by Cas Peace
“I accept,” he said, trying to keep the nervousness from his voice. The younger man grinned and Taran frowned. Those slit-pupiled eyes, unique to the Andaryan race, made his facial expressions unfamiliar. Taran would have to be very careful when reading his moves in the duel.
As he watched this exchange surrounded by his escort, Sonten’s heart filled with contempt. That the Albian was alone was foolish enough, why was he accepting challenges as if he had a choice? Where was his second to agree the rules of combat? Didn’t he know that without witnesses, such agreements were void?
His derision grew when he realized the Albian wasn’t even going to bargain terms with Jaskin. The Andaryans’ love of dueling and the complicated haggling that preceded such bouts was well known throughout the five realms. This outlander must be naïve indeed if he thought Jaskin’s honor would constrain him to the codes. The General huffed. Honor was not involved when fighting outlanders.
He began to relax. His nephew’s plan had worried him because it carried an unnecessary measure of risk. But if Jaskin’s opponent was so ignorant of the codes, then he wouldn’t be much of a threat. Sonten could enjoy the duel and their first experimental use of the Staff would bring them another step closer to success.
He elbowed the nearest huntsman. The man moved out of his line of sight and spread his cloak over the General’s head, shielding him from the strengthening sun. Sonten saw Jaskin’s glance and acknowledged the gesture, patting the weapon that rested against his thigh.
He crossed his arms over his ample chest and watched as the duel commenced.
Taran followed the noble as he moved away from the huntsmen, seeking room to maneuver. Suddenly he stopped and turned, staring into Taran’s eyes. Taran studied him without locking gazes. It was tempting to stare back but he resisted the impulse, knowing it would be a mistake. He needed to focus his attention on the noble’s body; if he turned out to be the experienced swordsman he seemed, his eyes would give away nothing.
Taran raised his sword to the salute. With no warning, his opponent lunged at him, blade aimed directly at Taran’s chest.
Despite the distance between them, Taran was caught off guard. Wrong-footed, he parried awkwardly, only just managing to slide away.
He tried to protest but his opponent didn’t give him time, immediately lunging into another strike that clashed on Taran’s hastily raised blade. The contemptuous look in his cat-like eyes told its own story and Taran realized protest was futile. The noble was after sport and Taran was his prey; there would be no quarter given and no respect paid to the rules.
Dismayed by this flagrant disregard for the codes, Taran struggled to force his mind back to sword play. He must not let his fear and outrage interfere with his skill. Those opening strikes, treacherous though they were, had alerted him to the talent and lack of moral code he was facing. The noble wouldn’t be an easy conquest. He was fighting on his own soil and by his own terms. Taran was the usurper, the outlander, and he was alone.
For the first time since conceiving the plan, Taran acknowledged this flaw. But it was too late now, he was locked into this fate. He threw himself into the combat, determined not to lose.
He cut and blocked, grateful that his skill had saved him from injury during those first deceitful moves. His pulse raced. His opponent was coming at him again, striking at his unprotected left, causing Taran to veer sharply aside. He swept his blade around, hoping to catch the noble off balance, but he had already danced out of the way.
Taran circled the noble warily, searching for weak points. The sun’s heat was increasing, he was sweating profusely. He lunged at the noble, forcing him back across the dusty ground, but the man disengaged and came at Taran again, giving him no time to draw breath. We’re too evenly matched, thought Taran, there’s no advantage. Sunlight struck blindingly from steel as his blade clashed and rang on the noble’s, labored breaths grunting through his throat.
They struggled back and forth for half an hour or so. Taran was bleeding from many superficial cuts; he was bruised and sore, but so was his opponent. Neither, it seemed, could gain the upper hand. Now that Taran’s early anger had been forgotten in his struggle for survival, he began to despair. A strange heaviness was weighing his arm and he was having trouble holding his own. He was dismayed; his stamina was usually greater than this. But his concentration was centered on his opponent’s latest flurry of vicious cuts and it took him a while to figure out what was happening.
He couldn’t understand it. What he suspected should not be possible. He and the noble hadn’t learned each other’s pattern of psyche, there was no way the other man could be affecting Taran’s life force. But it was undeniable. Insidiously, and contrary to all the rules and codes, the noble was draining Taran’s metaforce and using it to empower himself.
Outraged and confused, Taran’s mind shut down like a steel trap, cutting off the other’s leaching force. In panic, he accessed his psyche, using his own Artesan skills to bolster his flagging strength.
“Foul,” yelled his opponent. “The use of metaforce is forbidden by the codes.”
Taran saw the watching huntsmen stir at this cry. Infuriated by its hypocrisy, he realized he had walked straight into a trap. He couldn’t impeach the noble though, it was too late. And anyway, there was no one to believe him.
As he automatically blocked a low swipe to his leg, Taran recalled a glance exchanged between the noble and someone among the huntsmen. Coupled with the strange eager light in his opponent’s eyes, these signs should have warned Taran that something was amiss. Yet it had passed him by and this new failure only increased his frustration.
Enraged by the deception, Taran attacked with a burst of vicious strokes. The noble gave way before him but there was a knowing look in his eye. Now Taran understood that he had planned this all along. He had never intended to honor the contract. With no witnesses to speak for him, Taran was totally unprotected. He would have cursed himself savagely if only he’d had the strength.
He heard a strident call as someone among the huntsmen yelled, “Use your own powers. He’s broken the rules, after all.”
Alone and without an ally, Taran went cold, realizing the full extent of his peril. A surge of righteous rage flooded his soul. He might have been careless and foolish in allowing his opponent to accuse him, but he wasn’t the one who had broken the codes.
The noble’s treachery meant Taran was free to use his powers. He did so and soon his opponent, in response to the call, formed a ball of Earth element, which he flung at Taran’s feet. Too slow to counter it, Taran stumbled. Now they were fighting on two levels. This was highly dangerous as it was impossible to concentrate on sword play while using an Artesan’s skills.
Icy fear made Taran shiver. This bout would end in his death unless he could defeat the noble.
Exhausted though he was, he redoubled his efforts.
Sonten moved stealthily, hoping neither fighter would notice his approach. He’d felt relief on sensing Jaskin’s drain of his opponent’s strength but it turned to rage when the Albian failed to succumb. Fearful for his nephew’s safety, the General needed Jaskin to end this duel. He watched closely and eventually saw his chance. As Jaskin drove his Albian opponent backwards with a succession of powerful lunges, Sonten cried, “Use the Staff, boy.”
He tossed the weapon across the beaten earth.
Taran was distracted as the Staff skidded to his opponent’s feet. The noble snatched it up and it flared blindingly, blue and green light rippling down its length. He drove at Taran with his sword but even as he parried the blows, Taran felt his opponent calling up power. He stared in shock—the Staff’s flickering tip was pointing at his heaving chest.
A killing bolt of pure elemental energy flashed from the Staff. With a wide-eyed look of horror, totally unnerved by this unforeseen event, Taran only just managed to twist sideways. He was showered with dirt as a sizzling bolt of Earth power pulverized a rock behind him.
Fear and anger
goaded Taran and he leaped at his opponent, lunging into broadsword strokes he had learned from an itinerant swordmaster years ago. The noble had obviously expected Taran to be stunned into inaction. Taran rained blows onto his blade, striking viciously, trying to keep him off balance. There was a discordant clang and Taran’s sword arm went numb. The noble roared a curse as his sword was sent spinning from his hand.
“Yield,” panted Taran but his opponent didn’t falter. Raising the Staff, he attacked Taran with renewed ferocity. Huge bolts of Earth energy shot from its tip, forcing the exhausted Journeyman to deflect them.
Taran’s powers were stretched far beyond their straining limits. Terrified, he only had one choice and he grabbed it, throwing all his remaining metaforce into one vast Earth shift. The ground bucked beneath his opponent’s feet, nearly toppling him, and Taran rushed him. Ignoring the Staff’s awful power, he brought his sword around in a powerful backhanded sweep. The noble’s head suddenly dangled from a half-severed neck.
The body collapsed, spraying blood, and the deadly Staff fell at Taran’s feet. Spattered with red, still gripped by terror, he stood panting heavily. Trembling, he leaned on his sword.
There was shocked silence.
There was a roar—“Treachery!”—from the huntsmen and they leaped into action, rushing toward Taran, baying for his blood.
Trapped, exhausted and facing certain death, Taran panicked. Sheathing his sword, he snatched the Staff and channeled his own power through it. Unthinking, he called up his reserves and threw the largest barrier of Earth element he could manage against the rushing men. The effort of using the alien weapon burned his brain and the pain was excruciating. Yet the yelling huntsmen were flung back, momentarily stunned. Taran used the respite to take another gamble.
He called a feeble Earth ball and lobbed it behind the huntsmen’s horses, even that small power causing him incredible pain. This time luck was on his side and the horses stampeded toward him. Gasping, half-blinded by pain, Taran managed to grab the reins of a passing horse and wrench it to a halt. Agony shot through his arm as it nearly popped out of its socket. The horse curvetted wildly and Taran had to scramble into the saddle, still holding the Staff tightly. Before he’d even found his balance, he was kicking the horse toward the hills. Hopefully he could shake his pursuers and relocate the portway.
For a while, he thought he might succeed. He turned the horse, racing through the maze of hills, trying to hide his tracks. Fear gave him strength but he knew it wouldn’t last. As he crested a rise, he risked a glance over his shoulder, his laboring heart lifted by the absence of pursuit. His lungs heaving, he sent the horse pounding down the far side of the hill.
His relief was short-lived. Inevitably, he heard racing hoofbeats; some of the hunters had regained control of their mounts. The portway was still some way off and he risked another backward glance.
A desperate denial escaped his lips. The huntsmen had brought a tangwyr with them. The creature’s hood had been removed and that could only mean one thing.
They intended to fly it at him.
The tangwyr’s ferocity was legendary, even in Albia. Without a bow, Taran stood little chance of protecting himself as it was trained to bring down men. As a Journeyman, he had mastery over Earth and could influence Water, but these elements wouldn’t help him here. Neither could he dismount and use his sword. If he did, the huntsmen would be on him.
His breath sobbing painfully, he kicked the horse once more.
He heard a raucous cry and gasped in terror; the hideous creature was free. Another glance behind him revealed that the riders had slowed, evidently expecting the tangwyr to do their work for them. Despite his straits, Taran felt satisfaction—his use of power had taught them some respect, at least.
Respect, however, had no value in the talons of a tangwyr.
As he cursed himself for a fool and for allowing himself to be trapped—how many times had he tried to drum caution into Cal’s head?—he glanced up. Horror overtook him, turning his muscles to water. The awful spectre of a swooping tangwyr filled his vision.
He threw himself off the horse, landing heavily. The Staff dug into his ribs and he felt the rake of talons on his shoulder. As he struggled to his feet, the downdraft of powerful wings nearly knocked him back down. He heard the creature swoop away up the hillside, wings booming as it beat for height. Panicking, coughing, Taran fled, praying the portway was nearby.
He was sure the hill looked familiar and the thought galvanized him. He could sense the portway but his endurance was fading fast. His throat was raw, his chest tightening painfully as he pushed himself past his limits. His muscles were burning and losing their strength. He was weakening rapidly.
The ominous beat of giant wings grew louder behind him.
Wildly, he looked around, knowing the portway was near. Suddenly, his vision cleared, showing him what he’d been praying for—an opalescent shimmer hanging in the air. He gathered his will and sent a panicked command through the Veils to Cal. Relief flooded him as his Apprentice responded and he saw the portway ripple, a sign that Cal was alert.
He sprinted toward it but was brought up short by a harsh scream from above.
Horrified, he looked up and stared directly into the mad red eyes of the tangwyr. It plummeted, its sinewy neck twisting toward him, serrated talons aimed at his heart. He had nowhere to go and no room to dodge, but he couldn’t risk leaping into the portway in case he took the thing with him.
Unthinkingly desperate, he raised the Staff. He grabbed for Cal’s strength and felt his friend’s compliance. Empowered, Taran took an almighty risk with both their lives and channeled their joint metaforce through the alien weapon.
It glowed incandescent and bucked in his hands. Taran screamed with the pain of controlling it. He forced his will on it, his lungs still gulping air, and directed its tip at the tangwyr’s breast.
Deadly energy roared out, causing the plummeting monster to twist aside. It was too slow. Raw power caught the leading edge of one vast sail-like wing, charring the feathered membrane to a crisp. With a piercing shriek, the creature curled around itself, cartwheeling toward the ground.
Taran didn’t wait to see it hit. Near to fainting with pain and exhaustion, he cast himself into the portway, blindly trusting Cal to bring him safely through.
Chapter Four
Sonten was cursing as his horse pounded after the huntsmen. He kicked it up the next rise, hoping to see the kill. Roaring instructions his men couldn’t hear, Sonten saw the tangwyr’s swoop. He watched in speechless fury as the Albian Artesan, Jaskin’s intended victim, used the Duke’s priceless Staff to escape the monstrous bird.
But it wasn’t until the dying raptor’s shrieks had faded that he realized the irreplaceable Staff had vanished as well.
This shock, coming on top of his nephew’s brutal murder, made Sonten’s stomach heave. Awkwardly, he slid from his lathered horse and fell to his knees. Already tasting the Duke’s wrath and feeling the sword twisting through his guts, Sonten retched helplessly while his men rode to him.
He was on his feet by the time they reached him. His face was an unpleasant shade of purple, his body quivering with rage. The huntsmen dismounted while he strode up and down before them, their heads hanging in shame.
His voice tinged with panic, Sonten harangued them.
“You lost him. You bloody lost him, you useless rabble. Why did you let him get away? He murdered my nephew, the Albian bastard, he deserves to die. And he’s taken that damned Staff too! What am I going to say to the Duke? How do I explain that one? Well? Does anyone have anything to say?”
They were silent.
Sonten glared in fury. His plans were ruined and his shocked brain was working feverishly. He was going to be in fatal trouble unless he could come up with a suitable story. In the meantime, his rage demanded a scapegoat.