“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.
&
nbsp; 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!”
She stared at him.
He shook her arm and pointed at the bodies. “They’re illusions.”
For a moment it seemed he was right. Suddenly the two sprawled forms lost substance, becoming ghostly shapes laid over the rubble beyond them, as if they were no more than mist.
“Eidon did make them a way?” he cried.
Cooper jerked her free of the boy, and the bodies grew solid again. She blinked, confused, then looked up at Cooper, whose face was tight and pale with worry.
“We’ve got to get out of here?” he yelled, gesturing at the chaos roiling around them. In the arena below, the armies continued to fight, joined by additional soldiers and even spectators. Four men hacked at the corpse of the fallen Broho, while others-not soldiers-dragged away the bodies of the Pretender and the Infidel. In the stands people screamed and threw rotten fruit, cups, shoes, anything that came to hand. They tussled with each other and with the gray-tunicked soldiers stationed to keep order.
“We’ve got to get out of here now?” Cooper yelled again and pushed her past Philip into the crowded aisle after Eber.
C H A P T E R
25
Abramm sensed the approach of Beltha’adi’s fireball moments before it hit-a prickly, pressure-at-the-chest feeling that only made him run harder. Trap, just behind him, took the brunt of the blow in a deafening explosion that sent curtains of light billowing around them and hurled them ten feet forward.
Abramm landed on shards of wood, his weapons lost in the force of impact. Gasping back the breath that had been driven out of him, he shook the stars from his eyes and scrambled up again. With Trap at his heels, he dodged an upthrust piece of wooden timber, then leaped a shard the size of his own body. The gate loomed through the smoke ahead, rent with a jagged hole and twisted back off its hinges. In the darkness beyond, people lay pinned and bleeding beneath heavy timbers, some of them limp and still. Still others were picking themselves up dazedly as Abramm and Trap stopped at the top of the ramp leading down into the warrens.
A living sea filled the chamber below them, blocking their way-robed, dark-eyed, dark-skinned Esurhites, who a moment ago had likely been cheering the Broho’s victory and eagerly awaiting the northerners’ death shrieks.
Abramm stared at them, panting. His left arm was weak and throbbing, the feyna scar alive again. His chest burned beneath the Terstan stone, and his broken ribs knifed him with every breath.
Crouching, he slid a dead man’s sword free of its scabbard.
“Kiriatha.” The word rose in a hushed murmur from the onlookers. “Kiriatha … Sheleft’Ai…”
The people stared slack faced now toward the arena behind them. Glancing back, Abramm saw the smoke clearing over two bodies, one in white, the other in green, sprawled on the sand where he and Trap had just fallen.
“It’s an illusion,” Trap murmured beside him. “To make them all think we’re dead.”
From somewhere in the warrens beyond the crowd, urgent shouts arosesoldiers coming to ensure the illusion became reality. Immediately a one-eyed man in a tan robe stepped forward, gesturing for them to follow him into the path now opening in the crowd. They did not hesitate. As a flurry of hands hurried them along, the soldiers’ voices sharpened with anger, and not far away steel clashed against steel.
The robed man led them through a small door into dank darkness. From somewhere he produced a lantern to light their way and they descended an ancient, musty-smelling stairway so narrow they had to turn sideways in places to pass.
They emerged into a large, dark, mildew-smelling drainage pipe, where rats scurried from the light and water gleamed on the floor. A little way down the pipe, a series of footholds led up to a crawlspace that opened into an earthy-smelling grotto tucked under a massive oiled gear. Hanging the lantern on a peg driven into what appeared to be a wall of bedrock, their one-eyed rescuer turned to face them. In the flickering light Abramm could see a slit in the rock at his back.
“We’re directly under the arena,” said the man. “You’ll be safe here for a time. I am Hanoch.” He looked at them oddly. “You really are Kiriathan.”
A grit of leather on stone and a rustle of cloth heralded a second lantern bearer, its glow preceding him through the slit. He drew up beside Hanoch and pulled down his face-veil, staring at them with the same expression as his companion.
“They are northerners,” he said finally.
“The prophecy doesn’t say the Deliverer is specifically Dorsaddi,” Hanoch said. And you can’t argue Sheleft’Ai didn’t rescue them.”
“How’re your ribs?” Trap asked, close at Abramm’s side.
“Could be better.” In truth, though he could hardly breathe, he was more concerned about the fire on his chest, terrified of what he might find there after that eruption of Terstan power.
`And the spore?”
“I can fight if I have to.”
“You shouldn’t if things go as planned,” Hanoch said.
The other man was still staring at them, slack faced. They slew Beltha’adi’s champion and lived,” he whispered. “It really is coming to pass.”
A slow chill slid up Abramm’s back, as the stone hanging from his neck burned anew against his stingin
g chest.
“Yes, and they did not do it without injury,” said Hanoch pushing a barrel forward from the shadows. “Here. Sit and let us tend your wounds.”
“What do you mean `planned’?” Trap asked. “How could you know we would escape?”
Hanoch glanced reprovingly at his companion. “Some of us had more faith than others. You won’t be the first slaves to disappear from the warrens of the Val’Orda, merely the most famous. Sit.”
“We don’t have much time,” Trap said, sitting. “They’ll be able to sense our power.”
“This won’t take long.”
A woman and another man slid through the opening, carrying a water bag, bowl, and bundle of clothing. As they set about tending the wounds and washing the paint from the northerners’ faces, Hanoch outlined the plan. In the riot’s confusion they would slip out of the Val’Orda and across the city to where an old bolthole tunneled beneath the outer wall.
“We haven’t used it in years,” Hanoch told them, “and the old cart path in the cliff where it comes out is in bad shape. Part of it’s been blasted away completely, but we drove iron pins into the rock so you can skirt it with ropes. The greatest danger is the magic. There’s what looks like a tunnel bypass right before you get to the blast. Enter that and you won’t get out.”
To Abramm the thought of negotiating the sheer cliffs outside Xorofin with nothing more than iron pins and ropes was only slightly more appealing than fighting his way free of the city by open confrontation. Despite what he’d said to Trap, his right shoulder was already stiffening and his chest still hurt like wildfire, even with the pain-dulling salve the woman had slathered onto it.
They exchanged their fighting costumes for homespun tunics, britches, and boots, then the rings were cut from their ears, their hair dusted with powdered charcoal, and darkened lard smeared on their faces. Dark headcloths and overrobes completed the disguise, and soon they were wriggling back into the drainpipe where more Undergrounders awaited.
Light of Eidon (Legends of the Guardian-King, Book 1) Page 29