Light of Eidon (Legends of the Guardian-King, Book 1) (40 page)

The words sent yet another chill crawling up Carissa’s spine, for though
she knew they were claiming the Pretender to be Kiriathan and even of Kalladorne heritage, hearing it proclaimed was unnerving.

The doors rumbled to a stop, and the two men she had seen so briefly last
night stepped into the ring.

As before, the taller one wore all white-doublet, hose, and those horrid,
too-short, ballooning breeches that were the height of recent Kiriathan foppery. From this vantage he looked like a white pear, decked with lace and
ribbon and topped with a long white wig and gaudily jeweled crown-the
outfit hardly even an exaggeration of the more outrageous versions of current
Kiriathan fashion. Again his face was painted stark white with the laughing
jester lips and black lines exploding from his eyes in an expression of perpetual surprise.

His companion looked equally foolish-afroth with emerald frippery and
a black wig, face painted with a sad-mouth and a black tear falling from one
eye.

And yet, despite the absurd costumes, they carried themselves regallyparticularly the Pretender. He stood straight-backed, chin up, radiating defiance, and he had a presence about him every bit as mesmerizing as
Beltha’adi’s. Whoever he was, it was plain to see how he had gained his following.

The crowd erupted all at once, with no apparent cue. One moment they were silent and the next they were screaming their lungs out in a thunderous
wave of sound. Not cheering, but not jeering, either-more an expression of
savage excitement. White diamonds appeared out of nowhere, reflecting the
sentinel stones’ light so that they danced and fluttered like butterflies
throughout the dark bowl of audience.

The two men moved with long, easy strides, their heads high, their hands
resting lightly upon the blades that banged in scabbards at their sides, the
weapons a sobering counterpart to their apparel. After all she had endured,
their courage caught her heart. Perhaps we will not see these two quaver and
quail before the beasts. It’s said there were men who could do it. It’s said these
two have, in fact, done it….

The pair strode to ring-center and stood to face the royal box. The swell
of voices waned, and a light appeared over Beltha’adi. The Supreme Commander stood and spoke, his voice eerily amplified. “Pretender, you have
shown great courage and ability in combat. You have shown us you have the
heart of a son of Khrell. As a reward, I will be merciful. Renounce your past,
do homage to Khrell, and I will spare your life.”

The crowd burst into a low mumble of surprise, mutterings passing back
and forth as people asked if he’d said what they thought he’d said, then fading
as they waited for the Pretender’s answer. The silence intensified until she
could hear the softest rustles of the people around her.

Finally the Pretender spoke, his voice ringing through the arena’s lofty
spaces, deepened and distorted in amplification. “I am a Kiriathan, sir, and I
will betray neither my heritage nor my homeland!”

The audience gasped, and Carissa felt a thrill of pride.

“I would ask,” the Pretender went on, “why you send a proxy to face me.
Why not test me yourself? Surely the Immortal One does not fear the blade
of one yelaki northerner.”

Beltha’adi snorted and waved a hand. “You are not the king of Kiriath,
Pretender.”

“No, but it is said I am the Dorsaddi Deliverer. Why didn’t you choose
that contest to be the subject of this tale?”

She actually heard a wave of snickering.

Beltha’adi threw up his chin. “If you survive my champion, Pretender,
perhaps I will.” He made a slashing gesture, and the stadium went dark.

The crowd erupted again, screaming, stamping, waving its white diamonds as the arena slowly disappeared….

Carissa had heard about the incredible illusory powers of the best Game
Masters, had even experienced the work of the lesser practitioners, but it was
nothing compared to this.

Where the audience should have been now stretched a gray expanse of
sea, overhung with dark thunderclouds, a fleet of galley ships at anchor just
offshore. The arena’s sandy floor became a grass-hummocked bluff in Kiriath:
part of the famous Field of Hollyhocks where the war with Chesedh had
ended, where Arnon stopped the Thilosian warlord Danau from taking Springerlan, where Alaric I had led the Gundians against Polark and his hordes to
become the first Kalladorne to wear the Kiriathan crown. It lay just east of
Springerlan, and she had walked its grassy hummocks in reality. This was a
rendition so perfect, she wondered if they had somehow been transported
there. A wind blew across the bluff, ruffling the grasses, stirring her mask,
touching her nostrils with the taint of the sea. She could even hear the flags
as they flapped.

How was this possible?

Below, the two armies stood in their camps, the two champions between
them, Broho and Pretender facing one another. The Broho’s long, twohanded elbana slid from its scabbard, and the Pretender bared both longsword and dagger. They began to circle, stepping carefully among the hummocks, watching each other, the Pretender with his blades held forward,
point first, the Broho with his long sharp steel cocked back at shoulder
height.

They circled and circled, watching each other, weighing, evaluating, waiting.

The Broho struck first, taking a little hop forward and swinging out, the
elbana’s reach twice that of the Pretender’s blade. It flashed in the gray light,
flashed again as it looped and came back, and again, and again, an easy, rhythmic motion that looked more like a practice form than anything serious. The
Pretender hopped back, out of reach, refusing to take one-handed what his
opponent delivered with two.

She grew aware of the spectators around her again as they shifted restlessly, and she heard murmurs of “Yelaki! Beshaad!” A reluctance to engage
was never tolerated. It smacked of cowardice and fear-traits the Pretender
had never yet revealed. Or so she’d heard. Then again, this was a Broho. And his sword was awfully long, flashing malevolently in the darkness as it looped
and swung, looped and swung.

Suddenly the Pretender lunged in after one of those swings, laying his
dagger against the Broho’s bared forearm and thrusting with his sword. The
Broho twisted away and, heedless of the blade at his arm, drove the elbana’s
pommel down hard toward his opponent’s face. The Pretender stumbled
backward over the hummocks-and still caught the next swing with his dagger, trapping it with his sword to come in close again.

They struggled briefly, blood dripping down the Broho’s forearm. Then
the Pretender staggered backward, his sword sailing from his grip. With the
Broho slashing after him, he backstepped over the hummocks and tripped,
falling flat on his back. The elbana flashed down, a powerful, killing stroke
that caught but a slice of doublet as the Pretender rolled away and came up,
sword in hand again.

Blood staining one white sleeve, he returned to his ready position, both
blades held forward, and the two went back to their quiet circling.

The audience responded with a murmur of approval. The Pretender had
not only held his own, but it was the first time a Broho had been blooded all
day.

Overhead a sea gull soared on the same wind that ruffled the tunics and
hair of the watching armies in the field and again stirred the veil at Carissa’s
face. Lightning speared the distant clouds, dark over the restless sea and bobbing galleys. A growl of thunder followed moments later.

The Broho laughed. Immediately the wind kicked up a sand skirl between
them, and as the Pretender turned his head to shield his eyes, his opponent
struck. The blow was blocked, trapped, and the Pretender came in close,
sliced his opponent’s forearm again, and was flung away.

Again the crowd murmured, and the sound seemed to ignite the Broho
champion’s ire. He hurled himself forward, swinging his blade with blinding
speed, forcing the Pretender to abandon the dagger and put both hands on
the sword to block the blows.

The blades pounded against each other in rapid repeating clanks, ending
finally in an off-tone clunk that left the Pretender backstepping furiously, his
sword a jagged shard barely longer than the dagger. Then he slammed into
what looked like solid air and rebounded dazedly as the elbana swooped for
his head.

He dropped just in time, sweeping a leg to kick the Broho’s feet from
under him. As the man fell, the Pretender thrust with the broken sword,
missed, thrust again, and scrambled out of range. When he rolled to his feet,
he held the dagger again, along with the broken sword.

The crowd roared.

The Broho rose to a taut crouch, the amulet at his throat blazing violet.
He shouted a Command, and the Pretender froze. The cheering choked off
on the instant, Carissa’s voice among them. She had hoped this contest
would be different. But clearly it was not to—

The Broho moved into striking range, and the Pretender charged in close,
grabbing the elbana’s hilt with one hand, plunging the dagger through the
man’s ribs with the other. The crowd went wild as the Broho flung him off
and opened his mouth to deliver another Command even as the Pretender’s
broken sword spun through the air to bury itself dead center in his chest.

It was a killing blow that did not kill.

The Broho’s eyes flared red, his mouth opened, and the dark veil of the
Fearspell billowed out, writhing through the air to wrap itself around the
Pretender. Again he went rigid, and Carissa screamed at him-along with a
thousand other voices-to fight it. He had mastered the Command. Surely
he could master this.

Reeling a bit himself now, the Broho plucked the broken sword from his
chest and cast it away, eyes still blazing, the glow of his amulet spreading
down to the wound. He stood for a moment, staring at his hands as he caught
his breath and marshaled his strength.

The crowd roared again, and Carissa’s gaze flew back to the Pretender,
now shrugging himself free of the Fearspell. Grimly he strode toward the
Broho, dagger in hand. The man looked up, saw him, and screamed out a ball
of purple fire that plunged straight into the Pretender’s chest—

And was deflected in a blaze of white that sent it exploding into the arena
wall on Carissa’s left.

The force of contact flung the Pretender thirty feet backward, slamming
him into another of the invisible barriers and collapsing him senseless on the
sand. The Broho advanced to finish him off, but before he’d gone half the
distance, the man in white was struggling to his feet, blood bright on his
white-painted chin. The front of his doublet was charred and he stared
around at the windswept bluff as if dazed.

The Broho spoke another purple bolt at him, and it was deflected as
before, this time crashing into the wall directly in front of Carissa with a
plume of purple sparks that made all the illusion shudder. Again the
Pretender was flung through the air, but this time he missed the invisible
sentinel, hit the ground rolling, and came to his feet, not looking so dazed
anymore. His wig had been knocked askew, and now he tore it off, revealing
blond hair caught into a warrior’s knot at his nape.

The Infidel, conspicuous in his emerald costume, stepped away from the
men of the watching armies, as did the Broho’s second, watching each other
as they watched the primary combatants.

The combatants stood eyeing each other, as well, both panting heavily. It
looked like the Pretender smiled-and then he threw himself forward once
more, once more meeting a purple lance that sent him flying. Again the illusion flickered, faltered, then went dark, leaving only the sandy arena, the
glowing sentinels, and the great dark bowl of the amphitheater alight with
dancing white diamonds and screaming spectators. The sound beat at
Carissa’s ears and chest and belly, rolling over her like a fierce wind, even as
her own voice joined it.

Yet again the white figure dragged himself upright, the front of his doublet now completely gone, revealing the glowing talisman he wore suspended
on a chain about his neck. The skin beneath it was red, seared by the heat
released in the clash of powers. Red smeared his shoulder and soaked his
white britches and hose.

A thrill raced up Carissa’s back and scalp at the man’s persistence. And
yet she wondered what he hoped to accomplish. To drain the Broho of his
energy? Tire him out enough to even the odds?

The Infidel had eased closer, but so had the other Broho.

Let him win. Surely after all this he deserves to win.

The Pretender’s legs wobbled, strengthened. Again he smiled, but this
time he did not fling himself at his enemy. Instead he took a sideways course,
as if to come round wide in a flank attack.

Purple fire slid inexorably through the air. The Pretender twisted as it hit,
and suddenly she understood what he was doing-a heartbeat before the
deflected bolt hit one of the arena’s six pairs of wooden doors and blasted it
to splinters. Not chance. He had been aiming.

He rolled as he hit the ground, came up yelling, and all devolved into chaos as the Kiriathan soldiers rushed into the gap between him and the
Broho, leaving him a clear shot at the gate. The other army leaped to the
challenge and suddenly a full-scale melee writhed across the sand. She saw
the Infidel close in on the Broho champion, running the shaven-headed warrior through the throat with his long Kiriathan blade. As the Broho fell, the
Infidel raced to catch up with the Pretender, interposing his body between
the Pretender’s and those behind them.

In the Supreme Commander’s box, Beltha’adi leapt up with a screech
that became a violet fireball, flying across the ring after the fleeing slaves.
They were still some twenty feet from the warren opening when it hit,
exploding in a blinding blossom of white and purple and red.

Slowly the smoke cleared, revealing two blackened bodies sprawled on
the sand amidst shards of smoldering wood. In the deafening quiet a whimper
left Carissa’s raw throat as she stood there stunned and disbelieving. Beside
her Philip muttered something, clenching his fists and staring hard at the bodies. She watched him dully, waiting for the realization to hit. Instead he
clutched her arm. “They got away?” he hissed. “They got away!”