Elvenborn (10 page)

To the desert with that! How am I going to save myself?

This was nothing short of a disaster. The amount of status he stood to lose over this debacle was incalculable. This might even cost him his Council seat.

"Please, my lords," he said, entreatingly, to his two furious guests, "my young cousin has never seen one of these exhibi¬tions before and—"

"Exhibitions?" Aelmarkin blinked at the tone of Kyrtian's voice—a moment ago it had nearly cracked with strain, and Kyrtian was clearly a short step from losing control entirely.

Suddenly now—the anger was still there, but it was controlled anger, and overlaid with calculated scorn worthy of an experi¬enced Councilor. He turned to see that Kyrtian's face was now a carefully haughty mask.

Could Kyrtian actually salvage this situation?

"Exhibitions?" Kyrtian repeated. "Is that what you call these senseless slaughters?" His lip curled in what was unmistakably a sneer. "I suppose if your idea of 'sport' is to take tame pets and line them up for targets, then you could call something like this an exhibition, but I certainly wouldn't dignify this idiocy with such a term."

Aelmarkin saw with hope that the two feuding lords had for¬gotten all about him. Kyrtian's declaration and attitude had caused them to focus all of their insulted rage on him.

"I suppose it's too much to expect you to answer that state¬ment of utter nonsense with anything like a challenge?" asked Lord Marthien, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Yes it is," Kyrtian replied, answering sarcasm with arro¬gance, "Because your fighters are no match for mine. You would lose before the combat began. That is why I say this is senseless. The least of my fighters has four years of combat ex¬perience—the best of yours can't possibly have more than one. No, less than one, since I doubt your men ever survive even that long."

That arrogance took them rather aback; Lord Wyvarna glanced at Aelmarkin as if asking for confirmation of the aston¬ishing statement. Aelmarkin made a slight shrug.

"And are we supposed to accept this bluff at face value, im¬pudent puppy?" Lord Wyvarna demanded.

To their astonishment, Kyrtian laughed, albeit mirthlessly.

"You would be wise to, since it is hardly a bluff," he replied. "Consider what you already know about me and my—hobby. Consider that I have very little to do except train and drill my fighters in every possible style and manner of combat, and that I do not and never have sold any of them for any price. Con¬sider that I have been doing this every day for the past ten years at least, personally overseeing the training and practice in every aspect. Meanwhile, what have you been doing? Entrusting the

training and practice of your gladiators to others, quite without supervision, and slaughtering the best of your men in useless exhibitions. And what stake do those you entrust with this train¬ing have in your success or failure? What personal incentive have they to make certain that nothing is left to chance? And how many of your gladiators die or are crippled in training? For that matter, what incentive do your gladiators have to succeed? The best and cleverest of them are surely contriving to get themselves mildly crippled in the first week of your so-called 'training!' It would seem to me that the very smartest ones, the ones who would make the very best fighters, would see to it that they were always crippled in training, in order to avoid being slaughtered in one of your so-called exhibitions!"

Kyrtian cleverly left the questions hanging in the air, and now Aelmarkin saw a certain wariness creep over the expres¬sions of the two feuding lords.

"And I suppose you have a better idea?" boomed a new voice.

Both Aelmarkin and Kyrtian turned to face the new speaker, who stood up from among his son's entourage. Aelmarkin was startled; he hadn't realized that Lord Lyon had come with his son Gildor—

Damn! Has he been there all along, or did he just arrive for the combat? Did I somehow insult him by not noticing him? Can anything else go wrong here today?

Aelmarkin's thoughts scurried after one another, like frantic slaves trying to clean up a terrible spill. V'kel Lyon Lord Kyndreth—Lord Lyon of the Great House of Kyndreth—stood wrapped in a scarlet cloak embroidered with leaping stags, his arms crossed over his chest. Aelmarkin shivered; the man was one of the most powerful lords of the Great Council. A vote from Lord Lyon was worth three from anyone with a lesser Council Seat. The number of allies he had—the number of peo¬ple he could make or break with a single word—

Aelmarkin held his breath. All his own prayers might be an¬swered in the next few moments. If Kyrtian insulted Lord Lyon badly enough—if he convinced Lord Lyon that he was as in¬sane and unstable as Aelmarkin had been claiming ...

Then before this day was over, Aelmarkjn might be organiz¬ing his slaves for the move to his new properties.

Kyrtian looked at Lord Lyon, a veritable icon of power, as if he were no more important than any of the lesser sons and hangers-on.

"Yes," he said, simply, "I have. And I'm quite prepared to demonstrate it, here and now in front of you all."

6

That's V'kel Lyon Lord Kyndreth," Gel hissed in Kyrt-ian's ear. Kyrtian made the finger-sign for I understand, but did not look away from the tall, powerfully-built no¬ble who had addressed him. That was one name he definitely recognized, and the half-formed plan he had thrown together in an instant of panic-ridden thinking took on a new importance and urgency. If he could persuade Lord Lyon to use his meth¬ods, not only in training, but in challenge-matches, how many thousands of lives would be spared? For if Lord Lyon decreed it, all training and matches would be performed Kyrtian's way.

So he turned his half-formed plan into a bluff. "In fact," he continued, as calmly as if he spoke the truth, "I came here hop¬ing to stop this nonsense for all time with such a demonstration."

"Really?" Lord Lyon looked amused, which boded well for Kyrtian. "And how is that? I take it you intend a live demon¬stration, and not some illusory shadow show."

"Pit one fighter of your choosing against my bodyguard," Kyrtian said, boldly. "They will use my methods of fighting. They will fight to a death-wound, but neither will be harmed by the experience. You can use the best of your men—the one you would least care to lose—without any fear that harm will come to him and you will be without his services."

"Indeed." Lord Lyon looked from one side of the arena to the

other. "Wyvarna, Marthien—if I proposed using my bodyguard in this combat, would you accept the results of such a duel in¬stead of using your gladiators as settling your dispute?"

The lord of the white alicorn looked sullen; the lord of the blue serpent responded first. "How would we decide which fighter represented which of us?"

"Draw lots," Lyon said carelessly. "I know my man takes second-place to very few, and I hardly think Lord Kyrtian's man is less expert." He turned back to Kyrtian. "I agree in prin¬ciple that this is a waste of fighting-strength. The training is ex¬pensive, and it's all gone to waste when a fighter is killed—or runs off to join those damned renegade Wizards. Before the current unpleasantness, there were no Wizards to run off to, of course, and there was no need to field battle-troops, but our present situation does call for some changes in our own cus¬toms. In fact, some of the members of the Council have even asked openly if it might be wise to outlaw challenges altogether to save the waste of trained fighters." He smiled thinly. "Some have even suggested that if challengers are unwilling or unable to conduct duels-by-magic, that they should take sword in hand themselves to settle their quarrels."

Astonished mutters and a few gasps followed that an¬nouncement, and Lords Wyvarna and Marthien looked openly dismayed.

Lord Lyon looked down his long, aristocratic nose at Kyrtian with a hint of sardonic interest. Kyrtian raised his chin and re¬minded himself that his lineage was as long and proud as that of the House of Kyndrefh. "How much better, then, if you can have your challenges without the loss of a single fighting man or spillage of a single drop of blood?" he demanded. "Maybe your gladiators will stop running off if they know they aren't going to be killed in a senseless grudge-match. And I know I need not point out to a Lord of your experience and wisdom that such training will make better field-forces than anything our foes can create. Think of the kind of fighters you will field, when you can breed the best to the best, then give them real combat experience where they can learn from their mistakes!"

"Bloodless matches? Where's the sport in that?" someone behind Kyrtian muttered.

Kyrtian ignored the comment—and ignored the fact that the spectators were leaving, one by one, grumbling. He had Lord Lyon's attention, and he was not going to give it up. "I am well aware that many consider my interest in the past to be eccen¬tric," he continued, "but because of that interest, I have learned at least one of the secrets lost when we passed the Gate from Evelon. I know how the Ancestors conducted their duels-of-honor and their training sessions—how they taught and prac¬ticed combat without pulling blows, without using blunted weapons, yet without spilling blood. Didn't it ever occur to you that they must have had some way to learn sword-work them¬selves without risking hurt? After all, unlike us—" here he looked down his nose at the young Lords around him with a bland expression "—they engaged in sword-duels themselves, and not by proxy. Their method is what I use to train my own fighters. Furthermore, I give every able-bodied human on my properties a basic training in fighting-skills, against the day that they may need to defend the manor until my real fighters can come to their rescue!"

He did not say what foe he trained his humans to fight—he figured that Lord Lyon would assume that he meant the army of the Wizards or of the Wild Humans, not an army commanded by his fellows. Not a flicker of mistrust appeared on Lord Lyon's face, only a growing interest—and if anyone here had been thinking about the idea of taking his holdings by force, that last statement would give them a reason to think better of the plan.

"If all this is true—" Lord Lyon turned to a silent, black-clad, flame-haired human who stayed at his side like his shadow. "Kaeth-—get down to the arena and get some armor and weapons. I want to see how this works."

The human saluted, and left Lord Lyon's side, jumping down into the arena and walking past the gladiators as casually as if they were statues. Kyrtian caught Gel's eye and nodded; Gel followed him.

"I believe that you will find this well worth your time, Lord Lyon," Kyrtian said evenly, then turned to the feuding parties. "My lords, will you make your choice of combatant?"

There was more grumbling, but finally it was settled that Lord Marthien would be represented by Gel, and Wyvarna by Lord Lyon's man Kaeth. Since it was obvious that there was no longer going to be the bloody spectacle that everyone had planned on, no one really wanted to remain any longer, and both lords lost most of their entourages, leaving only their hu¬man bodyguards and one or two other slaves in attendance.

As for Aelmarkin's guests, they had all departed as well, probably returning to the Great Hall and the food and drink and other pleasures they had abandoned to watch the combat. That left only Aelmarkin, Lord Lyon and a young er-Lord who was probably his son, a couple of young lords who looked to be friends of his son, and Kyrtian. Those who remained seated themselves, and waited with varying degrees of impatience for something to happen.

Gel was no stranger to getting into armor quickly, and nei¬ther, apparently, was Lord Lyon's red-haired bodyguard. Both appeared at the same door of the arena a remarkably short time later; Gel must have told Kaeth not to bother about weapons, for neither man carried any. Kaeth looked up at his master, who nodded to Lord Wyvarna; Kaeth immediately picked up one of the discarded shields stacked at the side of the arena bearing the azure serpent, and Gel took one of the discarded white alicorn shields.

"We've agreed to longsword and shield, master," Gel called up, in a servile voice that Kyrtian hardly recognized. He sup¬pressed a nervous chuckle, and nodded.

Then Kyrtian fixed his gaze on a point on the sand at Gel's feet, and concentrated, drawing motes of power out of himself, and spinning them into the fabric of a pair of his very special blades.

He'd conjured up longswords so many times, that it was hardly any effort at all to spin out a mere pair of them. The air above the sand misted briefly, then shimmered, and a pair of fine blades condensed out of the mist as Kyrtian felt a slight inward

drain of power. He looked up to see that Aelmarkin was watch¬ing closely, with a look of intense concentration on his face.

I wonder if he can follow what I'm doing? Has he the talent to read all the special modifications I've made?

Gel gestured to the identical swords and let Kaeth pick first.

The bodyguard picked up the nearest, and gave it an experi¬mental swing, then rapped his shield with it. The shield gave off a perfectly normal metallic clang, and Kaeth nodded with satis¬faction. "Feels like a regulation longsword, Lord Lyon," he called up into the viewing stands, squinting against the light. "Maybe a bit better balanced than most."

"These blades will act in all respect like a normal battle weapon," Kyrtian assured the few who were left in the stands, but concentrating on Lord Lyon. "With a single exception, that is. They will not cause any physical damage. Gel, please offer your opponent a target."

Gel held out his sword-arm with a grin, knowing that Kyrtian would eliminate the shock of being struck for this part of the demonstration.

"Kaeth, if you would swing at Gel please, and cut off his arm?"

Lord Lyon's slave did not hesitate; he took a full, overhand swing at the arm Gel extended for him as Lord Lyon leaned for¬ward a little with interest. The blade passed through Gel's arm, leaving a glowing line, and making about half his body glow.