The Seedbearing Prince: Part I

by DaVaun Sanders

  “Winner, Shard!” The Montollene officiant proclaimed.

  Dayn and the rest of the Shardians thrummed the platform with their fists. The Aran bowed stiffly before stalking off the platform. Joam grinned as Milchamah beamed at him, eyes full of pride for his son. Onlookers crowded all around now, although they gave the two teams their space.

  The next Aran hopped lightly onto the platform, eying Joam with newfound vigilance. He should be worried, Dayn thought proudly. My brother barely broke a sweat! Dayn searched his memories for the Highest’s words about Niel Pakalj. “That one’s good against bladebreakers,” he said to Milchamah, who looked at him sharply. “That’s what they said on Ara.”

  The old farmer nodded, scratching his chin as the officiant sealed the Aran’s blade. “Joam!” he barked. “Ridgecat Prowls!”

  “Begin!”

  Joam used the fighting form well at first, but Pakalj acted with more caution after Orden's defeat. The Aran did not attempt a quick finish, and Joam's breathing soon grew labored as he sought ways to goad the man into a mistake.

  Joam jabbed again, looking for an opening. Instead of knocking the staff away with his sword, Pakalj grabbed it with his left hand, a sneer twisting the scar on his jaw. Joam instinctively yanked back, and the Aran fell into him. Joam cried out in pain as the Aran's blade cut savagely at his knee. He buckled, and light flashed again as Pakalj slashed at Joam's ribs. The blow sent him tumbling off the platform near the officiant's chair.

  “Winner, Ara!”

  Joam rose to his feet, grimacing when he put weight on his knee. He hopped onto the platform though, and bowed to Pakalj as the Arans all whooped loudly.

  “Peace,” he wheezed, flopping back to the ground. “He didn't cut me, but it felt that way. Like fire every time the sheath flashed.”

  “You did well, boy,” Milchamah nodded firmly. “Kayle, you're up. Put this sand grub on his back!”

  Kayle ascended the platform, and the match soon began. The fisherman was outmatched from the start, clearly intimidated by Joam's defeat. He lost his staff in moments, and found himself on his back at the point of Pakalj's sword.

  “He’s good,” Prolo muttered. “We need at least three wins to matter for the rankings, or this trip will be a waste.” He swung his staff in Serf’s Caper. “Here goes nothing.”

  The fighters regarded each other for a long moment after the officiant called them to start. Then they moved together as if in a dance, sword flashing again and again as the Aran struck.

  “Don't worry, brother. Prolo and my father will finish off the rest,” Joam whispered. He watched Pakalj in awe as the man tested Prolo's reach, prodding the taller man to overextend himself.

  Dayn recognized some of the Aran's forms from Nassir’s attempt to teach him the sword. Prolo's quick wrists kept the swordsman at bay, though his shirt soon grew damp from the effort. Leaf on the Wind was blocked by Driftwood in the Stream. When the Aran rolled into The Tiger Swipes, Prolo caught him squarely with Barkbore Makes His Nest.

  The Shardians pounded on the platform. The onlookers rumbled in approval as Pakalj staggered back, clutching his chest. “First time we've managed to touch him,” Kayle grumbled in disbelief.

  But Prolo did not press his advantage, and the Aran fell on him even harder than before. Prolo barely dodged a swipe to his arm with Antelope Dances the Green. Pakalj stalked close, looking to push him off the platform.

  “Watch the edge!” Milchamah called. From the other side, the Arans cheered loudly, shouting their own warnings―all except for the Marshal General. Gorhaj had yet to even see Dayn, so intent was he upon the match.

  Prolo resorted to Flutterbird's Brush, but the Aran stood too close. He pierced right through the spinning silverpine and the point of his sword closed on Prolo's throat.

  Prolo collapsed in the flash that followed, lying in a still heap on the wood. The whole arena gasped. The officiant rushed onto the platform, face suddenly ashen. Milchamah leaped up as well, livid with fury.

  “Preliminary bouts, man!” He roared at the Aran. “You would take his head clean off? Is the Cycle held on Dervish?”

  “I...I'm alright,” Prolo croaked. He stood with the officiant's help, looking more embarrassed than anything else. Scattered applause sounded through the Achen Isee Dome. The officiant looked ready to faint in relief. Prolo bowed unsteadily to Pakalj, who bowed simply in return. The Aran retreated to the far side of the platform to sip water while Milchamah prepared himself. “Give him one for, weaponmaster,” Prolo rasped.

  Joam pounded the platform, although he and Dayn shared a worried look. The two fighters met in the center, Milchamah bristling with contained fury, the Aran cold and focused. The Montollene officiant raised a trembling hand, looking nervously back and forth between them.

  “Begin!” He hurriedly backed off the platform.

  Milchamah surged forward with a grace that belied his age, his anger fully under control. Pakalj spun into a short leap, bringing his sword down hard in Osprey Over the Lake.

  Sheath flashed. A crack echoed sharply in the dome. The force of the strike had broken the farmer's darkwood staff in two. The officiant leapt up immediately. “Halt! Win goes to Ara!”

  “You can't be serious.” The farmer stared pure murder at the officiant, who shrugged defensively.

  “So sorry, Master Ro'Gem. The rules clearly state―”

  Milchamah flung the halves of his broken staff to the ground in disgust. He stood with his back to the platform, quivering with anger. The Shardians all turned to look at Dayn.

  ***

  Bargis no longer even bothered to conceal his satisfaction as he watched the bout unfold. “One win, with one man left. That’s what happens when a team leads with their best.”

  Nassir took a steadying breath. The crystal of their perch looked weak enough. As much as he wanted to test it, throwing Bargis to the arena floor would make this an even worse embarrassment for the Ring.

  Bargis swirled the wine in his cup, relishing the Ringmen’s silence. “A transport of my very own. The High will kiss my feet.”

  Lurec cleared his throat. The most peculiar shade of green colored the Preceptor’s face. He uttered his first words since the bout began. “The last of them is taking the platform. Defender, look.”

  “Not much to look at,” Bargis observed. “As I said, poor strategy on their part. But what else could we expect from simple farmers? Favor certainly mocks you today, Ringmen, to draw such a poor team.”

  He clearly arranged for the weakest opponent he could muster, and throws it in our face? Nassir glowered openly at the man. Lurec caught his arm, gesturing to the arena floor.

  “Look,” the Preceptor repeated.

  “Peace take my eyes,” Nassir said. He began to laugh.

  ***

  “Well you're up, lad,” Prolo said. “Don't fall for his feints, like I did.”

  “Good luck, brother,” Joam said, his encouragement falling just short of genuine.

  Dayn hopped up to the platform, nervously twirling his darkwood staff. He preferred the heavier grain to silverpine, and was glad for the longer reach, now. It should fare better against a sword. Sheathed blades or not, I see the scorches those swords leave in the grain. He could break bones if he hit me hard enough. Dayn took another deep breath to still his nerves. Still, worry leaked through. Peace, how am I to beat him? He's taken the best of Shard already!

  The Montollene officiant sized him up. “Saving the best for last?” he asked doubtfully. The swordsman came to stand before him, and the match began.

  Dayn moved first, spinning recklessly in Twirlseed's Fall to keep the Aran from going for another quick finish. His staff spun in dangerous arcs, and Pakalj stepped clear, awaiting an opening to strike. I must show him something different, Dayn thought. He's figured us out.

  Pakalj slashed forward smoothly with Reaper in the Wheat. Dayn reacted without thinking. He planted the butt of his staff into the ground before him, hard. The Aran'
s sword rebounded off the darkwood, the sheath flash lighting his features. Dayn sprang forward and planted a boot firmly in his chest. The swordsman staggered back, surprised. He came in low, jabbing for Dayn’s waist.

  The crowd gasped at Dayn’s sudden bound. Pakalj’s blade stabbed nothing but air. As Dayn flipped above the man, he swung his staff down to strike him squarely in the shoulders. He missed his landing but rolled away, scrambling to his feet like Nassir had shown him. The Aran spun around to gawk at him in utter disbelief.

  Peace if I ever do that again in a fight! But now he won’t know what to expect. Before he could recover, Dayn feinted for the man's ankles with Tripweed on the Road, forcing Pakalj to hop over the sweep of his darkwood. It worked perfectly.

  Just like the Defender in the Crystal Walk, the Aran hung suspended in the air a breath longer because of the weak Montollene ground. Dayn followed through on his spin with Wreathweaver's Strike. The blow smashed Pakalj to the platform so hard he bounced a foot into the air. Dayn struck the dazed Aran again before he even finished descending. He sprawled off the platform’s edge.

  Stunned silence filled the Dome before the officiant gathered himself. “Winner, Shard!”

  The Shardians stopped gaping and rattled their staves on the platform. “Now that's how it’s done!” Joam shouted.

  Peace be praised, Dayn thought, heaving a sigh of relief. I won. He managed to slow his panting somewhat as Pakalj stumbled forward to bow before retrieving his sword. “You broke my collarbone, Shardian.”

  “Serves you right!” Someone shouted from the crowd. The Aran glared out at the onlookers, but Dayn spoke quickly.

  “I wish no blood upon the sand,” he said, offering his own bow. Impulsively, he reached forward and rested his hand briefly on the man's injury. Isn't that how Nassir said it? “Peace see you healed before the Cycle.”

  “Peace see it so.” The swordsman looked at Dayn strangely as the next Aran ascended the platform. Pakalj moved to stand beside the First Sword. Gorhaj had finally recognized Dayn, his flaring nostrils were visible from where Dayn stood. Unfortunately, he would not fight next. The officiant had already sealed the blade of Sten Mattes.

  Dayn peered closer, suddenly frowning. “Dust and smoke. Two swords?” The Aran’s blades fit together at some groove along the hilt, separated now to offer two lighter weapons. Sparring with Nassir had never covered this!

  The officiant shrugged. “The prolix sword is allowed here, as they are in the Cycle proper.”

  Dayn waved back toward where Milchamah stood. “But he’s eliminated for two pieces of staff? How is that fair?”

  Mattes sneered. “Are you afraid, Shardian?”

  The Montollene man shook his head. “It is allowed.”

  “It's fair, boy.” Milchamah caught the cuff of Dayn's trousers. “Peace's own jest, but it is,” he added softly.

  “Begin!”

  Dayn approached warily, hoping to strike a quick blow like Prolo before him. The Arans' style so far proved oddly vulnerable to direct thrusts. Their maneuvering seemed more focused on embellishment than effect. Mattes quickly proved that notion to be utterly wrong.

  The Aran's twin blades hissed through the air without so much as a flourish. He moved with simple, precise movements; taking every opportunity to stab Dayn's hands loose from his staff.

  They began to sweat profusely as the duel wore on. Spectators on the arena floor covered every available inch of nearby ground to watch.

  Mattes moved quick as a ridgecat, avoiding Dayn's staff with sidesteps and parries. He unleashed a series of blows from his swords with enough force to jar Dayn’s shoulder sockets. The sheath on Mattes’ blades flashed over and over as Dayn blocked. The darkwood warmed beneath his hands as the swordsman forced him back.

  The Aran slipped beneath Barkbore Makes His Nest, and Dayn winced as return strokes found his upper thigh and midriff. It burns worse than Joam said! He clipped Mattes in the elbow, but the man did not drop his sword. He sidestepped away again, retreating back to the center of the platform. He's too smart to let me push him off.

  “Be strong, lad!” Prolo called out. He winked when Dayn shot him an irritated glance. “Mind your breathing!”

  Mattes’ eyes narrowed as he immediately searched Dayn for signs of fatigue. Prolo's ploy worked. Dayn allowed himself to favor his leg slightly, and advanced on the swordsman with Goose in the Tree. A deceptive form, one of the many Dayn had learned so he could last more than two moves with Joam. Peace, if he doesn't fall for this, I don't know what I'll do. The Aran closed in, thinking him off balance from injury.

  The prolix swords flashed again and again. Dayn pretended at a stumble. Mattes lunged at the opening, eager for the victory. Dayn leaned back, straining to avoid the overhand slash while he chambered his staff. The Aran's swing carried him too far, and Dayn drove the end of his staff straight into the poor fellow's gut.

  Mattes doubled over immediately, rolling in agony. Dayn rushed over to stand astride the fallen Aran and raise his staff high in both hands, poised to bear down on the swordsman's skull. His eyes rolled in fear, but he could not breath.

  Dayn looked expectantly at the officiant, who stood frozen at the edge of the platform. “Halt! Winner, Shard!”

  Still breathing hard, Dayn bowed to the groaning Aran, and twirled his staff through the King's Circlet. That's for you, Joam! Dayn looked to his friend, but Joam's round eyes were fixed past Dayn's shoulder, prompting him to turn around.

  “My father played havoc with the transports for you and those Ringbound vermin, farmer.” Gorhaj stood imperiously on the platform. His eyes were riveted on Dayn as though nothing else existed, not the hundreds of onlookers or his own injured comrade. Orden helped pull Mattes from the platform.

  The Montollene officiant did not even bother to start the fight, he just stared at the two men. The grounds of the Achen Isee quieted in anticipation. The obvious enmity between the two made for a promising match. “Your schemes delayed our arrival here for days.”

  Dayn's lip curled. “More time for you to guard your sister's dolls, Aran.”

  “You insolent―”

  “Gorhaj! Enough!” The Marshal General stepped forward, his first stirring of the entire match. “Remember your training, and your father's honor! They walk hand in hand with your victory.”

  Gorhaj reddened in anger, or embarrassment. Dayn crouched in Ridgecat's Prowl, staff held high overhead. The darkwood smoldered beneath his grip. The repeated impact of the Arans' sheathed blades was slowly turning his staff to coal.

  “Keep your wits, boy,” Milchamah murmured. The First Sword of the High sunk into a ready stance, sword tip pointed down.

  “You have this, brother!” Joam called out.

  The officiant finally remembered himself. “Begin!”

  Dayn let his muscles uncoil at the command, whipping his staff forward as fast as he could. Gorhaj’s poor choice of stance cost him. He brought his sword up too slowly to deflect the blow. He caught Dayn's staff full in the mouth, barely twisting away at the last instant. If he had not, the blow would have knocked him out cold.

  “The First Sword, bested by a farmer?” Dayn could not resist taunting him. He had never disliked someone so much in his life. “What would the Highest say?”

  Gorhaj wiped the blood from his face and rushed forward with a roar. “Sand blind you!”

  Dayn met him head on, and the Achen Isee Dome sounded with the clash of darkwood grain and sheath-covered steel. Gorhaj did not boast the blinding speed of Pakalj, but he wasted no motion and executed each strike to perfection. Only his anger caused him to overextend himself. Dayn took advantage of those occasions, punishing the Aran with bone rattling blows to the arms and legs. He did not want to knock him from the platform, or use a trick of the forms. Dayn wanted to throttle Gorhaj soundly.

  The Aran withstood blows that should have downed him. He proved surprisingly durable for a man born of such weak ground. He lunged forward, and his blade sear
ed its way down Dayn's left side. Dayn spun away but Gorhaj pressed after him, striking his shoulder hard enough to make Dayn groan out loud. Dayn knocked the next swipe away easily and pivoted around to thrust. The Aran was vulnerable to Flutterbird Takes the Nectar.

  His staff ready, Dayn froze. Peace! What am I doing?

  Gorhaj's arms were spread wide, as he bent, clearly intending to duck the blow. But the swordsman could not avoid him. The strike Dayn had chosen would crush the Aran's throat.

  The First Sword's eyes narrowed at Dayn's hesitation, but he reacted quickly. He stepped into Dayn's staff, taking away his reach. Gorhaj kissed his sword on the crook of Dayn's arm, then again on the bridge of his nose and side of his head in quick succession. Dayn cried out in pain as light flashed in his vision. He collapsed to the ground.

  The entire world seemed to spin. Through the wave of cheers from the onlookers, Dayn heard Shir-Hun's voice above him. “In the dirt, where you belong.”

  “Winner, Ara! Match goes to the world of Ara, three defeating five, with three losses. Both teams earn superior ranking in the Gauntlet. Well done!”

  Dayn clutched his ribs, grimacing in pain. Get up. Get up. Oh, how he hated losing! Especially to this...

  An open snarl covered his face as he willed himself to his feet, refusing to prop himself up with the staff. Fire braided his side as he watched the Aran swordsmen congratulate each other and preen. Well, Marshal General Toljed did not preen. He regarded Dayn with considering eyes. But the rest...

  Milchamah and Prolo barred Dayn’s way just before he stepped forward.

  “Easy, boy,” Milchamah said sternly. “That same look on your father’s face never meant good for anyone in arm's reach. He always regretted his actions after.”

  “You carried us through this nonsense, lad.” Prolo laid a firm hand on Dayn's other shoulder. Dayn was so intent on Gorhaj, he had not realized he was still attempting to push past Milchamah. “Besting three of their fighters proves we're no easy meat, from what that judge said. We’ll see them again when the Cycle starts in earnest.”