Authors: Michael A Stackpole
the air with sweet fragrance.
Jugglers followed, then acrobats whose ability to pile themselves higher seemed limited
only by the ceiling. Contortionists twisted their limbs into patterns that it seemed would
never come undone, and dancers flowed into and through music until their bodies were
little more than vibrant blurs.
Each entertainment surpassed the one that preceded it—as impossible as that seemed.
The minister pointed out whoever had brought the entertainers, and applause rewarded
them for their efforts. But the minister cut them off if they offered anything more than a few
words of praise for the Prince, then announced the next act.
He kept his voice even as the last troupe of dancers melted away. “As our final
entertainment, we present something as special as it is appropriate for the night of heroes.
We have with us two
dicaiserr
. They will present for you a display of swords skill as has never been seen before. The Prince welcomes Moraven Tolo and the Turasynd, Chyrut
Scok.”
Nirati smiled. From their encounter at the healing, she knew Moraven was a swordsman.
She’d taken Dunos’ praise of him as childish hyperbole, but clearly the youth had been
right.
To be selected to entertain here means he is very good. Perhaps he’s
even
jaecaiserr.
A jolt ran through Junel’s hands. Nirati turned enough to look up into his face. “What is it?”
“Moraven Tolo I have never heard of, but the Turasynd I have. They may think he is here
to demonstrate his skill, and he is—but not in the way one would expect.”
“What do you mean?”
He nodded as a tall, gaunt, dark-haired man moved into the circle. “When he removes his
shirt, you’ll see the mark of the black eagle on him. He belongs to a barbarian cult. No
matter what he is told, when he draws his blade, the fight is to the death.”
6th day, Harvest Festival, Year of the Dog
9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
736th year since the Cataclysm
Kojaikun, Moriande
Nalenyr
Prince Cyron sat forward in his chair as the two fighters came through the crowd. The
Turasynd was easy to spot, for he stood head and shoulders above the others. His
clothing bespoke origins in the Turca Wastes, though Chyrut himself had been born in
Solaeth. Clean-limbed and very lean, he wore a half-sleeved leather shirt that showed off
arms scarred from fighting. The white scars stood out starkly on his red skin. A strip of
leather circled his brows, and his long, black hair had been braided with the ends of it.
The guests began buzzing when the Turasynd moved into the circle. For most of them, he
was the embodiment of terror. His people had caused the Cataclysm, and many of those
assembled had been raised with threats of Turasynd raiders coming to steal them away.
Even the Prince had heard tales of Turasynd infamy that had him mindful of their threat—
despite the fact that Deseirion and Helosunde insulated Nalenyr.
While Chyrut looked to be no more than fifty years old, which was young even for a
Turasynd, the Prince wondered at his true age. That he was a master of the sword was
well documented, and some reports even hinted that he might be
jaecaiserr
. If so, he
could be considerably older than he appeared. The Prince doubted he could have been
one of the barbarian survivors of the Cataclysm—rumors of them did exist, but it was said
they had all returned horribly warped. He could, however, have been old enough to learn
his art from such survivors.
A smaller percentage of the crowd hissed because they knew the Turasynd worked for
Black Myrian, one of the shadowy figures who profited from criminal enterprises in
Nalenyr. The underworld lord had occasionally done a favor for the Crown—like exposing
or destroying Desei spies—so the Prince saw no value in eliminating him. In return, Black
Myrian kept his activities largely benign—at least when it came to enforcement.
These are odd times when one must conspire with criminals to preserve society.
There
really was no other way, however, and Cyron had long since resigned himself to that.
There would always be those who existed outside the law, and if one of their own could
maintain order, they had a use. Myrian stabilized what could have otherwise been a very
chaotic situation, and the Prince’s ministers valued stability above all.
The man who entered the circle to oppose the Turasynd moved with a fluid economy that
seemed humble—especially on a night meant to honor heroes. He wore an overshirt of
white trimmed in green, with green trousers over black boots. A black shirt and sash
completed his outfit, and his black hair, which was not as long as the barbarian’s, hung
loose. He bowed easily to his foe, then turned and bowed deeply to the Prince.
The Prince’s eyes narrowed, for the smaller man seemed overmatched, which meant he
wasn’t at all. The black and green marked him as the entertainment provided by the Lady
of Jet and Jade, which further indicated he was present for more than just his skill. His
overshirt bore no sign of national allegiance, which impressed the Prince—for in Moriande
during the Festival, one was either of Nalenyr or proudly displayed signs of one’s
homeland. Tigers had been embroidered on the overshirt as a personal crest and Cyron
recognized the crest—though the man’s name had meant nothing to him.
This
is
the
xidantzu
I remember.
The Prince smiled as he bowed his head to the swordsman. The Free Company had no leadership nor allegiance. Its members might act
as mercenaries or bounty hunters, and in any conflict one or more could be found on
either side. More than heroes for hire, they traveled as they wished and, as long as they
broke no laws, they did as they wished, too.
And occasionally will serve the Crown, as
long as it suits their purposes.
Cyron wondered why Moraven Tolo traveled under a new name and had been presented
as a gift from the Lady of Jet and Jade. Had the Prince known of his presence in Moriande
he would have long since summoned him, but one could never be certain
a
xidantzu
would obey. He glanced at the Lady of Jet and Jade, wondering if Moraven’s
presence was her gift to him, with the coming display of skill an added benefit.
I will find him useful,
if
he survives this fight.
The Turasynd pulled his leather jerkin off, and even the Prince gasped. It appeared as if a
black eagle had been tattooed on the man’s chest, shoulders, and back. The shape was
correct, but light shimmered from the design. No ink in the world—even that applied by a
Mystic tattooist—could have reflected that way.
A chill ran through Cyron’s guts as he realized the truth. The design had not been inked, it
had been
fletched
. Feathers, hundreds of them, had been plucked from black eagles.
Their tips had been sharpened, then plunged into Chyrut’s flesh. It had been part of some
Turasynd ritual, and had been performed in a circle where—for days—Chyrut had dueled
with other warriors. Their fights had released magical energy the ritual had trapped and
channeled into a force that fused the feathers with his flesh.
Cyron had heard of such things, and had dismissed them as wild tales from the Wastes.
But for someone to subject himself to such magic willingly . . . The Prince shook his head.
He’d even found the risk of the healing ceremony unacceptable, but that tradition predated
his dynasty and doubtless would continue well after it.
Two Keru moved to the edge of the circle. Each bore a sword and handed it to the closest
combatant. The Turasynd used a slightly curved Turasyndi saber. It came to a sharp point
that could be used for lunging, but had been primarily made for sweeping and crushing
strokes best delivered from horseback. A pair of green cords ending in satin tassels
dangled from the hilt, but the worn scabbard suggested the blade was old and had seen
much use.
Moraven Tolo accepted his sword, which surrendered length and breadth to his
opponent’s weapon. He slid the slender scabbard into his sash, so the hilt rose at his left
hip. Nothing decorated its pommel. Just the way he put the blade away without looking
marked how well he had grown accustomed to its presence.
Both fighters bowed to the Prince, then to each other. As they straightened, Chyrut bared
his blade and tossed the scabbard aside. He roared and slashed the air. People at the
edge of the circle withdrew, and one man fainted. Hatred twisted the Turasynd’s face, and
even the Prince’s breath caught in his throat for a moment.
Moraven Tolo did nothing. He did not draw his sword. He did not smile. But the Prince
could see this was not the same as ignoring his foe. While he did not move, his blue eyes
studied the barbarian—measuring him, judging him.
The Turasynd sailed in, aiming a slashing blow at the smaller man’s head. Had it landed, it
would have trimmed Moraven’s skull at the level of his ears, but it never came close. The
smaller man ducked his head and drove forward, passing beneath the cut. Had he drawn
his sword and pivoted on his right foot, he would have been able to slash through the
barbarian’s middle, from back to front.
Chyrut flipped his right wrist and pivoted on his right foot. Feathers lifted on his right
shoulder, aiding him in the turn. He brought the blade around in a backhanded cut that
should have split Tolo’s spine. But Moraven had, by that point, drawn his sword and thrust
it down behind himself, blocking the slash. The swords clanged and the smaller man flew
forward, tucking into a roll and coming up at the edge of the circle furthest from where he
had started. He turned quickly, his blade coming up in a guard that covered him from
navel to crown.
Again the barbarian roared and charged, but Moraven did not wait for him. They met in the
center of the circle, not standing to exchange blows, but flowing through an intricate series
of exchanges. The Prince’s scalp tingled and the hair stood on his arms as the two
combatants lunged, cut, blocked, parried, spun, and leaped. The fighters’ forms blurred
and their blades became silver-grey phantoms, appearing and disappearing almost faster
than the eye could follow.
The Prince had, as was to be expected, studied the way of the sword. And while never as
good as his brother, he knew enough to be able to unravel some of what he was
witnessing. The two of them
were
master swordsmen—and perhaps even more. Their
actions required more skill than he had ever seen. They seemed to anticipate each other,
with Moraven Tolo again and again turning a blade or sidestepping a cut a heartbeat
before it would have opened him.
As Cyron watched, he became aware of one other factor in the battle that made it all the
more spectacular. The Turasynd, mindful of the fact that this was just a demonstration of
skill, fought without fear that his enemy might actually hurt him. Both of them had such
control that the only way blood would be drawn would be by accident, and Chyrut left
himself open over and over again to speed cuts at Moraven. The smaller man parried,
blocked, and evaded, but never riposted no matter how vulnerable Chyrut left himself.
Frustration boiled in the Turasynd. He snarled and redoubled his efforts. His blade
screamed through the air, and metal rang with a peal that would have drowned out a
signal gong. Sparks flew as he attempted to batter his way through Moraven’s guard. His
size, the weight of his blade, and the pure fury of his attacks threatened to overwhelm his
foe.
Moraven gave ground, but this only seemed to further antagonize the Turasynd. His
slashes became more wild and determined, and came close to wounding a few spectators
who had crowded back close to the circle. The blades twisted through the air, seeming to
have lost all rigidity.
The barbarian cried out in triumph as he whipped his blade through a diagonal slash. A
triangular tidbit of cloth hung in the air for a second, then fluttered to the floor. It had come from Moraven’s right sleeve, and the Turasynd roared as if it had been the
xidantzu
’s
heart that had been pricked.
No one moved. All eyes studied the ragged piece of cloth. It lay there, slightly rumpled,
dark against the light wood. For everyone in the room, save the Turasynd, it seemed a
dire prediction of a return of the hordes, and the destruction of life as they knew it.
Then the tip of a single feather floated down to land on the cloth.
The Prince rapped his knuckles on the arm of his chair. His protocol minister looked at
him, caught his nod, then clapped his hands. “The entertainment is ended.”
If the Turasynd had been able to hear him above the din of applause, he did not heed the
command. Moraven Tolo leaped above a low slash that shaved curls from the floor, then
blocked the return cut. He fell back, slowly arcing around the edge of the circle. The
Turasynd followed, then slowed beside the protocol minister.
The minister again announced that the entertainment had ended.
Chyrut’s left hand came around in a backhanded slap that spun the minister full circle