Reign of Madness (Revised Edition) (58 page)

“By the Maker!” Malcius exclaimed. “They will hack each
other to pieces! One hit from that halberd or war hammer, and I am not certain
the healers could fix you.”

Wesson leaned over Reaylin’s shoulder and said, “Pay close
attention. You will see how necessary healers are if warriors are to survive.”

Reaylin motioned as if to swat a fly and smacked Wesson
across the face. “Oops, sorry,” she said without a hint of sincerity.

A shrill giggle caught Malcius’s attention, and he looked
over to observe his young sister. She was sitting far enough from them that no
one would mistake her as being a part of their group but close enough for the
guards to keep an eye on her. She had managed to find a clutch of like-minded
young men and women who spent most of their time comparing wardrobes and making
snide remarks about everyone else around them. The young men boisterously
assured the young women that they could easily best any of the Melee
competitors, but since the event was so uncouth, they would not deign to
participate.

One of the young men in Shiela’s group snorted and barked
loudly, “Do you think he is carrying enough weapons?”

Another said, “He probably believes his opponents will have
to get injured if only by falling against him. He probably wears the mask
hoping to scare them into falling on his blades.”

Malcius decided that his siblings were out to make him into
an old man before his time. Shiela was sure to bring their House disgrace, and
Palis was a misspoken word away from being strung up on the gallows. The eldest
Jebai thought he might never wish to go on another adventure with his siblings
again. In truth, though, he enjoyed having Palis around. Although they were of
very different personalities, Malcius had always had a fondness for his younger
brother. He liked spending time with him and even admired his little brother’s
commitment and enthusiasm for the sword. Malcius had yet to find anything
worthy of his dedication.

The din of the crowd was interrupted by the peal of the
announcer whose voice was amplified by mage power. The man droned on about the
inauguration of the first Melee competition, but the crowd barely listened, as
everyone was eager to see the action. Finally, he introduced the first
competitors who had been selected at random. A Channerían
businessman
stepped forward. He had the poise and
conceit typical of a duelist, but he carried a long leather whip. Sharp iron
filings and spikes were embedded in the last two feet of the whip. At his waist
was a wicked unsheathed serrated dagger. Many in the crowd booed at the sight
of the man. Few probably knew who he was, but everyone knew only slavers
carried whips.

The Channerían’s
opponent was a massive giant who turned out to be a chieftain from one of the
mountain tribes northeast of Channería.
The hulking man carried the biggest ax Malcius had ever seen and a wood and
iron shield the young Jebai probably could not have lifted to save his life.
“He does not look much like a duelist,” Malcius remarked to no one in
particular.

“He is not,” Brandt replied. “I heard he arrived only a few
days ago to secure some trade agreement. He heard about the Melee competition
and decided to join.”

“Just like that? He just up and joined an interkingdom
tournament without a thought?” Malcius exclaimed in amazement.

 Brandt shrugged and said, “I guess it is like Rezkin
said – a warrior is always ready for battle.”

The match was a short one. The mountain brute received
several gashes across his flesh that bled profusely, but the fight came to an
abrupt halt when he cleaved the whip-wielding arm from his opponent’s body. The
crowd cheered, some cringed, and others bathed the stands in their lunch.

“Oh, by the Maker, that was disgusting,” Frisha exclaimed,
looking a little green.

“Are you okay, Reaylin?” Jimson asked when he noticed the
woman had gone pale and was swaying in her seat.

“Well,” Malcius said as he swallowed the bile that had risen
in his own throat, “I do not believe he will be using that whip anytime soon,
even
if
the healers can reattach the arm.”

“Is that possible?” Reaylin asked as she turned wide eyes on
Wesson. “Can they actually reattach an arm?”

Wesson nodded and said, “Yes, enough skilled healers are
here that I am sure they have the power to do so. They are tending to him now,
which means they have stopped the bleeding, and the wound is very fresh and
relatively clean. He will probably have full use of the arm in a few days.”

“They should not be wasting their energy on his kind,”
Brandt spat. Tam thought he might agree, but he did not feel comfortable
voicing his opinion, particularly amongst the nobles.

“You know nothing about the man,” Tieran argued.

“I know enough,” the Gerrand said.

After a few more equally gory matches, the speaker finally
called forth Dark Tidings. The shadowy figure was still standing at the side of
the arena and had not moved a muscle since he arrived. Malcius wondered if it
was even possible for the man to perform well after having been still for so
long, but Dark Tidings strode forward with the confidence of a predator stalking
its prey within its own territory. The collective voice of the crowd fell away
to barely a whisper. It was as though the entire audience was leaning forward
and was loath to exhale.

Dark Tidings’ opponent turned out to be an Ashaiian count,
Shivés Ruolt, whose county was under the authority of Duke Darning. Shivés was
a slight man, more than half a foot shorter than Dark Tidings. He was slim with
taut muscles, and he moved with sleek grace. The Jebais had spent a small
amount of time with the Ruolts, but the age gap was too great to have developed
more than a passing acquaintance. The man was at least ten years older than
Malcius.

Shivés drew two long, gleaming daggers as he approached Dark
Tidings with confidence and caution. Dark Tidings stood steadily until the
count was ready. The dark wraith then bowed respectfully and drew his own
weapons. He did not draw the massive black sword at his back, and he did not
draw the strange, wicked silver blades at his sides, nor did he heft the
naginata, which he tossed to the side. He drew two previously hidden daggers
that were nearly equal in length to those wielded by the count. The count eyed
the daggers curiously and then bowed in respect.

“Good form,” the baron remarked breaking his silence. For
the most part, the baron stayed quiet around the younger group, allowing Waylen
to make his own friends.

“What? What happened?” Frisha inquired.

It was Jimson who answered. “Dark Tidings could have had a
huge advantage over the count, assuming he is very skilled with his weapons.
His sword, naginata, and those…
other things
…all have a greater reach and
longer blades. Instead, he chose to meet the count on equal ground, so to
speak. While it shows respect for the count, it is also his way of saying that
he does not
need
the advantage. He is confident that he can beat the
count against his own weapons.”

“So, they will both be fighting with daggers?” Frisha asked.

“To start, at least. Either can switch weapons at any time,”
Jimson stated. “The count could even chose to wield the naginata, if he could
get his hands on it. Unlike the duels, these matches do not end if one
combatant is disarmed. The match continues until one of them concedes or is
incapacitated.” Jimson intentionally left off the possibility of one being
killed. It was pretty obvious to everyone that it was a very real possibility
in this competition.

The count moved first. He ran forward faster than anyone
expected, a raptor darting in to seize his prey. When he was close enough to
strike, he bent low at the knees and waist, slashing at Dark Tidings’
midsection. Dark Tidings held his ground and blocked with his own blade as he
made a swipe at Shivés’ side. Shivés blocked the attempt with his other blade
as he attempted another strike. Shivés danced around Dark Tidings making
strikes and slashes, increasing his speed with each attempt. Dark Tidings had
yet to move an inch from his starting position, pivoting in place as he held
his ground like the greatest of fortresses. Eventually, Shivés stepped back and
made a flicking motion at his unruffled opponent. Dark Tidings tilted his head
in acknowledgement and then moved.

The speed with which he moved was shocking. His cloak
billowed out behind him like black wings, and when he twisted, it curled about
him like smoke. The two knife wielders began moving in what appeared to be a
well-choreographed dance. Silvery glints and high-pitched rings sparked in and
out in concert. Occasionally, one of the combatants would throw himself into a
roll or spin that each time abruptly ended with a crash of metal. At times,
onlookers could not keep track of the weapons, much less could they understand
how the combatants did so.

Dark Tidings met every stab and slash, and the dance went
on. As Shivés began to tire, Dark Tidings showed not a modicum of fatigue. It
became apparent that Dark Tidings was merely allowing the performance to
continue, allowing for the spectacle. After one particularly intense exchange,
Shivés finally stepped back and just stared at Dark Tidings in wonder as he breathed
heavily. Dark Tidings made the same flicking motion as had Shivés, inviting the
competitor to continue. Shivés released a heavy breath and then smiled. It was
the smile of a man at peace. The count sheathed his knives and then bowed
deeply toward his ominous foe. He turned to the nearest official and said, “I
concede to a superior opponent.”

It was the longest and probably most intense battle in the
arena thus far, ending with a clear winner, and not one drop of blood had been
spilled. The crowd sat stunned for a moment, unsure if they should be
disappointed about the forfeiture. The applause began on the arena floor
amongst the competitors and quickly grew to a roar. Dark Tidings bowed to his
opponent, bowed to the other competitors, and then bowed to the crowd before
taking up his unwavering stance once again.

“Why did he just stop?” Reaylin huffed. “He wasn’t even
injured.”

“Dark Tidings was holding off Shivés’ every assault,” Jimson
replied. “Dark Tidings did make offensive moves, but none were truly made with
effort. He was largely playing defense – a man under siege – and he
never waivered.”

“So he was toying with him?” the young woman questioned
heatedly.

“No,” Jimson answered, shaking his head, “he was matching
him skill for skill and then a bit more. He pushed the count until the count
knew he was beat. Dark Tidings likely could have sliced the man up and made him
look the fool. Instead, he helped Shivés put on probably the best showing of
his life. I daresay Shivés is probably a Daggermaster who does not often meet
worthy opponents. Shivés will compete again, but you will not see such a show
since he will be competing against other odd weapons. In the end, Shivés simply
knew he was outmatched. If he had not conceded, Dark Tidings would have taken
him down.”

“Then Dark Tidings is a Daggermaster,” Frisha concluded, and
the others simply nodded agreement.

Dark Tidings, like the other competitors, competed in a
total of three matches that afternoon. The second opponent looked to be close
to thirty and wielded a battleax, which the wraith matched with his black
blade. Each time the weapons collided, the black blade lit with green
lightning, much to the appreciation of the crowd. After allowing the match to
continue for several minutes, Dark Tidings finally decided the ax-wielder would
not yield. The shadowy warrior moved in quick as a viper and struck the man in
the temple with his pommel, rendering him unconscious. Again, neither warrior
had received a single cut.

The third opponent was a young man, perhaps around twenty,
who wielded a stave. He wore plain homespun clothes and very worn boots. He was
obviously a commoner of lesser means, and he was simply introduced as Parker
Farmer of Skutton. Dark Tidings bowed to the young farmer just as he had the
other competitors. The young man smiled uncertainly and then bowed in return.
Dark Tidings matched the young man’s stave with his naginata, but never once
did he turn the blade on the young farmer. After a few minutes, it became clear
that the reserved Parker Farmer was
very
good with his stave. The
shadowed wraith pushed the young farmer to his limit, inciting cheers and
applause from the crowd. The other competitors nodded and smiled in
appreciation of the young man’s skill. Finally, Dark Tidings swept Parker’s
feet from beneath him and then stood over the farmer with the butt end of his
naginata at the young man’s throat. Parker nodded and held up a fist indicating
he conceded the match.

“How weak!” one of the young men in Shiela’s group
exclaimed. “He failed to even draw blood on a single opponent.”

“I doubt he has the stomach for it,” another said. “He hides
behind the mask so we cannot see him trying not to wretch.”

A number of patrons were scowling and grumbling about the
young men’s remarks, but no one wanted to confront the nobles. Shiela had not
introduced her new friends, and Rezkin’s companions did not recognize any of
the young men or women.

After several additional matches, Frisha exclaimed, “Oh,
look, it’s that young farmer with the stave again. He’s one of my favorites.”

“
Why
?” blurted Malcius before he could stop himself.

Frisha scowled at her cousin. She lifted her chin and said,
“Just because he is a commoner does not mean he is without skill or value. Even
you
can see he is extremely talented, especially for being so young.
And, look how much he
does
with so little.”

Malcius ducked his head and acceded, “You are right, Cousin.
I envy his skill with his chosen weapon.” The stern purse of the young woman’s
lips softened to a genuine smile, which Malcius returned.