Trial of Kings

by Phil Tucker

  Elu looked questioningly to Jarek, who nodded again uneasily.

  “Very well,” said Elu. “We, ah, accept. And are ready when you are.”

  “Excellent,” said the queen. “It is best to resolve such familial disputes as quickly as possible, so as not to poison the air. Come. Let us move to the Hall of Light.”

  Ahktena inclined her head to Elu, her smile smug, and then turned to follow her mother out of the hall.

  “Don’t like those rules,” said Acharsis, falling in beside Jarek as they followed the vizier. “What’s to stop someone from loosing an arrow into your back, ruining this challenge, and forcing a second one at our ‘earliest convenience’?”

  “You’ll have to watch my back, then,” said Jarek.

  Kish stepped up on his other side. “You sure you’re ready for this?”

  Jarek smiled. “You going to offer to fight in my place?”

  “You know I would.”

  “And you’d probably win. But yes. I’m sure. If there’s one thing I can do, it's swing this damn hammer.”

  “All right.” She gave his arm a squeeze, then dropped her hand. “Though I can assure you that’s not all you know how to do.”

  Jarek coughed into his fist, studiously ignoring her sly smile and Acharsis’ guffaw. Things had become better between them since the dream rhino, though Kish’s tactful distance had allowed him not to question their growing intimacy. Instead, he’d simply allowed himself to enjoy her company, her companionship, and her humor. Did he want more? For the first time, he tried to confront his feelings, to sort out his desires. Of course he did. But was it the right thing to do? What had changed? And if nothing, then why was he allowing their relationship to grow again?

  They emerged into a large hall. This one was devoid of a central pool, though its stone floors were strewn with flowers. The evening light filtered in through the open ceiling, bathing the many dwarf palm trees that lined the walls with a soft gray glow. Torches burned between the trees, and a large brazier at the end of the hall sent flames spiraling up into the air, flames that caused a bronze circular mirror beyond it to gleam as if lit from within by its own inner fire.

  Everyone moved to stand by the walls, with more people streaming in as word spread. The queen sat on a black chair with gold armrests and nodded to Ahktena, who stepped forward, her eyes shining with anticipation. She spoke in Maganian first, then turned to them and repeated her words in common.

  “I, Ahktena, first daughter of Queen Nethena, summon my champion to fight for my right to enter the Quickening. May the lamassu bestow his favor upon his sword, and may his victory be flawless and overwhelming. Captain Haremhab, please step forth.”

  Jarek studied the man who emerged from the crowd with interest. He was incredibly tall; even hunched over as he was, he towered over Jarek. His body was as devoid of fat as a lizard's, such that the long, lean muscles were clearly delineated, the veins lying over them in sharp relief. His face was strikingly ugly, with a slash of a mouth beneath a broad upper lip and a button of a nose, his brow receding, his hair sparse and combed over in an attempt to cover his scalp. Yet his eyes glittered as he studied Jarek, and his smile was predatory.

  Two men came forth bearing the man’s weapon. It was a broad staff, as thick as Jarek’s wrist, with a large chain affixed to one end that ended in six ax-heads that were pressed together to form a massive flail. Haremhab took up this staff without looking away from Jarek, and the bronze chain clinked as the ax-heads were lifted off the cushion.

  “By Ekillos’ sacred staff,” said Acharsis. “One hit from that thing and you’ll be torn in half.”

  Elu stepped forward, face flushing as he gazed around the crowd. “I, Senacherib, son of Queen Nethena, summon my champion to fight for my right to enter the Quickening. May the lamassu show his favor—I mean, bestow his favor upon him, and may his hammer be as unstoppable and swift as a falling meteor. Jarek, please step forth.”

  Jarek did so, shoulders squared, schooling his features to impassivity. A translator was repeating the introduction to the crowd, but Haremhab didn’t seem intimidated in the least. The tall man leaned on his staff, chain held in his off-hand, flail head hanging a foot from the floor.

  The crowd murmured as Haremhab turned to bow to the bronze disk, and Ahktena took the opportunity to step over to Elu and Jarek. She smiled winsomely. “Dear brother. No matter the outcome of this combat, I am pleased that you are home. And to have such a mighty champion ready by your side! Most impressive. Jarek, I wish you well.” And then she laid her hand on his shoulder, and he felt a sharp prick, as if he’d been stung by a wasp.

  Jarek jerked his shoulder away but Ahktena was already returning to her mother.

  “What is it?” asked Elu, voice pitched low.

  “My shoulder,” said Jarek, peering down at it. A fine bead of blood had appeared on his skin. “She pricked me.”

  Acharsis stepped up alongside them. “Pricked you?” He frowned at the blood, then looked over to where Ahktena was whispering contentedly with her mother. “I’d bet you were just poisoned, old friend.”

  “Should we protest?” asked Elu. “Call the vizier over?”

  “Weren’t you listening?” Acharsis took another sip of his beer. “No outside interference is allowed once combat’s begun. Well, it’s not begun, has it? They’ve done nothing wrong per the rules.”

  “Stand still,” said Kish, and placed her lips over the pinprick. She sucked hard, then turned and spat. “I don’t taste anything strange. But perhaps I should fight in your place.”

  “No,” said Jarek.

  “Can we substitute them?” asked Elu.

  Acharsis rubbed at his face. “Worth a try. I’ll go talk to his Grand Vizierness.” Gold cup in hand, he walked through the crowd to where the man stood and began talking to him in a low voice.

  “Jarek, let me take your place,” said Kish. “You can’t fight if you’ve been poisoned. We need to get you to an apsu or a healer. Your life could be in danger.”

  “No,” said Jarek. “I can take him. I feel fine.” Though to be honest, his shoulder was starting to smolder.

  “I can do this,” said Kish. “Why risk it? Let me fight.”

  “No,” said Jarek. “Haremhab looks dangerous. I’d best handle him.”

  “You don’t believe in me,” said Kish.

  “It’s not that,” said Jarek. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “You could be dying, you big ox. And you don’t want me to get hurt? Scythia’s blood runs through my veins!”

  Ahktena and Nethena were watching them, their smiles pleased.

  “I won’t have you fight in my place,” said Jarek. “Acharsis is coming. He’ll confirm that you can’t.”

  “His Vizierness said it’s very irregular, but since the fight’s not yet begun we can change champions if we want. He made it clear it’s very taboo, but what do we care? Elu, you just have to—”

  Jarek scowled, drew his Sky Hammer, and stepped out into the hall. His shoulder was starting to sting as if he’d brushed against nettles, but he put that from his mind. Haremhab began to swing the ax-heads around by the chain in his left hand. Did he know Jarek had been poisoned? Would he try to keep Jarek back, buy time to let the poison work? Probably.

  The vizier was talking in Maganian. A quick charge before the man could build up speed with his flail? A feint, then a blow to the side of the head? No, Haremhab would be expecting that. The trick would be to corner him, prevent him from swinging.

  With a cry, the vizier slammed the butt of his staff against the ground, and Haremhab released the chain and took hold of the staff with both hands. Muscles stood out in sharp relief all along his arms as he swung the staff around, the ax-heads tearing through the air. Jarek growled and began to circle, finding an angle of attack that would drive his opponent against the closest wall. Haremhab simply pivoted, swinging the flail ever faster and keeping Jarek in view.

  With a grunt, Jarek l
eaped forward, swinging his hammer right at the incoming flail. Haremhab stepped back and dipped his staff, causing the flail to swing under Jarek’s hammer and nearly disembowel him. Jarek threw himself back just in time.

  The huge flail was moving incredibly quickly now, the staff flexing under its weight, passing before Jarek every second or faster. Haremhab suddenly released his grip on the staff, allowed it to slide almost completely free, only to grab hold of its base, extending the chain’s reach by a sudden four feet.

  The flail came screaming around at Jarek’s torso. With a cry, Jarek dropped to the ground, the passage of the ax-heads riffling his hair. He rolled to the side as the flail came tearing back around and smashed into the ground where he’d been, sending chips of stone flying. Jarek came up and stepped in, hammer swinging, but Haremhab’s grip on the staff had returned to center, and he reversed the staff so that he could lash out at Jarek’s chest with its butt.

  Jarek took the blow, grunted, tried to step in again, but was forced to dive aside as once more the flail came shrieking around. Haremhab stepped back and once again set up a protective stance, swinging the flail at a downward angle to proscribe any approach.

  Sweat began to bead on Jarek’s forehead, and he felt the burning in his shoulder pass into his chest. Anger rose within him, and he circled Haremhab.

  The strength was flowing out of him. His hammer was starting to feel ponderous in his hands, and his chest was becoming tight. To his surprise, Jarek saw a look of confusion flicker across Haremhab’s face, but then it was gone as his opponent schooled his features to impassivity.

  Jarek lunged once, twice, three times, but each time was forced back by the speed of the flail. He tried to attack the weapon once more, but again Haremhab directed the flail head to avoid his Sky Hammer, nearly removing Jarek’s legs below the knees.

  Jarek broke off his attack to stagger back. His breath was coming in shallow pants now. He felt as if he’d just run ten miles. Haremhab drew back as well, watching him closely. Fighting to control his breathing, Jarek straightened and raked his hand through his sweat-drenched hair. At this rate, he’d be down within the minute. His heart was laboring, his pulse pounding in his temples. He avoided looking back at where Kish stood. Damn, but he’d been a fool.

  “I haven’t used this technique in some time,” he said, walking forward. “Let’s see if I can remember how it goes.” He’d fought a similar duel against the Athite leader two decades ago outside the walls of Rekkidu; had chased the nimble man across the sands for ten minutes before losing his patience. Inspiration charged with madness had struck him, and his next blow had felled the Athite.

  Haremhab lowered himself into a wary crouch, inching back to keep a good ten feet between them, flail whining as it tore through the air. The man’s face was starting to blur. The flames from the torches were swaying, spreading out into the air like ink diffusing through water.

  With a grunt, he stiff-armed the Sky Hammer directly into the air above his head, holding it with just his right hand. Its weight had tripled. He took a deep breath, straining his chest to its maximum, then allowed the hammer to fall back, and swung it down and around with all his might to release it at the last moment and send it flying at Haremhab’s chest.

  The Sky Hammer flew through the air, a bolt of meteoric stone, right through the flail’s defenses. At the last moment, however, Haremhab turned aside so that it skimmed past his chest and smashed into the pillar a few yards behind him. There was a sharp retort of cracking stone. Haremhab turned back to Jarek, eyes wide, just in time to see his fist crack across his jaw.

  Jarek nearly fell with the man, falling to his knees as Haremhab collapsed bonelessly to the ground, his flail flying free to bounce and skitter across the floor toward the crowd. The light sources were flowing out to meet each other, forging smears of crimson and gold in the air that blinking refused to clear.

  Fighting for breath, his whole body shaking now, Jarek grabbed hold of Haremhab’s tunic and lifted his torso up off the ground. Haremhab’s head lolled back. His eyelids fluttered, then closed. He was done. With a gasp, Jarek released him, and then rose to his feet with supreme effort. He swayed like a reed in a storm, barely able to stand. He pointed at where he thought the vizier stood.

  “Call it,” he said, tongue thick in his mouth.

  Silence.

  “Call it,” he demanded. Was he pointing at the wrong man?

  He heard the vizier say something in Maganian, and then polite applause broke out across the crowd. Jarek’s knees buckled and he fell to all fours. Someone was by his side. People were helping him down, but he couldn’t understand their words.

  “Kish,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  Tears blurred his eyes. He was such a fool. Such a damned fool.

  “I’m sorry, Kish,” he said again as the red light in the air filled his vision. “I’m so sorry.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Kish let out a cry as Jarek sagged in her arms. All around, voices were raised in consternation, with women hiding their faces behind feathered fans while men called out demands and inquiries in voices tight with anger and confusion.

  Acharsis set his beer aside. Gone was the warmth, the comforting fuzziness of his inebriation. Gone was the self-pitying remove at which he’d stood, feeling at once tragically heroic and a fool. Elu was demanding something by his side. Annara had moved to crouch beside Kish. But Acharsis ignored them. Ignored them all.

  He stared, instead, at Ahktena.

  The young woman stood frozen, her eyes wide in disbelief, her chin raised as if she’d just scented something foul. Her mother was rising to her feet, snapping commands at her servants, clearly intent on quitting the scene. Retreat. She wanted to remove herself and her daughter from the public eye.

  Acharsis wouldn’t give them the chance. He strode forward, cutting a direct line across the hall, stepping over the unconscious Haremhab as he did so. Guards stepped to bar his way, crossing spears and glaring at him, but Acharsis paid them no heed.

  “Ahktena,” he said, voice loud over the whispers. How many here understood River City common? He didn’t know, nor did he care. “Give me the antidote.”

  “I don’t know of what you speak,” she said, two points of color appearing high on her cheeks.

  “This is your one chance to save your life,” growled Acharsis. “Right here, right now. Give me the antidote and all will be forgiven. Fail, and when Senacherib ascends to pharaoh, he will remember this evil and reward you accordingly.”

  “You dare threaten my daughter?” Nethena turned back, eyes wide, nostrils flared. “You dare?”

  “Not a threat,” said Acharsis. “A promise. And one you will be unable to stop once your son is ruler of Magan.”

  “Seize him,” hissed Nethena. “Seize this insolent knave and take him to the dungeons.”

  Guards drew their weapons, and the two closest took hold of Acharsis’ arms. He didn’t resist. Didn’t deign to even notice them. He kept his gaze locked on Ahktena. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken. But for those two spots of color, her dusky features had grown pale.

  “Ahktena. Listen to me. You can change your fate. You must have an antidote. Give it to me. Save yourself while you still can.”

  “Don’t respond,” said her mother, making a chopping motion with her hand. “We leave. This is below our dignity.”

  “On one condition,” said Ahktena, voice trembling.

  “No conditions,” snapped Acharsis. “The antidote. Now!”

  “One condition,” said Ahktena, ignoring her mother’s furious glare and drawing closer. “Senacherib will need to choose seven followers to accompany him into the trial. I will give you the antidote if he agrees to make me part of that group.”

  “You think to still win through?” Acharsis wanted to laugh; wanted to cry. He could practically feel Jarek’s life slipping away. “You think—”

  “All right,” said Elu, stepping up and cutting him off. “I swear tha
t I will choose you as part of this team. Now please. The antidote.”

  It was Acharsis’ turn to glare as Ahktena drew a slender vial from her sash and pressed it into Elu’s palm. His son hurried back to crouch by Jarek’s side.

  “I underestimated you,” said Acharsis. “I won’t do so again. If you think to betray us during the trial—”

  “This turn of events is to your favor,” said Ahktena. “You need me more than I need you. Do you honestly expect to pass through the trial without a Maganian of royal blood to help you navigate its perils? You may have a certain base cunning, but you lack all cultural awareness and context. You would die within minutes of stepping foot within the cube. You need me.”

  Acharsis wanted to argue, to tear her words apart, to break her composure and leave her rattled and feeling terrible. She’d nearly killed Jarek. Had used his life as a bargaining chip. And yet, he couldn’t fault her argument. He’d not even known that the Quickening involved a group of followers. It meant he’d be there, able to advise Elu - but seven more? Even with Ahktena, they still lacked a member.

  The princess seemed to read his mind, dark amusement causing her lips to quirk. “You’re counting, aren’t you? I know that there’s only six of you foreigners, including my dear, dear brother. With me, you have seven. Whom else will you choose? How will you round out your team? Do you think to hire somebody from the streets?”

  Acharsis pressed his lips into a thin line.

  Ahktena drew closer. “That you’ve stumbled this far is a testament to your luck. I don’t know how you convinced the lamassu to back your ridiculous claim, but there is nothing I can do about that. But you cannot expect his assistance from here on out. You are alone. And your luck will run out, either here or within the cube. You need me. Ask, and I shall provide the eighth member of the group, a member whose contributions shall tip the balance of the scales in Senacherib’s favor.”