The Cyber Chronicles - Book I: Queen of Arlin

by T C Southwell

Sabre was surprised when his cell door opened again so soon after he had been incarcerated. A tall man entered, his eyes flicking over Sabre with a look of smug satisfaction. He seemed familiar, and Sabre stood up as he closed the cell door and came closer.

  “You do not recognise me, do you?”

  Sabre noted the cast on his arm. “You’re the man I fought last night.”

  “Correct. I am Prince Victor, brother of the King.”

  If Victor expected Sabre to apologise, he was disappointed. Sabre nodded. “How’s the arm?”

  The Prince frowned. “Painful. Your skills impressed me, and I was surprised to be beaten. I could order your execution to salve my pride, but that would be a waste. I study fighting skills, and have always considered myself the best knife fighter around. You, it seems, are better than me, so I am offering you a chance to live. Show me how you broke my arm, and I will spare you.”

  “Where’s Queen Tassin?”

  “She is safe and happy, talking to Queen Mirrial, at the moment. You need not concern yourself with her. She will be well cared for. Now, what about my offer?”

  “If I refuse, I assume I’ll be taken directly to the hangman, or whatever you people use.”

  Victor nodded and shrugged. “The axe man. He is always on call.”

  Sabre’s lips twitched in a bitter smile. “Then I accept, naturally.”

  “Excellent. We will go to the training yard.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. I am eager to see what you have to offer. The best fighters in all the lands trained me, so I hope you will not disappoint me.”

  “So do I, since I assume it will cost me my head.”

  Victor chuckled, fingering his cast. “You are remarkably astute, for a commoner.”

  “So only if I show you something new, will my head remain joined to my shoulders?”

  “Correct. Come.” Victor turned and pushed open the door.

  Sabre followed him, and two soldiers fell in behind them. At the end of the short corridor, they emerged into the late afternoon sunlight, and Victor headed for the training yard. Several men practised there with swords and knives, stripped to the waist, their skin gleaming. A stout wooden fence surrounded the sandy area, which boasted some straw figures tied to poles and a few well-used targets. A stocky, robust man with grizzled black hair shouted instructions at the warriors.

  Victor indicated the man with a rude finger. “That is my master arms man. He taught me a great deal.”

  Sabre watched the fighters without interest. “It would save a great deal of time if you showed me what you already know.”

  Victor looked peeved, probably at Sabre’s omission of his title. “What weapons do you know?”

  “All of them.”

  The Prince’s brows shot up, and he smiled. “All? Sword, knife, lance, spear, sling, bow, star, mace, dagger, sticks, staff, javelin, cutlass, scimitar, cudgel, foil, um... rapier?” Sabre nodded, and Victor’s smile widened. “Then you may have a great deal to share with me. What is your best weapon?”

  “I have no favourites. I prefer unarmed combat.”

  “I want you to show me how you did this.” The Prince tapped the cast.

  Sabre rested his arms on the fence. “I can show you, but you’ll never be able to do it.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Explaining it would take some time, but I’ll be happy to, if you wish.” Sabre only needed to stall the Prince for a couple of hours, and it would be too dark to give a demonstration.

  Victor considered this. “Show me first, then you can explain it.”

  Sabre held out his bound hands. At the Prince’s nod, a soldier stepped forward and removed the shackles while Sabre gazed around the training yard. He needed to impress the Prince enough to prevent the axe man from trying to chop his head off, but without revealing the true extent of his abilities. If they did try to behead him, it would be even more difficult to explain why the axe bounced off. Spying some wooden planks stacked against a nearby wall, he pointed at them.

  “I need one of those, set across two supports.”

  The Prince issued the orders, and men scurried to obey. Those who were training halted and gathered to watch. The stocky man swaggered over and bowed to Victor.

  “My Prince. May I ask what’s going on?”

  Victor smirked. “Certainly, Garvon. This man is about to demonstrate an extraordinary prowess he possesses.”

  Garvon measured Sabre with hard, expressionless black eyes. His face was that of a man who had been in numerous fights, not all of which had left him unscathed. His flattened nose, scar-padded brows, broken knuckles and banana-like fingers told the tale of his conflicts. Almost every visible part of him bore scars, and part of one ear was missing, as were several teeth. His other ear was grotesquely enlarged, and he limped. If men measured their skill in scars here, Garvon was a veteran of renown. Sabre gauged a man’s abilities by his lack of them, however, and Garvon did not rate high by that measure.

  Sabre knew that in Garvon’s eyes he was a fresh-faced youth, for Garvon looked to be in his fifties. The master-at-arms turned away to watch the preparations. The seasoned plank the men laid across two short logs was easily four centimetres thick and thirty centimetres wide. It looked like it had come from a wagon bed, grey and scarred from years of use. Garvon smiled crookedly, shaking his head. No doubt he expected the young upstart to come to grief, and Sabre quelled a smile.

  Sabre sauntered over to the plank as the men gathered around it. He calculated that it was too thick for a normal man to tackle without doing himself serious injury, and enough to impress the Prince. The men muttered, eyeing him and the plank as he positioned himself, rubbing his right arm. This exercise would bruise him somewhat, despite the thickened skin along his arm earned from such practices in the past. He took a moment to prepare himself, focussing on the plank as he recalled the years of involuntary training he had been forced to endure.

  Swinging his arm high, he brought it down as he dropped to one knee, using his weight to add to the force of the blow. His arm hit the plank squarely, and it broke with a report like a rifle shot, the halves bouncing and clattering to the ground. Sabre stood up, rubbing his tingling arm. Dead silence reigned for several seconds, then Garvon’s exclamation broke it.

  “That’s impossible!” He glared at Sabre. “He is using magic!”

  Victor tore his eyes from the broken plank to stare at the cyber. “Are you using magic?”

  Sabre shrugged. “Of a sort, but not the kind Garvon thinks. I told you I can’t teach you to do what I do, but I can help you to achieve something like it.”

  Garvon spluttered, “Your Highness, this man is a wizard, not a warrior. He is tricking you!”

  Victor waved him away, his attention riveted on Sabre. “What can I achieve without magic?”

  “You could break a plank half as thick as that, using the technique I just did.”

  The Prince looked excited, nodding. “That would be good enough.”

  Garvon thrust his battered face into their conversation. “Your Highness, I challenge this man to fight my best warrior, without his magic. Until I see that he can really fight, I submit he only uses magic to achieve his miracles.”

  Sabre groaned inwardly. He had hoped the demonstration would circumvent the need for a fight. He glanced at the sinking sun, wishing it would hurry up.

  Victor’s eyes glittered. “Bring forth your best man.”

  Garvon snapped a name at a nearby warrior, who ran off.

  Sabre said to the Prince, “I would rather not fight.”

  “So Queen Tassin said,” Victor drawled. “You have avoided the axe man, but I have other means of persuasion. You will fight this man. I want to see you beat him, then I will be truly convinced.”

  “You weren’t convinced last night?” Sabre looked at the cast on the Prince’s arm.

  Victor scowled. “You used magic. I want to see you defeat this man with skill alone.”

  “
The light’s fading.”

  “It is still enough. I will have torches brought if it grows too dark.”

  Sabre sighed, turning away. This was the last thing he needed now. Everywhere he went on this primitive planet, it seemed that some idiot tried to pick a fight with him, and this time there was no way of avoiding it. All he wanted was to go back to his cell and wait for darkness, then he could find Tassin. A tall, well-built man appeared from the billets and strode towards them, his expression fierce. Sabre kicked at the pieces of plank. He could have saved himself the effort, it seemed.