Light of Eidon (Legends of the Guardian-King, Book 1) (26 page)

Yes, Gillard would be vulnerable.

But Kiriath was a long way away now. A lifetime away. And odds were
heavy he’d never see it again.

Weeks passed. Abramm’s beard grew long and thick, even as his stomach
grew tight and hard; cablelike muscles bulged through the skin on his legs
and arms. In time he found a curious pleasure in hauling on the oar and feeling the power of his own strength go down its length to press against the
water and move the ship forward.

Meridon changed, too-muscles and tendons and veins rippled beneath
skin that held not an ounce of fat. A thick beard camouflaged the boyish look
of his features, and his curly red hair now flopped over his forehead and ears
and down the nape of his neck.

The gauntness left his face, and though at first his brown eyes were
haunted with a pain not physical, after a time he came to terms with it. Eventually he spoke freely, even animatedly, of his past and his family.

Born of common stock, the first of six children, Trap Meridon had four
sisters and one brother. His youth was spent divided between summers afield,
looking after his mother’s herd of prize goats, and winters in town, working
at and then attending the School of Fence his famous father ran in Sterlen.

His first mention of the school had jolted Abramm, for he had forgotten
the old swordsman was the man’s father.

Taught by a master from birth, and being an apt pupil, Meridon was
accepted at the school a good two years before most boys even tested. By the
time he was fourteen he was already winning competitions.

He met Raynen at a Fairday in Sterlen that same year. They were finalists,
not in sword but in archery. Both lost out to age and experience, but they
struck up a friendship, being of an age.

“In those days,” Meridon explained, “Ray never thought he’d be king,
with four brothers ahead of him and Aarol’s wife already expecting. And he
was never particularly concerned with titles and status. We took an instant
liking to each other and spent the rest of the fair together.

“Then some older boys thought it would be fun to pick on a Terstan-
me. There was a fight, and Ray stood back to back with me, two against five.
We were winning, too, and then one of them pulled a blade.” He paused, and
when next he spoke, his voice was low. “He was the first man I ever killed.
Turned out he was a duke’s son. There was trouble, and even though Ray
supported me, I was a commoner and a Terstan. It was decided I should leave
Sterlen. Ray was going on progress to the borderlands and asked for me to be
his squire. I’ve been in his service ever since.”

Of Abramm’s past they spoke little, though not for lack of interest on
Meridon’s part. He attempted to draw Abramm out more than once, curious
as to how he’d come to join the Mataio. Abramm always changed the subject.
The past held shame and failure and betrayal, and thinking of it only made
him more aware of the emptiness that now dwelt within him. Thankfully,
Trap never pushed, and it was for that, more than anything, that Abramm
appreciated him.

One day, after the oars master had halted them unexpectedly at midmorning, a group of guards trooped into the hold, brandishing crowbars. In astonished disbelief Abramm watched as the pin that chained him to the
deck was levered free. Then he was reeling on the deck walk, disoriented at
standing upright for the first time in he didn’t know when.

The five galleys had anchored in a quiet, mist-hung cove surrounded by
steep, rocky hills sparingly dotted with strange, fleshy gray-green plants.
Shaped like leafless stumps, crowned by myriad groping arms, they looked
like something spawned of Moroq’s Veil, malformed and hostile.

Wavelets kissed a tan, pebbly beach and lapped the base of the cliff on
the left. At its midpoint, apparently built into the rock as much as on the
shelves that notched its face, hung a massive complex of white-walled buildings with multitudes of balconies and tall, arched windows and latticed
breezeways. A waterfall trickled between them, running down the cliff face
to the sea, its margins crowded with lush vegetation.

Ten of them were ferried ashore in the galley’s dinghy under the direction
of the Gamer’s son. While they waited for the other boats to discharge a
similar cargo, Abramm studied the villa above, intrigued by the dark birdlike
statues standing guard in the crags above it. Or at least he thought they were
statues-until one unfolded great, dark wings and flapped away.

“Veren,” Trap said softly at his side, seeing the direction of his gaze.

“Rhu’ema spawn?”

The Terstan nodded grimly, his golden mark gleaming in the gray light.
All the guards a man could need. I expect we’ll get a demonstration.”

As soon as all the men had gathered ashore, one of them-a tall, stringy,
pale-skinned Chesedhan-made the break for freedom. The Esurhites had
seemed unconscionably lax in this regard, laughing and talking with hardly a
glance at the prisoners they were allegedly guarding. So inattentive were they,
even Abramm gave thought to attempting flight, but Trap’s grim prediction-and his own conviction that it was intentional-stayed the impulse.

Sure enough, the Chesedhan had barely reached the edge of the beach
before the Gamer’s son stepped toward him, held out a hand, and shouted
one word in the Tagh, the wide medallion on his chest flaring with purple
light. The fugitive wrenched to a halt as if he’d hit the end of a lead.

The hatchet-faced Brogai spoke again, his gold earrings glittering, and the
Chesedhan turned stiffly, his eyes so wide Abramm could see the whites of
them even at a distance. He expected to watch the man walk woodenly back,
but instead the Gamer addressed them all, babbling in a language Abramm doubted any of his audience understood. He seemed to be asking a question.

Now he smiled, waved a hand, and the tension on the Chesedhan’s body
relaxed. The man gave a start, glanced around in confusion, and stood there.

The Gamer spoke again, waving his hand, clearly encouraging the fugitive
to run. The other guards watched, grinning.

It’s a trap, Abramm thought at the man. Don’t fall for it!

But the Chesedhan was panicked and finally bolted. He’d not taken three
steps when a great black shape swooped upon him, its wingtips brushing the
ground as it surged skyward again, clutching something in its talons. On the
beach, amidst a dark, spreading stain, sprawled the pale, headless body of its
victim.

Abramm swallowed bile and looked away. Around him, others gagged
and retched.

The Gamer spoke condescendingly, no doubt assuring them of the futility
in attempting escape. His gaze never wavered from Meridon, standing at
Abramm’s side, as if somehow he more than the others needed this warning.
Finally the Gamer barked a command, and his men leaped to the task of
jerking their charges into line and escorting them through an elaborately
carved iron door at the base of the cliff.

A maze of passageways so low-ceilinged Abramm had to stoop to avoid
hitting his head led to a dark, musty room. There they were divided among
the squadrons of waiting overseers who sheared off the matted, lice-infested
hair on their heads and faces, scrubbed them down in tubs of foul-smelling
solution, dressed them in leather loincloths, and finally prodded them into a
sandy-floored arena, where a group of dark-tunicked men awaited them.

Bracketed torches burned around the room’s circumference, and above
them shadowed balconies reached back into the rock. Only one was lit, and
in that one stood Katahn himself, accompanied by the woman from the beach
at Qarkeshan. An irrational warmth swept Abramm at the sight of her. She’d
no doubt expected him to die in the galley, and it felt good to have proven
her wrong. And this time he at least had a loincloth.

The Gamer began to speak, using again that flawless Kiriathan with which
he had tricked Abramm into trusting him. “I make my money in accordance
with how well my warriors perform. Some of the greatest champions of the
Games have come from my stable.”

Abramm realized suddenly that this speech was primarily for his benefit. Not only was Katahn looking right at him-but also, except for Meridon,
none of the other men here were likely to understand Kiriathan.

“My handlers are well experienced in training,” the Gamer continued.
“They’ll tolerate no laziness, incompetence, or cowardice.” He gestured
toward the group of scarred, hard-eyed men gathered under the balcony.

“You will fight here first,” Katahn said. “If you do not perform to standard,
you will be punished. If you continue to perform unacceptably, you will be
culled. If you are to fight for me, you will win or die.”

He fell silent, lips quirked in a half smile. Then he turned away.

One of the handlers growled something in the Tahg, and the others
divided the trainees into pairs, spacing them out about the yard. The handler
assigned to Abramm-a weaselish man with a bad complexion and a tag of
black hair sprouting under his chin-held out a sheathed rapier, hilt first.

Abramm stared at it. I will touch no weapon of warfare….

Another vow to be broken. And there was the First Word, too, forbidding
the killing of others. But why was he thinking of that now? Had he not put
all that behind him? He cared no more for Eidon than Eidon cared for him.

And if he refused this blade, he would be killed. Royal blood or not. He
could learn to fight and try to save his life in the arena. Or he could be culled
right at the start.

Setting his jaw, he reached forward, wrapped his palm about the rapier’s
leathered grip, and pulled it from the sheath. The blade was old and dulled,
only a practice piece. But as he tightened his grip on the shank and hefted
the weapon for balance, old memories roused.

The tag-bearded handler smiled, displaying a gap where his front teeth
should be. Then he turned to the barbarian who had been paired with
Abramm. As he, too, was offered a blade, Abramm’s gaze caught on Meridon,
standing across the yard, regarding him soberly. Of all present, the Terstan
alone understood the full significance of what he had just done.

Brother Eldrin was well and truly dead.

Months later, in one of the many sandy-floored practice chambers of
Katahn’s training enclave, Abramm circled a brawny, loincloth-clad opponent, his rapier at the ready before him. In the weeks since his arrival, this
blade and the practice floor had become his life. From first awakening in the
morning to the moment he collapsed on the pallet in his tiny cell at night, he
thought of nothing but the blade and how to use it: angles, positions, parries,
feints, counterparries, counterfeints, strategy, tactics, conditioning. He even
did it in his sleep.

The work paid off. In his first match he had been disarmed in moments,
had lost twenty-two consecutive matches thereafter. Then suddenly he did
not lose any more-except to the handlers, and even those matches were
getting closer.

Today he had faced a fellow trainee named Brugal, and from the moment
he had crossed swords with the powerful northlander, Abramm had known
he would win this match, too.

Brugal was a monster of a man, heavy boned, thick muscled, with long
arms and legs. His reflexes were good-he was not slow like many large
men-but he was stubbornly convinced that it was bulk and strength that
won battles rather than quickness and finesse. So far that assumption had
served him well-he had not lost a match since he’d arrived.

Sweat gleamed now on his magnificent musculature and beaded his face
above his blond beard, soaked his curly hair. His eyes, chips of blue ice caught
in bone caverns, burned with aggression and impatience. He did not yet realize he was outclassed, that Abramm was smarter than he and more
skilled. A little faster, too. He saw only the size differential and what he perceived as a fear of engagement on Abramm’s part.

He was right in that-Abramm knew himself to be no match for him,
brawn against brawn. So he stayed away, parrying the other’s strikes easily
and dancing out of reach, around and around, as the bigger man grew ever
more frustrated and impatient.

It occurred to Abramm that he was, himself, enjoying this. His muscles
were warm and fluid, a thin film of perspiration slicked his nearly naked flesh,
and his bare feet fell light and sure upon the sand. He felt strong and quick
and alive.

The two handlers watched slit eyed, with that unnerving fascination that
always came over them at times like this, as if they hoped one or the other of
the combatants might overstrike, with the result that blood be spilled or
death attend the match. Abramm had learned early of their fascination with
death.

Brugal struck again now, lunging low. But instead of backing away,
Abramm parried the blade right and stepped in to the left, striking simultaneously with the dagger in his left hand, a killing blow that would have slid
up between the barbarian’s ribs to his heart had Abramm not pulled his
stroke.