“Go away!” she hissed.
“Get him out of here,” Montither growled.
“Look,” he persisted. “Montither plans to kill you. But this sword will save you.” Xemion held the sword out to her again. Annoyed, she eyed the thin streak of grey as dispassionately as she could, and then looked away. Any further exchange was cut short by Montither, who, eager to get to the fighting, kicked the strange, cowled figure from behind, sending him crashing into the crowd. This caused many to laugh, despite the crowd’s general dislike of Montither.
Enraged, Xemion gripped the hilt of the sword tightly and stood up. At that instant he felt a surge of power slip out of the sword and into his arm. He slumped to the ground, shaking and frightened by what he had felt. For a second he sat stunned and silent among the many legs towering around him.
“And now,” shouted Veneetha Azucena, “before our final bout, before I officially close the lists and initiate this ultimate contest, I must ask, as they did in times of old, is there anyone among you who would first beg leave to challenge either of these two?”
At this point in the contest, in days gone by, both remaining combatants would harass and harangue the crowd, hoping to provoke more challenges, for the winner would be judged not only by ultimate victory, but also by the number of challengers who had been subdued along the way.
“Who will fight this woman?” Veneetha gestured toward Zero.
Zero, saying nothing, held her blade straight up and bowed slightly. There were wild cheers from the crowd. Someone shouted, “I love you, Zero,” but no one arose to challenge her, for none wished to be beaten and all were anxious for the big fight to begin. Veneetha Azucena turned next to Montither.
“And who will fight Brothlem Montither of Phaeros!”
Montither inflated his chest and began to strut and swagger back and forth before the crowd. The same person who had shouted before now bellowed “I hate you, Montither.” There was a great hoot of laughter from the crowd, but Montither seemed not to notice.
“Who denies I am the fear of the Phaer,” he shouted, with not a trace of self-mockery. “Who denies that I am dog’s bane?” There was some hissing and a lot of rude gesturing of fingers from the crowd, but no champion dared venture forth. Now Montither turned to Zero, who still held her blade straight up in stringent meditation. “Who denies,” Montither shrieked, “that I am lightning to dogs.” He moved closer to her, bellowing. “Who says I am not the lash to chattel, the prod to cattle.”
The crowd gasped at the vulgarity of this insult, but Zero took a deep breath and calmly exhaled. There was no other moment but this. She stepped forward confidently to offer Brothlem Montither his official challenge, but before she could, Xemion jumped up from his place on the ground.
“I do!” he shouted.
The crowd jeered. Montither shook his head and continued to face Zero, his shoulders slightly hunched, a deep eagerness in his eyes.
“I do,” Xemion repeated even louder. The crowd now began to try to shush him, but Veneetha Azucena intervened.
“We must suffer all challengers,” she shouted. “Bring him here.”
Zero felt her concentration wavering. She glared angrily as the young man stepped forward with a sword in his hand. Xemion did not return her glare. He was too intent on Montither.
“I challenge you!” he spat at Montither as he threw back his cowl. A brief flash of fear appeared on Montither’s face as he recognized this new, gaunter version of his old opponent. But this was replaced almost immediately with an expression of delight.
“Oh, do you?”
“Can this be stopped?” Zero demanded as she stared angrily at the stranger before her. But Veneetha Azucena, who had also recognized Xemion, shook her head helplessly. “It is all in the tradition,” she said. “And he has suffered hard and long to have this fight.”
Xemion gripped the sword tightly at his side. He was certain he could feel that dark current flowing again.
“Do you accept this challenge?” Veneetha Azucena asked Montither in a high, imperial tone.
Montither’s answer was little more than a snarl. “By all means.”
Xemion chose carefully from among the pieces of armour available. The breastplate he strapped on was much heavier than he would have liked. And when he realized how much the slit in the helmet restricted his vision, he wanted to fight without it. But this was not allowed.
⚔
Zero still felt no flare of recognition. The fact that the face of this boy, thin and haggard, tugged at something inside her, registered only slightly. She wished only that she could take a little sip from the brown bottle and make the feeling go away, but the brown bottle was no more. When she noticed the inexperienced way he handled the armour, she wondered what could have possessed this fool to take such a terrible risk. Finally, fully armoured, the young man held up his sword and waved the tip in Montither’s face.
Veneetha Azucena turned to Xemion. “Young man, are you ready?”
Xemion swallowed hard and nodded.
“Very well.” Veneetha Azucena signalled and for a second the two swords crossed. One of them, newly chosen from Montither’s armoury, was broad, sharp and serrated, the other, though it now looked like a good, solid broadsword, was until very recently little more than a painted stick.
Montither and Xemion were finally blade-to-blade, eye-to-eye. Montither leaned forward and, in a voice so quiet only Xemion could hear, said, “Time to get that hand off you.”
The crowd booed and Veneetha Azucena said “Let it begin.”
26
The Bout with Montither
Standing at last before his old tormentor, Xemion was suddenly afraid. He recalled the description of the spell he had spoken — Spell to Make a Sword Which May Never Be Defeated. May? Why hadn’t it said can never be defeated. There was a definite difference. And Vallaine had said the written magic was so literal. Did it mean may as in maybe? Why had he been so certain of this sword’s powers?
Montither, sensing the sudden fear in Xemion, smiled sadistically. His sword was new, forged of solid steel, and finely honed. He could make quick work of that piece of dull iron but taking it slow would be much more enjoyable. For a time the two circled each other, staring intently into one another’s eyes. The crowd occasionally hooted or yelled for some action. The sword felt empty, powerless in Xemion’s hand.
“Hold up your sword,” Montither commanded.
Trembling despite himself, Xemion did just that. Montither smiled. Then he struck Xemion’s blade forcefully, knocking it to one side. Quickly, Xemion brought his blade back into position. There followed a whirlwind of slashes and clangs and hacks rarely seen in a proper sword fight, for these two were both full of mutual hate and would do anything, whether proper or not, so long as it meant they got in another hack.
At first Xemion’s sword held up well under the barrage of Montither’s much harder and heavier weapon. But he was still weak from the after-effects of his spellwork. Without the help of some supernatural agency he would not last long. Even as he had this thought, Montither caught him with the flat side of his sword against the side of his head. So great was the force of the blow that it knocked Xemion right off his feet and down to the ground. The crowd cheered, glad to have some action. Xemion rose as quickly as he could, but he was disoriented and stumbled a little, prompting some in the crowd to laugh. Nevertheless, Xemion succeeded in raising his sword again just in time to meet Montither’s next assault. Somehow he managed to deflect the swing to one side but it shook him to his bones. One more like that and he would surely be shattered. But another came and somehow he still stood. And then another and another and he began to hear a slow rising cry of approval from the crowd.
Xemion dropped to one knee, took the hilt of his sword, and banged it straight down to the ground with a shout. He sprang up anew, reenergized. Once again the two closed face-to-face, and just before he struck, Montither said, “You were right about one thing. When I
finish with you I’m going to skewer that girl right through.” After that the two of them hacked and hewed at one another for a long time, but Montither never once succeeded in striking Xemion’s body. He kept trying and trying but Xemion was mounting a defence that seemed always to find itself at the right angle with the right power to send Montither’s blade skidding away harmlessly.
Montither doubled and redoubled his whacking and slashing but each blow was ever more skillfully returned by the increasingly confident Xemion. Suddenly, Montither stumbled. It was only a small misstep, but in that second when he was off-balance Xemion’s blade crashed into Montither’s helmet with such force it almost toppled him. There was a hushed moment and then the crowd erupted in ecstasy.
Enraged, Montither charged at Xemion, but it was now Xemion who was on the attack. He hated Montither, and the deeper he felt that hate, the more power he seemed to acquire. Montither continued to parry and block what he could, but Xemion kept cutting inside Montither’s defences and poking him hard, leaving little dents in his shiny new armour. Alternately, he unleashed quick sideways whacks against Montither’s helmet. These in particular made the crowd rapturous, but one of them was so violent Veneetha Azucena, as was her prerogative, commanded them to pause in their conflict. This time she asked, “Do you wish the fight to continue, Mr. Montither?”
Montither, despite a mounting feeling of panic, gathered his courage. “Yes!”
But Veneetha was obviously worried. She had only recently restored her business relationship with Montither’s father. It would not help their future dealings if his son were to be wounded here today. “There is no need for anyone here to be seriously injured,” she shouted. “There is no need to take this to the limits. Our greater goal is to have you both in good form for the defence of this—”
“I said yes!” he bellowed.
Once again, Veneetha Azucena had no choice but to allow the match to continue.
As their blades met for a third time, Montither leaned in again to speak to Xemion. He was panting from his exertions and his breath stank of blood. His voice was hoarse and strained. “Whatever you do to me, I swear by my ancestors — I will kill her for you.”
But Xemion feared him no longer. He had no self-doubt now. He felt only one thing — devout and unwavering hatred. Dancing in and out of Montither’s flailing guard he unleashed a flurry of blows on his helmet, occasionally hacking off little bits of metal as he did so. All the while, Montither weakly waved his blade and screamed like a trapped animal. But he wouldn’t surrender. “Gnasher!” he yelled, with what little was left of his energy. “Gnasher!” But Gnasher had been violently taken out of action by some disgruntled kitchen Thrall who’d seen what he’d done to Imalgha with his mirror. “Gnasher!” he shrieked.
“Yield!” Xemion demanded, and with that he severed Montither’s sword at the hilt.
Montither’s scream of outrage could not be heard over the noise of the roaring crowd. But Xemion was still not seeing what he needed to see in Montither’s eyes. With a final, contemptuous swipe he knocked the hilt out of Montither’s grasp. The crowd roared again, but then drew to a hush as Xemion swept his sword up to Montither’s thick neck and inserted the point between his helmet and breastplate. The scared face that had looked at Xemion from the end of the same sword on his very first day in the city again stared back at him. He had never felt such a surge of hatred as he felt gazing into Montither’s unsurrendering eyes. It would be so easy, so perfect, to slide the sharp point slowly forward and put this disgusting piece of vermin out of everyone’s misery. The crowd watched and waited silently.
“Do it!” someone yelled. Xemion gazed into Montither’s eyes. Another surge of malice rushed through him and into his sword arm as though from some well of endless hatred deep in the Earth. His hand flexed. Montither closed his eyes.
“Do you yield unto me?” Xemion roared in his highest and mightiest tone.
Montither wished he had something smart to say in return, but all he could do was shake his head. Xemion’s vision went dark for a moment. His sword arm drew back quickly in his hand, ready for the necessary blow. Just as he might have brought the blade down, a voice cried out. “All right. It’s over. I will not see such blood quarrels here under my command. Both of you stand away.”
Xemion sneered, still propelled for a moment by the forward motion of his hate. Finally, though, he nodded in compliance with Veneetha Azucena’s command and backed away. A few people jeered, but when Veneetha officially pronounced Xemion the winner, a loud cheer went up from the crowd. Shamed and broken, Montither stalked off into the crowd. “Gnasher! Gnasher!” he kept yelling, enraged. “Gnash-errr!”
“And now,” Veneetha Azucena announced, turning to face Zero, who had all this time been watching through narrow, angry eyes, “if there are no new challengers, we have come to our final bout.”
Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to Xemion that when he defeated Montither he would have to fight … her.
27
Sword-Crossed
Zero was deep in concentration. Xemion, fresh from his first taste of glory, was half-terrified, half-thrilled. What little he could see of Zero’s face behind her helmet was brightly painted with streaks of sun-yellow, just like a battle Thrall. He was almost certain it was Saheli, but she was focusing her gaze in a way that slightly frightened him. It was as though she’d found a way to insert the edge of that gaze into whatever was weak or exposed in him. There was a sick feeling in his heart, a cold churning in his belly. His strongest urge was to throw down the blade now and kneel before her in surrender.
Zero saw a faceless opponent. There were only points of potential impact and entry — in particular that thin line at the neck where the helmet met the breastplate. It made her hand twitch almost automatically, and in her head she heard Lighthammer’s voice: “Cut! Cut!” But before the match could begin, Xemion lowered his blade and said “I yield to her.”
Someone in the crowd yelled out, “I want to yield to her, too.” But there was no laughter at this. This was a serious moment.
Zero’s voice broke in anger. “You can’t do that!”
Even as the murmuring in the crowd rose in support of this, Xemion shook his head. “I can and I must.”
Zero was clearly enraged at this. “You think you can cheat me of this which I’ve worked so hard for?”
“She’s right,” Veneetha Azucena added sternly. “What kind of victory would it be for her or for any of us if it happens like this?”
Xemion bowed his head, the sword hanging down from his hand at a slight angle. “I’m sorry. I yield. I have to. I believe she is my—”
“Well, I have to do this.”
Zero suddenly snapped her blade toward his, hitting it with a quick whipping motion that caused it to vibrate so hard he nearly dropped it. The crowd cheered in approval. Xemion showed no response. Again Zero struck Xemion’s sword. “Come on!” she shouted fiercely. But still Xemion resisted.
“I can’t fight you. I only fought him to save you. Don’t you recognize—”
Until then, Zero had struck Xemion only with the flat of her blade. But this time she thrust it forward quite hard, aiming the metal tip straight at Xemion’s chest. Xemion felt his sword move quickly to block the blow. She struck again and once more the magical sword defended him.
“No!”
Zero’s next strike was lightning fast. A surge of power jolted into Xemion’s body with the impact, and without thinking he struck back. In an instant there was a flurry of clashes and clangs that made the crowd cheer ecstatically. But Zero was a far better opponent than Montither had been. Her concentration was immaculate, her footwork supreme. She landed several more whip-like blows against his armour. She blocked, parried, thrust, and returned, and nothing Xemion’s blade did seemed able to breech her defences. The next time the crowd cheered it was for Zero not Xemion.
“No pity!” Lighthammer yelled from nearby.
In all of his fight with
Montither, Xemion had not been hurt once, but Zero managed to get around his defences and land a solid blow against the armour plate that protected his lower ribs. The force of it sent a sharp pain up into his side. He felt his sword dart toward her neck, but he pulled it back at the last moment. Even so, it came so close to its target that it severed Zero’s chinstrap, causing her helmet to hit the ground with a dull ring. There was a unanimous gasp from the crowd.
For the first time in a long time Xemion beheld her un-obscured face. It was her! He already knew that she was taller and broader than she’d been before, but he wasn’t prepared for the changes the last few months had wrought in her face. Her cheekbones seemed more defined, harder than before. There was a new fullness to her lips and there it was — the diagonal scar over her left eyebrow. But this was not the child he had rescued from the torrent on the mountain. This was a full-grown woman, a woman so beautiful it hurt him. The crowd quieted; all eyes were on the two of them as he swallowed his feelings.
“Are you injured?” Veneetha Azucena asked Zero with concern.
Zero felt her neck where the strap had been. “No.” She was not even shaken. She had no fear of this young swordsman. The line between his shoulder plate and his helmet was wide enough for ten blades thicker than hers. She knew she could end this any time she wanted.
“Do you wish to continue?” Veneetha Azucena asked.
Zero stared back at her competitor. He was gazing at her with such a strange, almost imploring look on his face, just like Fargold did. It sickened her. She gritted her teeth and let her blood grow colder. “By all means,” was her answer.
The crowd remained quiet as Veneetha Azucena turned to Xemion. “And you?”
Xemion wanted to say, “No, this is my beloved,” but the words that came out of his mouth surprised him. His voice was deeper, nastier than he’d ever heard it. “By all means,” he replied.
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