Reign of Madness (Revised Edition) (46 page)

Rezkin’s business consisted of forming the rest of the plan
with the assistance of the two vassals who knew of his identity and the mage.
For the next two days, they planned, practiced, trained, and gathered
intelligence. Rezkin had little to do with the thieves’ guilds since they
appeared to have fallen in line with his orders. It seemed that taking over a
kingdom’s worth of criminals was not difficult when they thought their
conqueror an actual demon.

On the final eve of registration, Rezkin followed through
with his promise. He knew the strikers would be watching for him, so he staked
out the area before arriving as Dark Tidings. In all, he found four strikers
positioned about the arena watching for his arrival, and no doubt hoping to
follow him on his return.

Avoiding the notice of strikers was that for which he had
been trained, however, and the dark warrior was able to maneuver around them
until he came out into the main square amongst a crowd of people. The entire
time he was maneuvering into position, Rezkin remained hunched within his cloak
focusing his
will
to convince those around him that he was just another
weary traveler hoping to register for the tournament. The dark warrior was not
certain if the strikers were affected by his spell, since he did not know the
distance limitations. Wearing a black cloak in late summer was odd behavior,
but no one around him seemed to notice, so there was no disruption of traffic
and business. As soon as he released his
will
, people scattered and
stopped to gape. Rezkin noticed the striker on the nearest rooftop suddenly
perk up as well, which meant the man had probably just taken notice.

The dark warrior marched confidently down the path and past
the guards at the portico. It was barely half a mark until the registration
ended, and a small crowd had formed to await his arrival. The crowd parted
before him, and people gaped and muttered to each other. The nobles were
gathered in groups, some in awe, others with haughty arrogance feigning
indifference or dismissal. The commoners stood en masse, and a young boy, (or
perhaps he was a small-man – Rezkin could not tell the difference), ran
off excitedly only to return with four others.

The man at the booth was the same attendant who had
previously taken his payment. The man beamed with a broad smile as he greeted
the dark warrior. “Welcome back, my lord. Registration is near to closing, and
well, some thought you might not return.”

Rezkin inclined his head and said, “I did not wish to
conclude my business before everyone had a chance to participate in his or her
pre-trial.”

“Yes, of course. I believed as much.” The attendant waved a
hand to the side and said, “These are the commoners who have qualified for the
Fifth Tier and hoped to partake of your generosity. We had them sent to this
booth for your benefit, my lord.”

The blacksmith, Aspion, who Rezkin had already sponsored,
was standing next to the new competitors with a grin. Rezkin’s eyes roved over
the two new arrivals. They stood anxiously holding their red strips of fabric
in firm grips. One was a man of average height in his mid-thirties with wavy,
shoulder-length black hair and a thick black mustache. His cheeks were sunken,
but not in an unhealthy way. He was all lean muscle. His clothes were plain and
worn but clean and tidy. He looked to be a craftsman of some sort.

The man stepped forward with his head held high and said,
“Sir, my lord, I am Darius Vaughnright. I’m a saddler by trade, but I’ve been
training with the sword since I was a boy. I had not thought to enter the
tournament due to the cost; but if I had, I would not have attempted to compete
above the Third Tier, maybe the Fourth. I’ve never competed before, you see.
But, I heard someone offered to pay the fee for Fifth Tier, so I figured this
might be my only chance. It turns out I’m better than I thought.” He finished
with a broad grin that slipped as he said, “Ah, I just wanted to thank you, my
lord, for your generosity and sponsorship.”

“You are welcome, Master Vaughnright. I look forward to
competing with you,” Rezkin said honestly.

The second man stepped forward hesitantly. He was nearly as
tall as Rezkin with wavy, caramel colored short hair and amber eyes. He was
broad with corded muscle, and his skin was darkened to a golden brown. He was young.
Rezkin guessed him to be around twenty-four years of age. The young man kept
his eyes lowered out of shyness or deference.

“My lord,” he said softly, as if he was not used to
speaking. “I’m Holton of Skutton.” The young man glanced around at the sound of
a few snickers from the nobles. A man without even a family name was barely a
man at all in their view. “I, ah, live an’ work on a farm on the other side o’
the island. One o’ the men was tradin’ at the market the other day when he
heard o’ your offer. I never thought ta compete in the tournament. Thank you,
my lord.”

Rezkin inclined his head and said, “You are most welcome,
Master Holton. Tell me. How did a farmer become a Swordmaster?”

“Ah, well, my lord, I don’t know that I’m a Master, but I
guess I was good enough to get into the Fifth. I, ah, have a friend who was
practicin’ his sword when we were boys. He asked me ta practice with him an’ he
thought I was a natural. He loaned me a practice sword, and as he learned, he
taught me. I practice all the time when I’m not workin’. Eventually, I got
better than my friend. I did odd jobs and saved up money ta pay for a few
lessons whenever I heard great swordsmen were in town. Most of ‘em were willin’
ta give me a few hours o’ their time when they saw that I was serious,” the
young man replied. He constantly shifted with discomfort as he spoke. Rezkin
doubted the man had ever been the center of anything, much less a crowd this
size, and everyone was hanging on to his every word.

The dark warrior inclined his head to the young swordsman
and said, “It will be an honor to compete against such a dedicated swordsman.”
Echoes of Rezkin’s words spread quickly through the gathered crowd.

The young man looked up quickly with a smile but shied away
when his eyes fell on the empty voids that were Rezkin’s eyes. Rezkin hoped the
young farmer had more confidence when he was wielding a blade. The dark wraith
turned to the attendant and dropped two saphs on the table. The attendant
grinned and made a few marks on his parchment.

“Wait! Wait!” came a feminine shout. A woman was pushing
through the crowd from one of the far booths, her hand raised in the air waving
a red strip of fabric.

The dark warrior turned and waited for the woman to arrive.
Now that Rezkin’s attention was on the commotion, the crowd parted easily
before the woman. The first thing Rezkin noticed was her height. She was very
tall – taller than many of the men in the crowd. The second feature he
noticed was her hair, which was bright orangey-red and pulled back into a
thick, intricate braid at the back of her head. She had pale skin and bright
green eyes, and every exposed inch of skin was covered in a dusting of
freckles. Her smile was brilliant as her pale, green eyes sparkled with
excitement.

When she finally cleared the crowd and stood before Rezkin,
she lurched to a sudden halt. “Oh!
My
, you
are
frightening,” she
blurted. The woman’s eyes widened, and she covered her mouth with her hand. “I
mean, greetings, my lord,” she said with a graceful curtsy. Her eyes darted to
the attendant, and she raised her fisted red fabric. “I got it!” she exclaimed.
The man nodded with a smile and made a mark on his parchment.

The woman looked back at Rezkin. “You are the sponsor, I
presume? Ah…my lord,” she added belatedly.

Rezkin reached into his pouch and pulled out another saph.
He held the coin before her wide eyes and said, “I am,” as he plunked it down
on the table.

The woman grinned broadly and said, “Thank you, my lord!
This is so exciting. Oh, I am Yserria Rey. My father was the best swordsman
I’ve ever seen, but he never had the money or opportunity to compete. He taught
me everything I know. He died a few years ago, but I know he would be so proud
to see me compete in the
Fifth Tier
of the King’s Tournament!”

Rezkin inclined his head and said, “I am sorry for your
loss, Mistress Rey. I am sure you will be a formidable opponent.”

A mage finished activating the enchantment on the other
competitors’ ribbons and came over to do the same for Yserria’s. Rezkin looked
around the gathered crowd and noted the disdainful looks of many of the nobles.
There was, however, a fairly large group of nobles who were smiling and nodding
with approval as they discussed the happenings.

Rezkin’s dark and disturbing enchanted voice rose above the
crowd. “Standing here are four commoners who qualified to compete in the Fifth
Tier of the King’s Tournament.
Four
. Four commoners who happened to be
in Skutton on this day, who happened to hear of my offer of sponsorship, and
who managed to set aside the time from their daily responsibilities to be here
to compete. These men and woman lack the luxury of days spent in practice
without chores, they lacked the luxury of expensive tutors and the guidance of
Swordmasters. They likely lacked the support of friends and family who thought
they should be doing something more productive,” he said, looking back at the
competitors. They nodded their heads and chuckled. “Four,” he repeated. “I
think perhaps the Kingdom of Ashai has underestimated the
Skills
of its
common folk.”

A chorus of chatter went through the crowd, and Rezkin
strode out of the registration area and through the portico. Three men followed
the dark warrior from the building. He recognized two of them as the strikers
he had evaded on the day he registered, but the third was new to him. Rezkin
had planned ahead, though.

He turned down the first alley, grabbing an empty pack he
had stowed as he passed. He did not have time to stop and change so he had to
do so as he went. More importantly, he had to stay just out of sight until the
change was complete or the strikers would catch on to the deception. Luckily
for him, most of the alleys and streets were lined with the colored awnings, so
tracking someone from the rooftops was more difficult than it might have been
in some other city.

When he rounded the next corner, he whipped off his cloak,
rolled it up and stuffed it in the sack. He began unclipping the braids and
tossing them in, as well. He could hear the strikers converging on him from two
different directions. He swung himself up onto a second floor balcony rail and
ducked in through an open door. An old woman with cloudy white eyes wrapped in
a long shawl sat in a chair beside the door. The dark warrior slipped past her
into the adjoining room. Sounds of cooking came from elsewhere in the flat. The
warrior quickly pulled off his tabard and armor and stuffed them, too, into the
sack. Opening the front door, he made sure to keep his silence and checked that
he was not seen.

The warrior stepped into an open stairwell, but he stuck to
the shadows as he ascended and unclipped hair braids at the same time. The
stairwell ended at the next landing, but it was still open, and the adjacent
building was less than five feet away. Rezkin surveyed the alley and roofs
around him and then quickly took a running leap, tossing the pack ahead of him
and rolling as he landed. He dashed down a corridor passing a couple of
children playing with a crying baby outside of their flat. As he passed, he
impressed his
will
on the young, impressionable minds that he was
unimportant and need not be remembered. The children took little notice of him.

When he reached the end of the corridor, he dropped onto the
lower roof of a tiny building that had been erected between two larger ones. He
pulled a second pack from beneath the eave and then dropped through a gap
between the building and an awning to the ground behind the structure. The
warrior quickly shed his black shirt and drew out a beige linen shirt as a
replacement. He sloughed his boots, drew a loose pair of brown pants over his
black breeches, and then pulled his boots back on, leaving the pants on the
outside.

Rezkin dashed between awnings as he plucked the last of the
braids from his hair. He gathered his natural black locks into a queue and
donned a floppy, wide-brimmed hat he had stowed in the second pack. Everything
was then stuffed into one pack, which he strapped to his back, and the only
item left to identify him was the sword. He skirted a corner onto a narrow
street and was forced to dash behind a stack of crates as a striker rounded an
opposite corner a few alleys away. Rezkin had stashed his sword’s disguise in
the next alley that lay halfway between himself and the striker. The warrior
waited several moments as the striker glanced down each alley and under every
awning.

The striker was nearing Rezkin’s position, and instead of
backtracking, the young warrior decided to play to his disguise. He removed his
sword harness and stashed the weapon behind the crates. He tossed down his pack
and sprawled across it on the ground. He pulled his hat over his face to appear
as if sleeping. As the striker neared and turned his attention to the man lying
on the ground, Rezkin pressed his
will
on the elite warrior to accept
him as a homeless vagrant. The vagabond scratched at his crotch and snorted
loudly as he shifted into a “more comfortable” position. As the striker made to
pass, Rezkin’s foot “accidentally” fell in the man’s way, tripping him and
inciting a harsh kick from the irritated man. Rezkin grunted and mumbled
something incoherent before feigning slumber once again.

“Damned vagrants,” the striker mumbled as he continued down
the street.

Rezkin waited a few moments after the man turned a corner,
and then quickly leapt to his feet. The warrior ducked down the alley where he
stored a bulky fishing net and a number of long, thin staves of the kind the
island folk used for fishing. He rolled his black sword in the net and then
strapped the staves around it. The warrior lugged the cargo over his shoulders
above the pack and hunched as if crippled by his burden. Finally, he made his
way back toward his inn.