DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (146 page)

He had to be. There could be no other explanation. But why, then, was he here, entered in a tournament that had nothing to do with the Touel’alfar? A knightly joust that had nothing at all to do with the calling of a ranger? Would Elbryan have entered a tournament?

No. Even had he heard of such a challenge, her husband would have had no reason to attend, and, indeed, his responsibilities to the reclusive folk who had trained him would have kept him far away.

To her thinking, Tai’maqwilloq’s presence here simply made no sense—unless it was somehow connected to her. He had proclaimed himself her champion, yet another clue that he was tied to Dasslerond’s people. But why? What message was the lady of Caer’alfar trying to send to her?

One other thing gnawed at the Queen’s curiosity: the horse. She couldn’t see much of the stallion’s features, for its chest and head were covered by decorative cloth and armor, but that stride! So long and powerful, the hind legs tucking way in under its belly, then exploding back with tremendous power. Pony knew that stride, had seen it in only one horse in all her life, one great horse who had taken Elbryan and Pony to the end of the world and back.

If Tai’maqwilloq’s horse was not Symphony, then it was as akin to Symphony as any horse could be! Pony considered the span of years. Even if Symphony had been a young colt when first Elbryan had found him, which she did not believe, then the horse would now be old, very old, in his twenties at least and likely into his thirties. Could a horse that old, and with so many difficult trails and trials behind him, still run like the steed of Tai’maqwilloq, with legs fluid and strong?

Perhaps it was Symphony’s offspring.

Pony reached into her pocket and put her hand around a soul stone. As she had done several times before during the joust, she reached out through the gemstone,
seeking that magical connection she had known with Symphony.

But if this was Symphony, if there was indeed a magical turquoise embedded in this horse’s muscular chest—a gem planted by Avelyn as a gift to Elbryan as a means through which he, and then Pony, could communicate with the intelligent horse—then she could not sense it.

The combatants had their weapons in hand then and were moving into position at opposite ends of the course, and the trumpeters put their horns to their lips.

Pony chewed her lower lip nervously.

B
rimming with confidence, Aydrian lowered his lance and drove in his heels, and Symphony leaped away. On the other side of the rail, Duke Kalas kicked his To-gai pony into a similar gallop.

Aydrian could see the pinto’s muscles working and knew that he would not hold too great an advantage, horse to pony, in this match. Superbly trained, intelligent, and pound for pound stronger than a draft horse, the To-gai ponies had earned their reputation as being among the finest mounts in the world. They were not small creatures—indeed many were not even true ponies, being taller than the fourteen-and-a-half hand defining height—and even the smallest of the Allheart mounts weighed a solid seven hundred pounds.

The riders neared and Aydrian focused on his opponent. Kalas was going straight for his shield, which seemed to be the custom for first pass, and so Aydrian did likewise, more than willing to trade crushing, punishing blows with the older Duke.

Besides, Aydrian didn’t want to end the fight too quickly—he knew that he was obligated to please the crowd.

Aydrian’s tip connected first, and he grinned beneath his helm—or started to, until his weakened lance shattered into several pieces before making any truly solid connection.

On the other hand, Kalas’ hit proved stunning, as strong an impact as young Aydrian had yet known, driving his shield arm back into his side with tremendous force.

And the Duke’s lance did not break!

Kalas drove on, the sturdy lance wrenching Aydrian’s arm up awkwardly—the young warrior heard his shoulder pop out of its joint. Then the lance slipped off the end of the twisting shield and smashed hard against the top of Aydrian’s breast.

The horses thundered by and Aydrian felt as if the world was spinning. He growled away the pain and the shock and stubbornly held his seat.

Or tried to, for in that moment of semiconsciousness, the young warrior’s magical hold on Symphony was no more, and Jilseponie’s call got through.

Symphony threw a great buck, and Aydrian went flying away, head over heels.

He landed facedown, his wounded arm beneath him. He heard the crowd cheering, cheering, and for a moment, felt giddy at the rousing sound.

But then he realized that they weren’t cheering for him.

Aydrian lifted his head and planted his right hand in the torn turf, then drove himself up onto his elbow. He looked around and had to wait a long moment before the dizziness began to subside.

Then he rose to his knees and then to his feet, and the crowd went wild again.

Aydrian spun, to see Kalas with another lance in hand. Stubbornly, the young man tore his broken and battered shield free of his left arm, then drew out his sword, presenting it in challenge to the mounted Duke.

“As you wish,” Duke Kalas mumbled, seeming more than pleased. He kicked his heels into the To-gai pony, lowering his lance as he charged.

Aydrian waited, waited, measuring the speed, turning his legs for the dodge he needed to make.

The lance rushed in at him. He started right, further aside, and Kalas, obviously anticipating what seemed like the only move, angled the lance appropriately.

But Aydrian pivoted back immediately, quickly stepping before the charging pony. He got bumped and would have gone down and been trampled, except that he kept his wits enough to toss Tempest aside as he rolled before the pony, then grabbed the beast’s right rein, balling his fist and pushing off the muscled neck as he came around, somehow avoiding the thumping hooves. In the same movement, and with muscles honed by his many years under the harsh instruction of the Touel’alfar, Aydrian turned alongside the passing horse and leaped.

He caught hold of the saddle first, then snapped his arm up around Duke Kalas. In an instant he was up behind the Duke on the pony, his right arm under Kalas’ armpit.

Aydrian tugged back with frightening strength, and the Duke went with him, yanking the bit so forcefully that the To-gai pony reared and neighed in protest.

Over and free of the horse went Aydrian, clutching the Duke, who landed under him on the muddy field.

As he caught his breath, Aydrian scrambled away on all fours—or all threes, since he kept his throbbing left arm tight against his chest—to retrieve Tempest.

He rose and turned, to see Kalas standing.

“Foul! Foul, I say!” the Duke yelled, lifting his helm and pointing Aydrian’s way. “He struck my mount!”

But the crowd would hear none of it, and neither, apparently, would King Danube, for the claim was truly without merit.

Kalas growled and replaced his helm, motioning for his attendant, who brought him a fine sword, thicker than Tempest, but seeming well balanced from the way Kalas twirled it.

“You will wish that they had granted the foul and ended your suffering,” Kalas promised as he came in ferociously, his sword cutting whistling swaths through the air.

Aydrian ducked as the blade swished by, then stabbed ahead suddenly, Tempest scoring the Duke’s shield, then jumped back again as Kalas slashed across with a
powerful backhand.

On came the Duke, roaring with every stride and every cut, nothing less than magnificent, and the crowd howled in appreciation.

But Aydrian knew the truth, if stubborn Kalas did not. The elven sword dance,
bi’nelle dasada
, had been designed specifically to combat this slashing and whirling fighting style, and though Kalas was better than most—better than any, perhaps, in this particular style—Aydrian found holes in his defenses repeatedly, and quickly stepped forward with a sudden thrust, Tempest chipping away at the Duke’s shield.

Ahead came Aydrian, another solid hit, and this time Tempest’s mighty blade drove through the shield, just below its top. Kalas backed and ducked, and Tempest pierced through.

With a roar, the Duke slashed once, twice, thrice, striding forward each time, and narrowly—so narrowly!—missing Aydrian’s head with each cut. The crowd gasped, once, twice, thrice, in accord with the deadly cuts.

They thought the Duke had the young knight dead. And Kalas, his expression one of complete elation, apparently believed the insurmountable advantage his.

Aydrian let that blade get close enough so that he could hear it breaking the air beside his head, let the Duke press forward, let the crowd lose their collective breath.

He sent his thoughts into the serpentine and the ruby, enacting a shield and setting his blade aflame, then stepped back, bending his knees so that he went down beneath the fourth cut, then came up strong, his fiery sword ringing against the side of Kalas’ heavier blade.

A fiery sword! The people of Ursal had never seen such a thing!

Now Aydrian played the Duke’s game to dazzling perfection, spinning his blade to perfectly complement the movements of the other sword, parrying here, swishing beneath or above there. He worked his feet fast, not back and forth, but in a dancing, roundabout manner that had both Aydrian and the Duke spinning. The young warrior got one advantage and darted behind Kalas’ flank, smashing the length of Tempest’s blade across Kalas’ armored back, a ringing hit but one that did little damage to anything more than the Duke’s inflated pride.

Around came Kalas with a mighty swing, and the two went into their dance again, blades spinning high and low, Tempest trailing flames. Then Aydrian, who wanted the show to be nothing short of spectacular, sent his energy in short bursts through the graphite in Tempest’s blade so that sparks flew with the flames whenever the blades came ringing together.

Kalas cut down and across, and Tempest picked it off. The Duke replied with a downward semicircle, slashing at Aydrian’s belly; but Aydrian’s blade countered with a similar movement, in perfect timing to pick it off again. The Duke shield-rushed—and Aydrian, his left arm still sore, was vulnerable to that, except that he danced back and back again and smashed Tempest against that shield with enough force to draw a groan from the raging Duke.

Kalas spun out of it and slashed again, and then again, but Tempest was there—
was always there—deflecting each blow harmlessly aside in a sliding and sparking parry or catching the Duke’s sword and holding it immobile.

Kalas surprised Aydrian then, starting another wide-swinging slash, then stopping abruptly and stabbing straight ahead, a move more akin to the elven fighting style. Tempest errantly started across Aydrian’s body, but he retracted it in time to prevent receiving a serious stab, getting merely a glancing hit, though the sudden, jarring retreat he was forced into brought another wave of pain from his shoulder.

“Your mistake,” Kalas said to him, pressing on.

“Yours,” Aydrian corrected, for he knew that the time had come, and he wanted to make the ending dramatic.

Kalas’ sword worked a series of whipping sideways figure eights in the air as he charged, a dazzling display for the unskilled onlookers.

Nothing but pure opportunity for Aydrian. Kalas’ sword rolled out to Aydrian’s right, and so the young warrior stepped that way.

Back flashed Kalas’ sword, to center and ahead in a devious thrust, but Aydrian had seen it coming and had kept his run to the right. He dove into a roll, came up, and dashed behind the Duke.

Around spun Kalas with a mighty roar, shield sweeping out wide, sword trailing in a mighty cut.

Aydrian rushed ahead and stabbed him through the chest, suddenly, easily. Fiery Tempest pierced the Duke’s fine armor, and Aydrian heightened the drama and the effect by releasing the energy of the graphite fully.

Kalas was flying backward, his sword sailing wide to one side, shield flapping on the other. His helm blew off from the lightning jolt, and the straps on his greaves exploded so that he left his boots behind. He landed more than five strides away, on his back, arms out wide to the side.

The crowd … was perfectly silent. Aydrian looked at the royal pavilion, to see both King and Queen, and every other noble, leap to their feet, hands over mouths.

An attendant rushed out to the fallen Duke and lifted his head. Now the crowd was murmuring; Aydrian heard crying and screaming.

“He is dead, my King!” the attendant cried, and the wailing heightened.

Aydrian searched the throng and finally spotted De’Unnero, who was looking down at him and nodding approvingly. Never had Ursal seen such a spectacle as the fall of Duke Kalas!

Still looking at De’Unnero, Aydrian put his hand over his breast, and the former monk understood, and nodded his head toward the fallen knight.

“Make way!” Aydrian commanded, shoving the squire aside and to the ground. Several Allheart knights were at the Duke’s side by then, but Aydrian pushed through, kneeling before the fallen man.

“What devil magic did ye use?” one of the knights yelled at him.

Aydrian ignored him, concentrating instead on Duke Kalas. He bent over the man, very close, let the hematite, the soul stone, set in his armor cover the wound in Kalas’ chest, and put his face very near the Duke’s.

“Live,” he commanded, and he sent his healing energies out through the stone. “Live!”

T
he spirit of Duke Kalas walked down a long and shadowy road, gray fog drifting up about him. He knew that he was dead or dying, understood that the power that had struck him was beyond anything he could have ever anticipated.

And now he was going, going, falling into the dark abyss of death.

A glowing hand appeared before him, hovering in midair, the warmth of its light burning away the gray fog.

The hand of death, Duke Kalas believed, and he knew that he could not deny the call, knew that he was gone from life.

He took the hand with his own, and then he understood.

Tai’maqwilloq!

He felt life in that hand, not death, felt energy coursing back into him, into his spirit and into his broken body.