhere, far below, they watched as Harold made his way to the center of the arena.
    Harold motioned the duelists forward. His voice was amplified. “Before the duel begins, before blood is shed, the President begs both parties to reconsider. The Confederacy is built on the rule of taw, not violence, and there are equitable ways in which to solve our differences. Will one or both parties yield to reason? No? Then let the contest begin.”
    There was no salute, no words of respect, since neither one of the opponents was willing to honor the other’s traditions. They circled to the right. The Hudathan held his weapon in the onguard position, his torso turned slightly inward, his rear arm touching his hip.
    The Ramanthian shuffled sideways, watching the way DomaSa held himself, and waited for the attack. Though too young to fight in the last war, Horgo had studied it, and drawn certain conclusions.