The Seedbearing Prince: Part I (53 page)

“It's fair, boy.” Milchamah caught the cuff
of Dayn's trousers. “Peace's own jest, but it is,” he added
softly.

“Begin!”

Dayn approached warily, hoping to strike a
quick blow like Prolo before him. The Arans' style so far proved
oddly vulnerable to direct thrusts. Their maneuvering seemed more
focused on embellishment than effect. Mattes quickly proved that
notion to be utterly wrong.

The Aran's twin blades hissed through the air
without so much as a flourish. He moved with simple, precise
movements; taking every opportunity to stab Dayn's hands loose from
his staff.

They began to sweat profusely as the duel
wore on. Spectators on the arena floor covered every available inch
of nearby ground to watch.

Mattes moved quick as a ridgecat, avoiding
Dayn's staff with sidesteps and parries. He unleashed a series of
blows from his swords with enough force to jar Dayn’s shoulder
sockets. The sheath on Mattes’ blades flashed over and over as Dayn
blocked. The darkwood warmed beneath his hands as the swordsman
forced him back.

The Aran slipped beneath Barkbore Makes His
Nest, and Dayn winced as return strokes found his upper thigh and
midriff.
It burns worse than Joam said!
He clipped Mattes in
the elbow, but the man did not drop his sword. He sidestepped away
again, retreating back to the center of the platform.
He's too
smart to let me push him off.

“Be strong, lad!” Prolo called out. He winked
when Dayn shot him an irritated glance. “Mind your breathing!”

Mattes’ eyes narrowed as he immediately
searched Dayn for signs of fatigue. Prolo's ploy worked. Dayn
allowed himself to favor his leg slightly, and advanced on the
swordsman with Goose in the Tree. A deceptive form, one of the many
Dayn had learned so he could last more than two moves with Joam.
Peace, if he doesn't fall for this, I don't know what I'll
do.
The Aran closed in, thinking him off balance from
injury.

The prolix swords flashed again and again.
Dayn pretended at a stumble. Mattes lunged at the opening, eager
for the victory. Dayn leaned back, straining to avoid the overhand
slash while he chambered his staff. The Aran's swing carried him
too far, and Dayn drove the end of his staff straight into the poor
fellow's gut.

Mattes doubled over immediately, rolling in
agony. Dayn rushed over to stand astride the fallen Aran and raise
his staff high in both hands, poised to bear down on the
swordsman's skull. His eyes rolled in fear, but he could not
breath.

Dayn looked expectantly at the officiant, who
stood frozen at the edge of the platform. “Halt! Winner,
Shard!”

Still breathing hard, Dayn bowed to the
groaning Aran, and twirled his staff through the King's Circlet.
That's for you, Joam!
Dayn looked to his friend, but Joam's
round eyes were fixed past Dayn's shoulder, prompting him to turn
around.

“My father played havoc with the transports
for you and those Ringbound vermin, farmer.” Gorhaj stood
imperiously on the platform. His eyes were riveted on Dayn as
though nothing else existed, not the hundreds of onlookers or his
own injured comrade. Orden helped pull Mattes from the
platform.

The Montollene officiant did not even bother
to start the fight, he just stared at the two men. The grounds of
the Achen Isee quieted in anticipation. The obvious enmity between
the two made for a promising match. “Your schemes delayed our
arrival here for days.”

Dayn's lip curled. “More time for you to
guard your sister's dolls, Aran.”

“You
insolent
―”

“Gorhaj! Enough!” The Marshal General stepped
forward, his first stirring of the entire match. “Remember your
training, and your father's honor! They walk hand in hand with your
victory.”

Gorhaj reddened in anger, or embarrassment.
Dayn crouched in Ridgecat's Prowl, staff held high overhead. The
darkwood smoldered beneath his grip. The repeated impact of the
Arans' sheathed blades was slowly turning his staff to coal.

“Keep your wits, boy,” Milchamah murmured.
The First Sword of the High sunk into a ready stance, sword tip
pointed down.

“You have this, brother!” Joam called
out.

The officiant finally remembered himself.
“Begin!”

Dayn let his muscles uncoil at the command,
whipping his staff forward as fast as he could. Gorhaj’s poor
choice of stance cost him. He brought his sword up too slowly to
deflect the blow. He caught Dayn's staff full in the mouth, barely
twisting away at the last instant. If he had not, the blow would
have knocked him out cold.

“The First Sword, bested by a farmer?” Dayn
could not resist taunting him. He had never disliked someone so
much in his life. “What would the Highest say?”

Gorhaj wiped the blood from his face and
rushed forward with a roar. “Sand blind you!”

Dayn met him head on, and the Achen Isee Dome
sounded with the clash of darkwood grain and sheath-covered steel.
Gorhaj did not boast the blinding speed of Pakalj, but he wasted no
motion and executed each strike to perfection. Only his anger
caused him to overextend himself. Dayn took advantage of those
occasions, punishing the Aran with bone rattling blows to the arms
and legs. He did not want to knock him from the platform, or use a
trick of the forms. Dayn wanted to throttle Gorhaj soundly.

The Aran withstood blows that should have
downed him. He proved surprisingly durable for a man born of such
weak ground. He lunged forward, and his blade seared its way down
Dayn's left side. Dayn spun away but Gorhaj pressed after him,
striking his shoulder hard enough to make Dayn groan out loud. Dayn
knocked the next swipe away easily and pivoted around to thrust.
The Aran was vulnerable to Flutterbird Takes the Nectar.

His staff ready, Dayn froze.
Peace! What
am I doing?

Gorhaj's arms were spread wide, as he bent,
clearly intending to duck the blow. But the swordsman could not
avoid him. The strike Dayn had chosen would crush the Aran's
throat.

The First Sword's eyes narrowed at Dayn's
hesitation, but he reacted quickly. He stepped into Dayn's staff,
taking away his reach. Gorhaj kissed his sword on the crook of
Dayn's arm, then again on the bridge of his nose and side of his
head in quick succession. Dayn cried out in pain as light flashed
in his vision. He collapsed to the ground.

The entire world seemed to spin. Through the
wave of cheers from the onlookers, Dayn heard Shir-Hun's voice
above him. “In the dirt, where you belong.”

“Winner, Ara! Match goes to the world of Ara,
three defeating five, with three losses. Both teams earn superior
ranking in the Gauntlet. Well done!”

Dayn clutched his ribs, grimacing in pain.
Get up. Get up.
Oh, how he
hated
losing!
Especially to this...

An open snarl covered his face as he willed
himself to his feet, refusing to prop himself up with the staff.
Fire braided his side as he watched the Aran swordsmen congratulate
each other and preen. Well, Marshal General Toljed did not preen.
He regarded Dayn with considering eyes. But the rest...

Milchamah and Prolo barred Dayn’s way just
before he stepped forward.

“Easy, boy,” Milchamah said sternly. “That
same look on your father’s face never meant good for anyone in
arm's reach. He always regretted his actions after.”

“You carried us through this nonsense, lad.”
Prolo laid a firm hand on Dayn's other shoulder. Dayn was so intent
on Gorhaj, he had not realized he was still attempting to push past
Milchamah. “Besting three of their fighters proves we're no easy
meat, from what that judge said. We’ll see them again when the
Cycle starts in earnest.”

Joam and Kayle nodded fiercely at that,
muttering angrily as they watched the Arans speak with more of the
Montollene officiants.

“Get his staff, Kayle,” Milchamah said.
“Knowing you, it will be lost before sunrise, boy.”

Kayle moved to comply. He yelped an oath and
dropped the wood instantly, staring at Dayn incredulously. “Your
hands must be...the grain’s hot enough to bake bread!”

“You were tired Dayn, that’s all,” Joam said.
“Your grain to his steel any day.”

Dayn nodded, but did not feel much better as
they started gathering their gear. Nearby Montollene and fighters
from other worlds eyed them with respect, but he wanted to be away
from this place.

Fortunately Milchamah paid Kayle’s
exclamation no mind. Dayn did not want to answer any questions
about the staff just now.
It’s not as hot as he says, it can’t
be. Unless the Seed is protecting me. How can that be, when I don’t
have it?

“Peace, Shardian.”

A gravelly voice made them all turn back
around. The Marshal General himself regarded each of them briefly
before addressing Milchamah. “I will look forward to next season,
weaponmaster. The last Cycle's outcome will surely not be
repeated.”

“Surely not,” Milchamah agreed. They spoke as
respected equals, nothing more.

The Marshal General nodded thoughtfully
before turning to Dayn. “My men often forget there is more to their
lives than chasing maidens and dueling on the ropes.”

Toljed glanced at the Arans behind him,
bragging loudly to another team, who wielded chain whips with
strange hooks on the end. “Nearly all of the Five will assume some
rank in the future.” He bowed simply, holding Dayn's eyes. “I thank
you that the Highest's only son will not issue his commands from a
ruined throat. Peace to you all.” He abruptly turned on his heel to
gather the Five out of the arena.

“A shame he was last,” Milchamah murmured. He
caught Dayn's arm. “He’s right, boy. You didn't learn some of those
forms from me―or your father.”

Prolo nodded gravely. “You even had a
soldier’s stance, Dayn. A man only uses those strikes for one
reason, and it’s not scaring ridgecats from the sheep pen.” The two
farmers wore matching scowls for a moment, driving the point
home.

“I've learned a lot because―well, the
Defender...” Dayn stammered, unsure of what to say. “He doesn't
want me to be helpless.”

“What are you
doing
with them, Dayn?”
Joam asked, concern lining his face. “You told us bits and pieces,
but what good is a Mistlander running around the World Belt for the
Ring? I can always tell when you’re holding something back.”

“As can I.” A musical voice startled Dayn.
Peace, everyone is fixed on sneaking up on me today!
He
turned, and his breath caught. Soong Shir-Hun smiled at him,
surrounded by four attendants, all dressed in orange and red silks
almost as fine as the Heiress High’s own dress. Dayn saw Joam’s
gaping mouth and remembered to close his own. “Well fought,
Shardian. I think maybe you really are an Initiate for the
Ring.”

“No, I’m not,” Dayn said hastily. He could
already see Milchamah chewing on that thought. “Soong these are my
friends, from Shard.” He began to make introductions, but Milchamah
interrupted.

“Just some farmers out to see the Great City
before we head home, girl.” He motioned for the men to gather their
things. Soong’s attendants glowered at Milchamah, but he paid them
no mind. “We need to go check on our man, and it's past time we've
been back to see to our crops. Come by the Tower Axios, when you’re
finished here.” He fixed Dayn with a look that meant his words were
not a suggestion. “I'm surprised you aren't holed up there, too.
We’ll talk then. Maybe those Ringmen will see fit to let you come
back with us, where you belong.”

Dayn’s heart warmed to hear the farmer’s
words.
Yes. Back where I belong. Once Lurec takes the Seed to
that tower, they won’t need me anymore.

Milchamah herded the Shardians away, who were
still gawking over Soong. Kayle winked approvingly at Dayn as he
shuffled off. Joam leaned forward and kept his voice low. “I guess
Falena will be waiting a little longer,” he said with a grin. Dayn
punched him in the shoulder as he jogged to catch up to his father,
laughing.

Soong looked at him expectantly. “You are a
mystery, disappearing from Olende, only to end up in Montollos, of
all places.”

“Oh. And here I thought you followed my trail
to honor our wager,” Dayn said with a playful smile.

Soong blushed. “I suspected it was important
for you to leave so quickly. I came to watch my brother, but never
expected you would be entering the Cycle, too.”

“I'm not a fighter, I...” Dayn started.
I
almost forgot!
He had been in the Dome for over an hour. He had
no idea how long Montollos would allow people to declare for the
Course of Blades.
I must not miss my chance.
The Ringmen
might decide to leave tonight, for all he knew. “I have to go,” he
said, grabbing his pack. “Can you wait here? I won’t take
long.”

“I wait for no man.”

“Come with me, then.”

One of the men accompanying Soong stepped
forward. “Heiress, that would not be prudent. The city―”

“It will only be a moment, here in the
arena,” Dayn said. “I have to declare for the coursing race.”

“You’re a
courser,
as well?” Soong
tilted her head. “What other secrets are you hiding?”

“My father says there are no secrets. Only
unasked questions.”

Her eyebrows raised quizzically. “I wonder
what your mother says to that,” she murmured.

“Heiress, we should go.” The attendants
frowned, openly displeased with Dayn.

“I won’t remain here,” she said coolly.
Dayn's face fell. “But I will go to the plaza outside. Do not keep
me waiting. I don’t like to wait.”

Dayn ran as never before, barely feeling his
bruises from the match. He retraced his steps, running past the
long lines of people. No one remained in the line for the Course of
Blades, but the man still sat at his post. Dayn breathed a sigh of
relief.