Reign of Madness (Revised Edition) (65 page)

Rezkin held Farson’s gaze firmly as he plucked the parchment
from the striker’s hands and placed it back into the tube. “I have answered
your questions, Farson, but you have answered none of mine. Experience tells me
that you will not unless you have a desire to do so, and torture would yield
little. I know not who issued the orders to kill the strikers, and I know not
whom you serve, but I have revealed my hand.”

The young warrior slowly stepped back saying, “I have reason
to believe that not all of the strikers will choose to serve Caydean should
they be given a choice. Those who would see Caydean fall would deem this
document to be Bordran’s declaration of his rightful heir. By recognizing
me
as the rightful king, the strikers may uphold their oaths and preserve their
honor while denying Caydean. I am led to believe it is an opportunity many
would relish.”

Continuing, Rezkin said, “I will not kill you, now, Farson.
I still have too many questions, and I am not certain your death is necessary
or in my best interest. Your continued existence may serve as proof that I am
my own master. If you should side against me, though, I will end you like the
others,” Rezkin declared with his usual stoic detachment.

Rezkin’s eyes found those of the startled young woman beside
the striker. “Mage Threll,” he said bowing slightly, “I trust I do not have to
tell you to keep this between us?”

Nanessy shook her head vigorously and said, “N-no, of course
not, Lord Rezkin.” Rezkin nodded once to the woman and then to the striker. He
replaced his mask and then disappeared over the side of the roof.

Upon returning for the afternoon session, Rezkin noted the
stands were near to bursting with spectators. This was to be expected for the
finale, but it was the nature of the onlookers that concerned Rezkin. The
stands were packed with soldiers. Most of them were in full or partial uniform,
a number of which had been hastily covered with loose tunics. This only raised
his suspicions further. Usually, soldiers tended to stick together in groups.
Not so with these. They were dispersed throughout the crowd with greater
numbers lining the rows closest to the arena and the porticos. It looked like a
poorly concealed enemy infiltration – if Ashaiian soldiers were the
enemy.

In the end, Dark Tidings defeated every opponent and won the
first ever Melee competition of the King’s Tournament. The Eastern Mountains ax
wielder’s stamina had been significantly reduced after his bout with Rezkin and
the subsequent healing, and he had to be satisfied with third place. Rezkin
would get no respite, though, for he still had to fight five more duels in the
Fifth Tier competition. In the finals rounds, Dark Tidings faced Holton, the
farmer from Skutton who he had sponsored for the competition. Rezkin was
gratified to see the man finish in third place.

Just as Dark Tidings begin the final match with the Ashaiian
Marquis of Quenth, Rezkin realized what that nagging in his outer consciousness
had been trying to tell him for the last hour. He was disappointed in himself
for not realizing it earlier but refused to blame his failure on fatigue or his
encounter with the long-sought Farson or the minor distraction of the
tournament. Duke Ytrevius’s men had been gradually retreating from the arena.
The duke must have gotten wind that something was to happen, and it was likely
Ytrevius was not involved. Strangely, that did not bode well for the people of
Skutton.

Rezkin’s eyes surreptitiously surveyed the stands where his friends
awaited the outcome of the tournament. He would have preferred they be nowhere
near the arena, but he knew they would not have missed the finale, not to
mention anyone keeping track may have considered it suspicious if they did not
attend. He knew that several spies for both Ytrevius and Caydean had been
keeping an eye on Tieran, in particular.

All of Rezkin’s traveling companions were gathered together
in the stands as he had directed, including Yserria and Reaylin who Kai had
managed to track down the previous night. The companions’ retainers and
belongings were supposed to already have been loaded into the ship awaiting
their escape, and at this point, Rezkin was certain
escape
would be the
appropriate term.

The marquis thrust, and Dark Tidings parried. The two danced
about with quick over the shoulder strikes and wider arching ones. The marquis
was a formidable opponent, every bit as good as one of the strikers, if dueling
had been the only requisite to become a striker. When Rezkin stuck the other
Swordmaster through the shoulder, the crowd cringed. When the marquis shifted
his grip to the other hand, the audience cheered. Rezkin realized the marquis,
who had nearly won the last King’s Tournament and had won several other
tournaments since, had somehow become the underdog. By now, everyone expected
Dark Tidings to win, and he did.

As the crowd burst into roaring applause and the official
announced the tournament’s official champion, the uniformed strikers began
their advance. One came from each of the four porticos, and three more dropped
over the wall from the stands. They moved toward him steadily until Dark
Tidings was surrounded.

In the stands, Tieran remarked, “This does not look good.”

“What is it? Dark Tidings has won the tournament. What are
they doing? They should be congratulating him,” Frisha said with concern,
although she knew the suggestion ridiculous.

At that moment, all seven strikers drew their swords. They
were definitely not congratulating the tournament champion. The now silent audience
held its collective breath. One of the strikers spoke, his voice resonating
through the stands, “Dark Tidings, popular rumor has it that you profess a
claim to the throne. You are under arrest for treason against the crown. Come
now and you may live to see the gallows.”

“You convict a man based on rumor, now?” Dark Tidings asked
as he turned slow circles, keeping an eye on his opponents. It was reminiscent
of the battle at the fortress, only with half the number of opponents.

“Do you deny the charges?” the striker questioned.

“I do. I am not guilty of treason. King Bordran exercised
his right to declare his own heir. He chose
me
.
I
am the rightful
King of Ashai, and a usurper sits upon the throne – a mad tyrant who will
destroy this kingdom. Let all who are present know that they do not owe their
fealty to Caydean.”

The striker sneered and said, “We do not care for your lies.
You hold no proof of your claim.”

Dark Tidings cocked his head to the side and said, “I have
in my possession proof that I am the True King, not that
you
will care
to see it, I think. Know this, Striker. You swore an oath to serve the King of
Ashai. The strikers do not owe that sadist, Caydean, allegiance. Serve your
True King and uphold honor and justice!”

Several of the strikers glanced to their comrades, but the
speaker shook his head. Another spoke up saying, “Show us this proof.”

“Mind your tongue, Shezar. We need no proof of his lies.
King
Caydean has ordered his death and so shall it be,” the speaker stated.

“You do not speak for all of us, Klent. We should see his
proof. If he is whom he says, then he must go before the Council. And, since
when does the king order a man’s death without proof or trial?” Striker Shezar
argued.

“You defy your king, Shezar?” Striker Klent accused.

“If this man is whom he claims, then I cannot bare my blade
against him,” the striker replied as he sheathed his blade and stepped back. To
Dark Tidings he said, “I am sorry, but without proof I cannot stand in your
defense, and it does not appear that my
brothers
are willing to give us
the time.” With a growl he said, “But neither will I stand against you so long
as your proof is in question.” Another striker on Dark Tidings’ other side
sheathed his blade and stepped back as well. The other five continued to
advance.

Frisha gripped Tam’s arm and exclaimed, “They are going to
kill him!”

Tam was nervous as well, but he knew Rezkin had overcome
much greater odds. Still, his friend and liege had been fighting all day, and
surely he was tired. He sought to comfort Frisha anyway, “I do not think we
have too much cause to worry. He is greater than you know.”

“But there are
five strikers
! They are the elite! He
cannot beat
five
of them!” the young woman protested.

“I concur,” Malcius said.

“Someone should do something. We should help him,” Palis bit
out.

Malcius cupped his brother upside the head and said, “Quiet!
People will hear you, and we will meet the same fate.”

Brandt made to stand, but Tieran gripped his arm saying,
“Rezkin told us to stay together. He knew something was going to happen. I am
sure Dark Tidings is prepared to handle it. Let us see what happens.”

“By then he will be
dead
,” Brandt refuted.

“Just
wait
. What do you think
you
could do
against seven strikers, anyway?” Tieran asked.

“Only five. The other two stood aside,” Brandt said with
less enthusiasm.

“
Only
five,” Tieran seethed. “You could not help with
one, much less five, and do not think the other two would stand back and let
you attack their brethren.”

“It would not just be me. Maybe if one person goes to help,
others will follow,” the Gerrand argued.

“Or you will be the only one, and you will die,” Tieran
retorted.

The argument was cut short with the sudden clash of blades.
The green lighting flashed brightly in the darkening arena. As the sun dipped
below the horizon, torches had been lit, which flickered in the cool sea
breeze. The strikers dipped in one after another in well-practiced group
maneuvers. At times, two or three attacked at once. This was not the sudden,
chaotic battle of the fortress. This was well practiced and choreographed for
success.

Dark Tidings shifted to keep at least one of his opponents
between him and the others as often as possible. When several closed in at
once, he smashed one in the face with his hilt, and slipped a dagger into the
man’s gut. While the injured striker was doubled over, Dark Tidings leapt onto
the man’s back and launched himself over the heads of the others. He landed
behind the line of strikers and was finally clear. They came at him quickly,
and the fighting was brutal.

This was nothing like the dueling tiers, and the wraith
fought much dirtier than he had during the Melee. This was true battle for life
and death – one man against five masters. A flying dagger took one
striker in the eye. Ranged weapons were not permitted during the Melee, and the
strikers had probably not considered that he might be carrying them. He
exchanged several blows with the striker who had spoken for the group. The man
was aggressive and determined. He was also allowing his anger and hatred to
overcome his senses. This man had obviously forgotten what it meant to follow
the
Rules
.

A second opponent came at Rezkin from the side. He quickly
shifted his longsword to a one-handed grip and drew a dagger, blocking the
second swordsman’s strike. The wraith brought the black blade around, smashing
the second opponent’s blade aside as he spun and kicked out at the speaker. He
shoved the man into another striker who had been approaching from behind.
Dropping his sword back down to block another attempt by the second opponent,
he then stabbed his dagger into the man’s jugular. Without hesitation, Rezkin
dragged the black blade back around and sliced into the speaker’s abdomen on
the back sweep. As he fell to the side, the dagger found its way into the final
striker’s shoulder and was quickly followed by the black blade through the
heart. Dark Tidings kicked the man off his blades and turned to find the
speaker once again. The prostrate man had palmed a throwing knife, but was too
slow to release the small blade while he was attempting to hold his guts in his
body.

Dark Tidings stomped on the man’s hand, crushing the bones
and rendering the blade useless. He leaned over the striker and said, “Five was
not enough.” The black blade glimmered as it was thrust into the man’s chest.
The wraith pulled his blade free and looked back to the two strikers who had
opted not to engage in the battle. Both were standing and staring in shock.
Turning toward Striker Shezar, he said, “Seven would not have been enough,
either.” The black blade hung in a firm grip at his side, a steady green glow
lit within, interrupted only by tiny rivulets of crimson dripping down its
sides.

“You killed them,” Shezar observed in astonishment. The
crowd was riveted, not a whisper to be heard.

“I did,” Dark Tidings stated unapologetically.

The striker swallowed and said, “I would see your proof.”

“And if you are unsatisfied with my proof?” the black wraith
asked.

With a hesitant smile, the striker said, “Then I shall
retreat for reinforcements.”

“Then it seems you have not
all
forgotten the
Rules
,”
Dark Tidings mused. The striker lifted a brow and tensed as the mysterious
warrior reached inside his armor and withdrew a small metal tube, which he
tossed at the striker’s feet. The second striker maintained his position but
kept a close eye on Dark Tidings’ every movement. Shezar retrieved the tube
with considerably less caution than had Striker Farson; but Shezar did not know
of Rezkin’s training, so perhaps his carelessness could be excused. The excuse
would do him little good if the tube was trapped or poisoned, though.

The striker silently read the contents and glanced up at the
dark wraith before him. It was unavoidable that those who required proof would
know his identity. All he could do was hope that they joined him or he would
have to kill them, especially potentially dangerous enemies like the strikers.
Eventually, his secret would be revealed, but he was not yet ready for that to
happen.

Looking up, Shezar said, “You have them?” Of course the
striker was referring to the Sheyalin blades.

Dark Tidings tilted his head to the side and said, “They are
near. There is more, but we shall not discuss it here.”

The striker nodded in understanding, glanced at his comrade
and then drew his sword. The other striker drew his sword in response but was
surprised when Shezar dropped to his knees. The striker recited his oath of
fealty, but knowing Rezkin desired anonymity and that everyone in the stands
could hear the exchange, he excluded Rezkin’s name, instead saying “the warrior
known as Dark Tidings and the True King.” The second striker, a man by the name
of Roark Genring, recognized the significance of his brother-in-arms’ actions,
and dropped to his knees as well. The audience burst into an uproar. Some
cheered, some shouted angry curses and offensive epithets, and some even came
to blows.

Suddenly, a loud horn blasted over the arena. It was
apparently the signal for which the army had been waiting, because in a flurry
of movement, the soldiers in the stands drew their weapons and blocked off the
exits. They began yelling and herding patrons toward the steps leading to the
arena floor. Additional soldiers blocked off the exits from the field itself,
but it was obvious they had not planned on being the only ones guarding against
the gathered Swordmasters who had competed in the Fifth Tier. The soldiers’
faces were wrought with fright, and the younger ones were visibly shaking as
their commanders barked orders. All of this happened in a matter of moments,
and the spectators were screaming and shoving in all directions. The
competitors still standing on the arena floor were confused and glancing
around, looking for any clue as to what was happening.