ICO: Castle in the Mist (29 page)

She would tell her about the spell her mother had cast upon their own people with the power she had gained from the Dark God. How all of the knights and ministers had been enchanted. And how they must be the ones to free them.

But as her mother’s only daughter, the thought of what Yorda must do was not only frightening, it was sad. She wanted to ask what the chief handmaiden thought, in all the wisdom of her years, of a daughter who betrayed her own mother.

Could it ever be the right thing to do? If it meant stopping the rise of the Dark God, was it acceptable to ignore ties of blood?

Or perhaps,
Yorda thought,
I shouldn’t talk to you at all, but to Master Suhal.
Yorda felt certain that her instructor knew more than he had told her about the queen. Perhaps that was the source of those wisps of dark shadow she saw at times in the wise man’s eyes.

Who in the castle was awake, and who still slept? She only knew she didn’t want to be alone. It was too frightening.

“I will call on the Minister of Rites to prepare a place for you at the throne, that you might observe the tournament,” the handmaiden said stiffly, her eyes averted from Yorda’s face. “The fourth round is set to begin at noon with the ringing of the bell. Do you know which of the arenas this knight you wish to see will be fighting in?”

“No…” Yorda admitted, “but I’m sure the Minister of Court knows. And I’ve heard this contestant has a very unusual appearance—horns grow from his head.”

“Horns? Like a deer’s, or an ox’s?”

“That’s right—but more like an ox than a deer, I’m told.”

The handmaiden furrowed her thin eyebrows. “Strange appearance, indeed. Are you certain he is the one you would watch? I fear the sight of him might trouble you.”

“I do not think it appropriate to call one of the men who might soon be master-at-arms of the castle troubling,” Yorda said with a bright smile.

The chief handmaiden bowed. Yorda watched her bent, withered frame as she left the room.

Her mother had been there when the men were talking about the strange knight Ozuma, though Yorda had no idea whether such talk interested her mother at all. How would she react when she learned that her daughter wanted to see the tournament? Was the herald of darkness aware that her enemies were approaching? Yorda shivered.

Ozuma’s fourth contest was scheduled to take place in the Western Arena. Yorda entered the arena last to the boisterous cheers of a full crowd. She was wearing a midday dress with a veil drawn over her face. At her side, the Minister of Court advised her to raise her hand and greet the crowd, so she did so, giving them a light wave. This simple gesture was met with loud applause. Yorda found herself unexpectedly moved by the warm reception. Respect and love directed toward the princess was also respect and love for her mother, the queen.
Our kingdom is at peace. The people are satisfied in their lives. How could rule by fear produce such happiness?
The people greeted her mother as their true queen—what business did she have disrupting that?

“You may proceed to your seat, Princess,” the Minister of Court said, a wide smile across his face. “Until you sit, no one else may,” he added in a whisper, then more loudly, “What an ovation!”

Yorda found herself doubting everything. When she looked out on the crowd, she saw only innocent people, ignorant of the true purpose of this spectacle, deceived by the queen. They were livestock bred for the sole purpose of bringing about the revival of the Dark God.
Or is it I who has been deceived by an agent of mayhem and greed, come from another land to take what is ours?

Yorda’s mind reeled, and she nearly lost her balance. Before she drew unwanted attention, she grabbed the arms of the beautifully carved throne and sat, closing her eyes.

From entrances on either side of the arena, two warriors took the floor, led in by royal guardsmen. Ozuma, the taller of the two, walked in easy strides, his helmet tucked beneath his arm. He had taken off his black robe, but other than that, he looked exactly as he had the first time Yorda met him. The longsword at his waist reached nearly to the ground, its tip hanging only a hair’s breadth above the arena floor.

The man he faced was also a giant. He wore a wide, leather battle skirt with a thick belt, also of leather, about his waist. Above that he wore only a vest of chain mail on his chest and a battle-axe slung over his back. The man’s wide bald head caught the light of the torches set along the walls of the arena. In place of a helmet, he wore a small metal circlet.

Together, the two contestants stood before the throne, then knelt upon their knees. Yorda accepted the gesture with a quiet nod. She had the impression that Ozuma’s eyes met hers through her veil for the briefest of moments, but his expression was blank.
Perhaps he expected me to come watch him fight today.

The knight who presided as judge over the arena introduced the two swordsmen in a voice that rang loudly throughout the arena. First up was the itinerant knight from the far east, Ozuma. Facing him was Judam, renowned throughout the continent for his skill with a battle-axe. While the crowd made their enthusiasm known, Ozuma slowly donned his helmet. Yorda blushed slightly at seeing the crowd’s favor for him.

“Princess, are you feeling unwell?” the minister asked, leaning toward her.

“I’m fine. Thank you. I was startled by the crowd’s enthusiasm, that’s all. I daresay all these people could turn the chilly depths of winter into a summer day.”

The Minister of Court smiled approvingly. “That swordsman on the right is the fellow I was telling you about. He’s a sure bet for champion.”

“The crowd adores him,” Yorda agreed.

“Perhaps such talk does not reach your ears, Princess, but there is a great deal of wagering that goes on around the tournament. Ozuma began as a complete unknown, but now he is by far the most popular. I would not be surprised if more than half of the people watching here today have money riding on his victory.”

The judge stood between the two men in the center of the arena, one hand on each of the contestants’ shoulders. He read off the rules of honorable combat, after which each of the contestants raised his weapon—a sword for one, and an axe for the other—and repeated the rules in unison.

“The fight goes on until one man falls or admits defeat by tossing away his weapon,” the Minister of Court explained.

Yorda felt queasy just looking at the two men exchanging glares before their fight.

“They do not kill each other, do they? This is a tournament, not a battlefield.”

“Not intentionally, but it does happen on occasion. If one’s opponent does not admit defeat, it may come to cutting. Sometimes, there are fatalities,” the minister said, seeming far too pleased. “Judam, the one with the battle-axe, lost in the next to last round of the previous tournament, and he’s favored to win this year as well. Not only is he a master with that massive axe of his, but he fights like a wild boar and does not know when to yield. In the semifinals three years ago, his opponent, a spearman, wouldn’t let go of his spear, so Judam relieved him of both his arms. Ha! If the judge had not intervened, he might well have cut off the man’s head.” The Minister of Court was lost in the story now, completely forgetting to whom he spoke. “His fight today against Ozuma might well be the deciding bout for the Western Arena. I doubt any other in the tournament could stand against either—here they go!”

The judge gave the call to begin and withdrew to the edge of the circular arena. Judam gave a wild battle cry, brought his axe to bear with incredible speed for one so massive, and dashed off to one side, putting a little more distance between him and his opponent. Ozuma did not move.

Swinging his axe in a circle as though it weighed no more than a feather, Judam stared down the knight, walking around him in a slow circle. When he reached Ozuma’s flank, the knight turned a half step to face him and placed a hand on the sword at his waist. Yorda’s eyes went wide. Ozuma drew his sword with such speed, she saw only the flash of metal before the sword was completely out of its sheath.

Ozuma held the sword with its tip pointed toward the ground. Though he followed Judam’s every movement with his eyes, his feet were still.

Judam’s battle-axe ceased its gyrations. He leapt toward Ozuma. The massive battle-axe cut through the air, while the polished double-edged blade gleamed. A cry went up from the crowd.

When the battle-axe came down, it struck only Ozuma’s shadow. The knight had stepped lightly aside, gaining Judam’s flank. Ozuma’s blade slashed out, stopping only inches from the giant’s back as it struck the battle-axe Judam had deftly swung over his head and down across his back to block the blow. Sparks flew and steel clashed. Their blades met three more times before the warriors leapt back, and there was a brief pause in the fighting.

Yorda couldn’t believe the speed with which the two men moved. Judam advanced, massive axe held in one hand just off the ground, sweeping it in circles toward his opponent’s feet. Ozuma deftly hopped out of the axe’s path, and when he landed, his sword was already swinging down toward Judam’s exposed shoulder. Judam rolled to the side to avoid the blow and stood, axe already lifted above his head. Though the axe was fully as long as Yorda was tall, in Judam’s hands it appeared no more than a twig. It was clear neither its weight nor length gave him any trouble whatsoever. The axe moved like an extension of his own arm.

Ozuma blocked the blow directly to his front with his sword, then lunged forward, pushing his opponent back with his weight. The moment the man’s center of gravity shifted back, the longsword drew an arc through the air, grazing Judam’s right shoulder before the tip of the sword struck the ground. A roar passed through the arena. Ozuma was off balance; Judam came in for the kill.

Yet Ozuma’s defenses were flawless. His sword seemed to dance back up, slashing through one of the leather straps holding the chain mail to Judam’s chest. The vest drooped to one side. Judam scrambled to regain his footing. This was the moment Ozuma had been waiting for. Though Judam managed to dodge the next blow, his balance was thrown entirely, and he fell on his side to the ground.

Judam went into a roll to gain distance from Ozuma, and using his bare hand to rip off the remaining leather strap, he took off the chain mail and threw it at Ozuma’s face. Ozuma ducked to one side and the vest hit the arena floor with a dull crash, sliding all the way to the foot of the stands.

The sound of the next clash between sword and battle-axe was lost in the roar of the crowd. All Yorda could see were the two men like shadows, first drawing closer, then separating, then engaging once more, lit by the flying of sparks. At one point, the two weapons clashed, but it was Judam who lowered his axe first, and Ozuma’s blade bit into the bald man’s metal circlet. Blood ran in rivulets down Judam’s forehead, and the sweat on his head glinted in the sunlight.

Yorda’s hands clenched into fists. Her heart was racing, and her breath was ragged. She could feel her knees shaking on the throne.

Judam gave a howl and toppled over backward. Another cheer rose up from the spectators and Yorda leaned forward to see better.

Despite the fact that he had an easy opening on his opponent, Ozuma did not take it. Instead he took a quick step to the side, putting distance between himself and the battle-axe wielder. It was the right move. Judam jumped up from the ground and used his momentum to swing his weapon around from the side. The shining blade cut an arc through the air.

The missed swing was exactly what Ozuma had been waiting for. The momentum of the axe had carried Judam around until his side was facing his opponent. Ozuma leapt, as agile as a wildcat. This time, not even the swift Judam had time to bring his axe back around to block. Ozuma’s double-edged blade swept to the side, cutting the haft of his opponent’s weapon in two. The head of the battle-axe dropped by his feet, bouncing off to one side, leaving him holding only the handle. Ozuma’s blade slashed out again, and in the next instant the handle, too, was rattling across the arena floor, leaving Judam with a small piece of wood barely larger than the palm of his hand. The massive warrior’s mouth hung open.

A deep wrinkle crossed his shiny pate. His right eye was closed against the blood running down from the wound on his head. As Ozuma closed the distance between them, Judam dropped to one knee.

“I yield!”

The bout was decided. Everyone in the stands leapt to their feet. A wave of applause swept across the arena, honoring the victor. Yorda finally let herself exhale and leaned back against her throne. Next to her, the Minister of Court was slapping his ample palms together, doing a little dance in his joy. Yorda had to smile at that. Then she herself stood and applauded the horned knight.

When Ozuma faced the throne and knelt a second time, a smile on his face answered her own.

That night, even wrapped in her silk covers, Yorda had trouble falling asleep. The excitement of the tournament was hard to put out of her mind. Ozuma’s skill was plain to see, even to her. He would surely win his next two bouts and emerge the victor. Then he would be welcome to the castle as the master-at-arms—

“I am but the advance guard,”
he had told her. Finding a place at the castle was his first objective. Next would come spying and gathering information. He would unveil the castle and the queen for what they truly were.

Armed with the knowledge Ozuma had gathered, the Holy Zagrenda-Sol Empire and the fifth emperor in service of the Sun God would come to strike at the herald of darkness.

Should I help them?
Yorda wondered.
Is my power truly enough to resist the darkness? Or should I turn my back on the Sun God, the great Creator, and side with my mother?

When her eyes opened again, the room was steeped in darkness. She wondered if the questions she had asked Ozuma at the trolley were really questions she should ask of her mother.
Why did you tell me your secrets? Why was I given life in this world? For what purpose?