Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Edwin accepted it. “Again,” he said.

  Or not. Ra-khir rode back into charging position as the knight near the scaffolding finished preparing the second ring and Edwin returned him the first. Waiting until both had moved safely out of the way, Ra-khir kicked his mount into a gallop.

  * * *

  By the twenty-fifth pass, foam speckled Ra-khir’s gray, and it snorted its protests in loud, sudden bursts. Ra-khir had managed to catch fifteen rings, including the last two. He did not know how that compared to King Humfreet’s and Griff’s knights, but he knew none of his fellow apprentices could come close to matching it. He forced himself to savor no pride in that achievement, refusing to belittle respected peers as the source for his competence. Despite winter’s biting chill, and the icy wind that swept exposed flesh, sweat trickled from every part and he felt suffocated beneath his helmet. His arms felt as weak as twigs, cramped and aching from the need to elevate the heavy pike so many times and for so long.

  Edwin accepted the latest ring from Ra-khir. “You may pack your armor now.”

  Though relieved, Ra-khir resisted a bubbling show of gratitude. He returned only a formal nod before dismounting and setting carefully to work. No matter his fatigue, he would treat his armor properly. The knights on the field judged his every gesture and word. He would show them even fatigue and anxiety would not make him careless. Each piece of armor found its place in his pack: wiped, oiled, and wrapped. He had just started on his padding when Sir Jakrusan, the knight in civilian attire, approached him.

  “A skilled display.” Jakrusan shook back unruly, brown hair and pinned Ra-khir with muddy eyes that held just a hint of green. Though large for his age, Ra-khir stood two fingers’ breadths shorter and not quite as broad as the knight. A hawklike nose gave him a hard, predatory look, magnified by his lack of colors.

  “Thank you, sir,” Ra-khir said with clear appreciation.

  “Don’t get too swell-headed.” The knight used a gruff tone and slang that did not suit his station. “I was lauding your horse, not you.” He studied the gray, pacing a semicircle that left the animal watching him warily. “If I had a beast like this one, I could do better’n you.”

  The words made little sense. Like all of the knights of Erythane, Sir Jakrusan rode a white charger that put the apprentices’ grays to shame. Clearly, the role-playing was a part of Ra-khir’s testing, and he understood he should treat the knight like any citizen. Ra-khir returned a polite nod. “Very good, sir. You must be a ring jouster of considerable skill.” Ra-khir hoped the underlying pride inherent in the statement did not meet with disapproval. Indirectly, he had complimented his own ability as well.

  From the corner of Ra-khir’s eye, he saw a grin touch Edwin’s lips and disappear. Self-confidence violated no tenets when spoken in such a humble, indirect fashion.

  Jakrusan continued to examine the gray. “I want this horse. How much?”

  The question confused Ra-khir. “How much what, sir?”

  Jakrusan turned his stare to Ra-khir. The dark eyes held a hint of contempt. “How much to buy him?”

  “Oh.” Ra-khir shook his head. “He’s not for sale, sir.”

  “Nonsense,” Jakrusan boomed. “Everything is for sale at the right price.”

  Ra-khir chose to explain rather than disagree. “This horse doesn’t belong to me, sir. I’m an apprentice Knight of Erythane. This horse belongs to King Humfreet. Even should I wish to sell him, I couldn’t.”

  Jakrusan’s eyes narrowed. “I could kill you and take the horse.”

  Ra-khir’s brows shot up, and he resisted the natural urge to speak Kevral’s words: You could try. He kept his response true to a knight’s honor. “If you’re challenging me, I have no choice but to accept. However, killing me would not change the fact that the horse belongs to King Humfreet.”

  “A battle, then,” Jakrusan shouted. “But not to the death. We’ll spar until one of us deals the equivalent of a killing blow.”

  Ra-khir acknowledged the choice with a benign gesture. “You called the challenge; that is your decision. You also have the right to choose weapon, location, and timing.”

  Jakrusan glanced about them.

  Ra-khir looked around also. The knights had not moved from their positions, still judging him. Edwin said nothing. The women watched intently, one white-faced and another clutching her hands to her lips. They did not have the benefit of knowing Jakrusan tested him.

  The challenging knight drew his sword. “Here and now suits me fine.”

  Ra-khir did not allow face or voice to reveal his disappointment. Though the most common, sword had always proved his worst weapon. Kevral’s instructions, however, stole some of the discomfort from Jakrusan’s choice. His skill had come a long way in a short time; it might even surprise his armsman. “Very well.” Ra-khir returned to his pack for his sword, turning his back on his opponent as a gesture of trust. An honorable opponent would never stab him in the back, and to mistrust the other’s honor would prove grave insult. A smile touched his lips as he recognized the cultural differences even between neighboring people who served the same kingdom. On the Renshai’s Fields of Wrath, turning one’s back on a warrior was a sign of disdain, indicating skill so far beneath one’s own that defense was unnecessary. Retrieving his practice sword from his pack, Ra-khir faced off with the knight.

  Ra-khir assumed a defensive position as Jakrusan did the same. True to Kevral’s teachings, he did not remain there long, but lashed a controlled stroke toward Jakrusan’s head. Apparently startled by the swift bravado, Jakrusan scarcely parried. The need for sudden defense gave the next strike to Ra-khir. This time, he cut low. Jakrusan leaped backward, then lunged back in with a gut stroke that Ra-khir battered aside before delivering a slashing riposte. Momentum carried him to Jakrusan’s side, but he did not bother to align before dodging and boring back in.

  The exchange of thrust and parry continued, Ra-khir dedicating his all to the battle. Neither knights nor kings could afford one among them who lacked courage as well as skill. That Jakrusan had selected Ra-khir’s least competent weapon would prove no consolation should he fail this test. Once, Kevral’s back to basics approach had irritated him. Now he understood the need. He had forgotten the early necessities as more complex maneuvers engrossed him. Constant repetition had branded them into his thoughts and motions. He executed them now without the need for memory, leaving concentration for the more difficult procedures required to triumph.

  Jakrusan broke character to speak. “You’ve been practicing.” His blade swept for Ra-khir’s throat.

  Ra-khir jerked away, not bothering with a reply. Kevral had taught him not to talk while fighting with a vehemence that reawakened bruises now long healed.

  The spar lasted longer than even Ra-khir expected, and he found himself battling the fatigue and aches of his ring jousting session. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his eyes stung from sweat and the dryness that came from following Jakrusan’s sword. Finally, Jakrusan scored a touch across Ra-khir’s thigh. Apparently oblivious to his win, the knight lunged in for another attack.

  Ra-khir retreated, signaling Edwin to end the match.

  “Call!” Edwin shouted.

  Ra-khir lowered his sword.

  Jakrusan pulled his strike, brows furrowing in confusion. “Why are we stopping?”

  Edwin looked at Ra-khir for an explanation.

  “You won, sir,” Ra-khir said.

  “He did?” Edwin returned.

  “I did?” Jakrusan said, almost simultaneously, then shook his head. “I didn’t deliver a killing stroke equivalent.”

  Ra-khir did not hesitate. He was not mistaken. “Here, sir.” He traced the line of the sword across his leg. “In a real fight, you would have cut the artery. Death in moments.”

  A murmur startled Ra-khir. The intensity of the battle had allowed him to forget the spectators.

  “Well, then,” Jakrusan sheathed his sword. “I get the horse.”


  Ra-khir remained calm, though the repetition and his exhaustion wore on him. “No, sir. The horse belongs to King Humfreet, mine to use until he reclaims it.”

  Jakrusan glared, hands falling to his hips and dangerously close to his hilt again. “I bested a knight in fair combat. Isn’t there a law that says I get the horse?”

  “I’m only a knight-in-training, sir,” Ra-khir reminded him. He shook back strawberry-blond hair matted by drying sweat and crushed by the helmet he no longer wore. “The law states that if you kill a Knight of Erythane in witnessed fair combat, you can replace him if the king of Erythane or Béarn deems you worthy of the honor and you take the proper vows.” He resisted the urge to add something sarcastic about the lack of rewards slaughtering an apprentice knight would gain him. In his case, ultimately, the man would battle a full-fledged knight. He doubted his father would let his murder go unchallenged.

  Jakrusan made a noise deep in his throat. “You stupid knights, and your weird, rigid, stupid rules.”

  Ra-khir recoiled, more taken aback by the source than the words. He knew what had to follow, though the idea made him wince. He wanted nothing more than a quiet nap. “You’ve insulted my honor, and the honor of my peers. I have no choice but to call you out.”

  “Very well,” Jakrusan said. “I’ve beaten your sorry hide once, and I can do it again.”

  Ra-khir ignored the snideness. “One hour. Here. Poleax.” He deliberately chose an obscure weapon.

  Jakrusan looked stricken. “But I don’t have one of those.”

  “I’ll lend you one,” Ra-khir promised, certain his father would let him borrow his for the cause.

  Jakrusan stomped his foot like a child, the acting overdone. “But that’s not fair! I’ve never used one in my life.”

  Ra-khir glanced at Edwin, hoping for a clue as to how to properly handle the situation. By the law, the other’s competence did not affect Ra-khir’s choice of weapons, yet his personal honor allowed him to sympathize with the character Jakrusan played. Edwin’s stony face gave him no answer, so Ra-khir followed his own integrity. “All right, sir. What weapons do you know?”

  “Sword,” Jakrusan said swiftly. “And shield.”

  Ra-khir awaited a longer list, but received nothing. Torn between his need to display competence and fairness, Ra-khir clung to the latter. “Very well, then. Sword and shield.”

  “Could we please do it here and now?” Jakrusan added. “We both have things to do later.”

  Ra-khir suspected he had little choice in this matter. The knights intended to test his endurance, and they would not allow the hour of rest he craved. “Fine. Could I, at least, select the endpoint?”

  Jakrusan smiled. “It’s your challenge.” He trotted off to retrieve his shield from the grass, and Ra-khir hauled his from his pack. The gray grazed placidly, untroubled by the shouting or the waving steel. Shortly, he returned. “Now, about that endpoint?”

  Ra-khir adjusted the shield strap on his arm, for once agreeing with Kevral. With his arms hammered by sword blows and muscles screaming from hefting the pike, the shield seemed more burden than help. “Disarming,” he said.

  Jakrusan’s face fell into an alarmed mask. Edwin shook his head disapprovingly and intervened. “Ra-khir, I know Sir Jakrusan has been an excellent actor, not to mention incredibly irritating, but bloodletting and amputation is taking the game too far.”

  Ra-khir bowed to his teacher. “With all respect, armsman, I did not demand either to end the duel.” He gave Edwin a look intended to convey he had not taken leave of his senses and he had control of the situation. Inhaling deeply, he held his breath, awaiting the answer. If he could not earn his teacher’s trust, he did not belong among the Knights of Erythane. He understood he had placed a burden on the armsman as well. Disarming techniques were tricky, difficult to direct, and dangerous. Even his practice sword held enough edge to mangle, if not sever, a finger.

  Renshai armsmen needed to master myriad disarming techniques, and Kevral had modeled her life after the greatest torke in her people’s history. Whether used to restrain a student taunted to murderous rage or teach a desperate lesson, disarming guaranteed an end to the conflict without the need to land a blow. As per the laws of her people, Kevral had taught him none of the Renshai maneuvers, but she had taken his sword often enough to reveal more standard methods. Jakrusan was right about one thing, Ra-khir had practiced.

  “Very well,” Edwin finally said, the worried creases still lining his middle-aged features. “Ra-khir.” He nodded at the apprentice. “Stranger.” He managed a faint smile as he indicated Jakrusan.

  The knight returned a miffed stare, though whether at Edwin’s humor or judgment, Ra-khir could not guess.

  “Begin,” Edwin said.

  This time, Jakrusan made the first attack, a looping cut that Ra-khir took on his shield. Though he hated the time wasted on realigning, Ra-khir did so. Accuracy mattered here more than strength. His sword licked for Jakrusan’s hilt but met his shield instead.

  Colbey’s words in the temple came into Ra-khir’s head: The thing to remember is that an enemy with a shield will always block his own vision. The moment he does, that’s your opening. He parried another strike, then feigned a riposte for the knight’s face. Jakrusan raised his shield to block. The instant he did, Ra-khir hammered the shield with his own and redirected his attack. His sword licked through Jakrusan’s blind spot and carefully sliced the hilt from his hand. The sword plummeted as Jakrusan made a wild grab for it.

  Despite Kevral’s teachings, Ra-khir did not attempt to catch the hilt. Renshai, not knights, considered it disrespectful for an honored enemy’s sword to touch the ground, and he would as likely cut his hand as retrieve it. The awkwardness of his attempt would not please his armsman.

  Jakrusan smoothly caught his handguard before it landed in the dirt, but the match had ended. Ra-khir executed a bow to Edwin, then Jakrusan. Each returned him a formal gesture of esteem. So far, he believed, he had done well.

  “Come with me.” Edwin pointed toward the pathway from the hill. “Sir Jakrusan will tend your horse and gear.”

  Ra-khir hesitated. As his father taught, he preferred handling his own belongings and mount. The idea of a knight serving an apprentice unbalanced him.

  “Please,” Edwin insisted. “You would insult Sir Jakrusan to refuse. You still have much to do.”

  Ra-khir glanced at the knight he had twice battled. Jakrusan’s attitude had changed, his knight’s manner and posture returned. He nodded to indicate Edwin spoke for him.

  “Thank you, sir.” Ra-khir bowed again. “You honor me.” He followed Edwin down the hill, ignoring the whispering women who had lost their show. The two knights who had remained in place throughout jousting and dueling turned stiffly and marched after Edwin and his charge. The man at the scaffolding walked toward Jakrusan, presumably to assist.

  They headed into town, Edwin’s silence painful. Ra-khir tried not to fidget, wrapping his nervousness in the calm realization that he had done his best in every situation. If he failed the test, he would at least do so honestly, knowing he had given his all. Knighthood would suit him, and he could not imagine himself doing anything else. He did not allow his mind to pursue that course, however. Matrinka had seemed deserving of Béarn’s throne, yet she had failed the staff-test and learned to live with the devastating consequences of the gods’ judgment. Once that lapse had seemed tragic. Now he and Matrinka could see that Griff fit more properly into kingship, and she contributed far more to Béarn as a healer. If the Knights of Erythane would not have Ra-khir Kedrin’s son, he would turn to her for a solace she had the experience to share. He would find another way to serve the kingdom.

  Tears burned at Ra-khir’s eyes as he trailed Edwin through Erythane’s streets. He steered his thoughts along the brave path from necessity, yet the idea of failing these proceedings ached far deeper. He could scarcely remember a time in his life when he did not want, with all of his soul, to become o
ne of Erythane’s knights. He wrestled with the realization that failure might well destroy him, and Matrinka could do little to salvage what remained. It did not fit his honor to think this way, yet he could not help the emotion that pounded him at the idea of accepting defeat with dignity and grace. His self-esteem would simply shatter, and he wondered if he could bear to continue living.

  At length, Edwin and Ra-khir reached a modest cottage at the edge of town nearest the practice field. The armsman opened the door onto a sparse room that held a table surrounded by hard, wooden chairs. He waved toward one of these. Ra-khir entered, and the other two knights followed him inside. He waited until all of the others sat before joining them at the table. They deliberately left him the head position, directly across from Armsman Edwin, and Ra-khir felt like a rabbit surrounded by eager hounds.

  Edwin ran a hand through his sandy stubble, and his brown eyes pinned Ra-khir. “What did you think of your performance in the ring joust?”

  What did I think? Ra-khir blinked in abashed silence, uncertain of the answer Edwin sought. It only matters what you think. He kept these thoughts to himself, giving an honest answer. “I did my best, Armsman. I only hope it was good enough.”

  “Are you capable of better?”

  “I—I don’t know, Armsman,” Ra-khir admitted honestly. “If you mean do I believe I could have done better today, I don’t think I could have. I intend to keep practicing, though. There will surely come a time when I improve on this performance.” He could feel his heart hammering his ribs, and it felt too low in his chest.

  Edwin accepted the answer. “When Sir Jakrusan challenged you, how did you feel?”

  Feel? Ra-khir swallowed hard, placing himself back in that moment. “He had challenged me, sir. I felt nothing other than the need to meet that challenge bravely and with honor.”

  “How about when he chose the endpoint?”