The Crystal Warriors (17 page)

"Now, let's have a drink before we go," he continued, pulling the cork from a bottle. "I'm always a lot nastier when I'm drunk."

* * * *

Mark stood nervously beside Ikawa down on the arena floor. He couldn't understand why it was so damned hot all of a sudden. The heat seemed to come off the sunbaked sand in waves.

The crowd in the stands was cheering them lustily, like people everywhere who will always identify with an underdog, although very few were willing to bet their money on the outlander.

Word of the challenge had swept through the city the night before―how Cinta had howled with rage at Allic's words and had actually pressed to fight Ikawa right in Jartan's courtyard during the reception. Mark could only hope that rage was so blinding that it would help Ikawa now, for in watching Cinta up close he had seen a man with incredible strength and wiry agility.

Mark glanced at Ikawa, and could not refrain from grimacing at the Rising Sun headband Ikawa had made.
Old memories die hard.

Ikawa was staring into the stands trying to find Leti. His look of determination hardened as he finally saw her, sitting by Allic and Storm. Seeing that she had caught his attention, she stood up and gave him a formal bow, which set the tens of thousands in the arena to their feet, shouting their approval. In all the years of her trials, this was the first time that she had even acknowledged a challenger, and the crowd took notice.

"Who would have thought we would be lucky enough to meet women like those two?" Mark said, his voice barely audible above the roar. "I seem to recall a remark about adolescent infatuation from you less than a week ago. How the mighty have fallen." They exchanged a smile.

The cheering started to die off; then Storm stood and bowed towards Mark, setting off another round.

"Thunder and lightning, thunder and lightning!"

For a moment Mark thought they were acknowledging her power, then realized what they were actually referring to. His embarrassment showed, and the crowd roared with delight, while Storm shook her fist jokingly at the spectators.

The far door of the arena slid open to reveal Cinta and his second, and the laughter died away. Cinta was by no means unpopular, having the respect of many an aficionado. An ovation went up as the nobleman and his second who was his brother-in-law, strode into the arena.

He moved with grace and speed, making his overweight in-law seem clumsy by comparison. They made their way to the far side of the battle circle drawn in the sand.

A gong rang and the crowd fell silent. Sumar, the ranking master of ceremony, stepped from beside the tower of shifting light that was Jartan, and using his crystal, addressed the crowd.

"We have a challenge!"

A roar went up again from the crowd.

"Ikawa of Landra, what do you offer as trophy to this event?"

Unsheathing his sword with a movement almost too quick to see, Ikawa held it high. "I offer the sword of my ancestors, who have been samurai for uncounted generations. It was made by the master craftsman Miyoshi-Go, and is without blemish."

A hushed silence fell over the crowd. The standard weapon for deathstrike was a narrow, almost foil-like sword. The blade of a samurai was shining for the first time in Jartan's realm, and the spectators were trading guesses as to how this new sword would match against the lighter weapon standard for the game.

"Cinta of Dartbe, what do you offer as trophy to this event?"

Cinta stepped forward and held up a crystal as big as his fist, which seemed alive in the sunlight.

"I offer the Crystal of the Sun, made by the Creator Danar. And I spit on the ancestry of his people and the worthless piece of metal that he presumes to offer as a trophy!"

Ikawa's face grew white with anger, and his hands flexed and unflexed around the hilt of his blade. He took a deep breath and held it, and Mark could see calmness come over him as he went into the light, focused trance of a samurai.

Jartan's voice rolled across the arena. "Both offerings are accepted. Let the contest begin." And the crowd's roar was deafening.

Mark looked Ikawa straight in the eyes. "Go cut his balls off."

Ikawa nodded and walked into the ring.

Ikawa's entire being centered upon his enemy as they slid across the ring at one another. Cinta's right shoulder was facing him, his left arm back for balance, and the target over the heart away from Ikawa's advance. Almost like a Western fencer, Ikawa thought, except that Cinta's sword was longer than a rapier. Good slashing ability and a superb stabbing weapon, but maybe a little too thin for repeated shocks? And if he could get inside that long blade...

Unlike the traditional dueling of the samurai, he knew he would have to use his blade to block his opponent's lunges. That would give an advantage to Cinta. Stopping near the center of the ring, he held his blade up, vertical and drawn back behind his left shoulder, both hands on the hilt. It was a style unknown to Haven. Cinta hesitated for but a moment and then closed.

They met, and the swordplay was almost too quick to follow as each probed the other's defenses. Cinta was much more aggressive, and obviously held his opponent's square stance and two-handed sword style in contempt.

They wove their blades in deadly earnest, perspiration falling upon the sand in showers. Finally, when he judged that he had exhausted Ikawa, he set up an elaborate double feint and confidently slashed for Ikawa's heart.

Only Ikawa wasn't there. His left hand met the flat of Cinta's blade and beat it aside just enough for his body to twist away. His right hand swung his sword in a glittering arc that met the heart on Cinta's chest in a shower of sparks.

The entire arena burst into wild applause that almost drowned out the whistles of the referees as they stepped into the ring. The contestants lowered their blades and glared at one another.

Cinta's second came sputtering into the ring and addressed the referees. "I call a foul. The damned outlander deliberately allowed himself to be cut upon the hand to distract Lord Cinta, and cause a forfeit. This is rank cowardice."

"Why don't you get your head out of your ass, fatboy, and look at Ikawa's hand?" Mark sneered. "There's no cut!" he shouted, holding up Ikawa's hand.

A moment later the head referees announced, "The first round is awarded to Ikawa of Landra." And the crowd went wild.

Mark handed a towel to Ikawa. "I thought he had you for a second. Nice sucker punch!"

"He is incredibly quick. I can't handle his thrusts as well as I should. That blade is too long for an effective stop-thrust on my part."

The comments came out between gasps, as Ikawa tried to dry his hands and arms. Mark handed him another towel and he continued, "I was hoping to break his blade by landing a solid shock, but he's too fast."

The gong sounded and both fighters reentered the ring.

Cinta's blade was everywhere. Ikawa retreated slowly from his onslaught, breaking the rhythm with feints and ripostes, but still forced to the defensive. Suddenly he stumbled and Cinta's sword struck towards his heart.

Turning desperately, and falling backwards, Ikawa dodged the blade. It struck the red heart but at such an angle that it continued up the shoulder, slashing his tunic open.

Once again the referees' whistles were heard as soon as the flash was seen, and they awarded the round to Cinta amid the applause of the crowd.

"Jesus, how did you avoid that thrust?" Mark wiped Ikawa's wound with a towel.

Ikawa gasped, "I wanted him to go for the opening I gave him, but I never dreamed he would be so quick."

A referee came over and examined Ikawa's tunic. It was obvious that the cut had started dead middle in the heart zone and then had skidded across Ikawa's ribs, out of the red area, and up to his shoulder. By the rules, as long as the strike first hit in the red, it was legal, blood or no blood. By the drawing of blood, however, Ikawa could concede the match.

The crowd grew quiet in anticipation.

The referee looked from the wound up to Ikawa, who grimaced and shook his head.

The crowd roared approval. The game would continue.

Mark glanced at Cinta, who was pacing restlessly, waiting for the gong, and then he looked back to Ikawa, who was bent over double, gasping for breath.

"Let me guess. You want him to think you're already beat, right?"

Ikawa continued to gasp, but paused long enough to give Mark a quick wink as he staggered back to the edge of the circle. Only by leaning on the sword which he thrust into the sand was he able to stay erect, and the whole arena believed that the next strike would be a red win.

The gong sounded and Ikawa moved two paces forward and waited, his sword swung back, exposing his chest as if challenging Cinta to strike and finish it. Cinta was not a fool and approached slowly, but confidently.

Ikawa called upon the spirits of his ancestors, and by use of koan, attempted to achieve the state of
mushin
,
where his spirit would be free of all feeling and his body and sword become a unity, a single instrument of the unconscious.

Cinta hesitated momentarily, seeing a change in his opponent, then launched his attack.

The instant Ikawa's sword met his, Cinta was fighting for his life. Blades sang in a fury as the berserker who was Ikawa forced him back across the circle, parrying desperately. The crowd was standing cheering.

Within minutes Ikawa began to regain normal consciousness and realized that he still could not get through Cinta's defenses. But those efforts were designed to guard the heart!

He slashed for Cinta's chest, instantly changing his cut to evade the parry, and sending his sword flashing straight towards Cinta's eyes. In a contest where an accidental wound other than the heart meant forfeiture this was shocking, and Cinta jumped back with a cry.

Ikawa deliberately burst out laughing, followed immediately by Mark, and gradually by the crowd.

Cinta screamed and leaped at Ikawa, who had half turned his body away while laughing. Cinta's thrust was a flash that stopped all laughter.

Only Ikawa wasn't there. His spin and parry were as quick as thought, and his slash at Cinta's unprotected heart ended in a flash. In an instant the whistles of the referees were drowned by the crowd, which was already on its feet, thundering its approval.

Cinta, however, was too far gone in hatred. Ignoring the whistles he turned the full fury of his blade on Ikawa, determined to kill him no matter what. A moment later he was blasted off his feet by the head referee's crystal. Lying there stunned, he heard Ikawa proclaimed the winner on points and awarded the Crystal of the Sun.

Mark was supremely happy. Grinning from ear to ear, he baited Cinta's kinsman as the grotesquely fat man shrieked his protest at the referees.

"Damn it," the nobleman roared, "he tried to hit Cinta in the face. That's a breech of the rules."

"Lord Heberlin, control yourself. It is only illegal when he cuts him, not when he startles him."

Mark chimed in cheerfully, "You've got no case, porkie. In fact, you ought to be thankful that Ikawa didn't finish him off when he overextended on that last lunge."

Hcberlin turned on Mark and snarled, "Keep your mouth shut when your betters are speaking, you―"

Mark's fist stopped his comments and stretched him out on the sand.

"I'll kill you for that," Heberlin promised as he struggled to pick himself up.

They were in the shadow of the arena entrance; the crowd was watching Ikawa accept the crystal. No one had even noticed the little altercation that had just taken place, although Mark was surprised to note how near one of the pillars of light in the arena had drifted.

"I'm still new here, and I don't want a whole lot of fuss," Mark said to Heberlin, loud enough for the referee to hear. "Why don't we just go outside and take a piss together?"

Heberlin hesitated, so Mark turned to the referee. "He's got his offensive crystals and I've got mine. Maybe you'd even like to come along, in an unofficial capacity, and take a leak yourself?"

The referee was obviously delighted at the challenge. He glanced at the pillar of light, then nodded. "As a matter of fact I would thoroughly relish such a trip. Lord Heberlin, surely one of your girth would also appreciate a trip to the jakes?"

The portly nobleman tried to assume an air of dignity. "Let's go, then. I suppose I ought to be grateful for the chance to kill him in private."

And the three turned and walked side by side out the tunnel, angling towards the vast gardens beyond.

* * * *

Ikawa held the Crystal of the Sun in his hand, glorying in its feel. Already he seemed to have an affinity for it. It seemed to surround him with brilliance far outshining his force shield.

He made his way across the arena, heading for Leti, and the crowd parted before him: the day's entertainment had been the best of the festival, and it looked like the drama was continuing.

Ikawa went to the private balcony and came over to stand in front of Leti. Again he was struck by her beauty―hazel-green eyes and short black hair, with ivory skin. Her white gown was trimmed in black and she wore the biggest, darkest crystal he had ever seen in the sash around her trim waist.

"You fought magnificently, sir," she said admiringly. "Never have I seen such swordplay."

He held up the Crystal of the Sun, and its light washed over them.

"I have been told that this should belong to you."

"It is the mate to my crystal of night," Leti replied softly, pointing to the crystal on her belt, "and is part of my family's heritage. What price do you demand for it, my lord?"

Ikawa paused and smiled. "I demand nothing. It is rightfully yours," and he placed the crystal in her hand.

Such was the power and intensity of his gaze that she still stared into his eyes, not even looking at the crystal in her palm.

"I demand nothing," be repeated, "but I ask for the right to court you, Leti."

Conversation rumbled around the court.

"You have earned that right, and I grant it, my lord." She extended her hand to him.