“They would not give us freedom, so we took freedom for ourselves,” Nük T’nyr said. “Today is our Day of Atonement. From this moment forward, we shall know only freedom or death. And death in support of freedom is glory.”
The voices raised in reply filled the hall and were almost deafening. A chant of praise issued forth, honoring Nük T’nyr. Nük T’nyr chanted back the name of the most honored fallen. “Ghul Rwern, Ghul Rwern, Ghul Rwern,” he began, and he continued through the long list of those who had died bathed in glory.
Daybreak found him in his pavilion, readying the next attack before the enemy could regroup and counting the steps he must take before rising against the next seat of the empire. Kha’el D’erth was there with him through the small hours as were Stutk, Rwenwik, and Kurl’k.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Yarr spun around, fearing treachery in the sound of steel behind him, but the Trykathian cavalier and his followers were not threatening him. Instead, he realized they had noticed what he had not—a group of Monsjurin off to the left, walking their way.
They were dressed all alike, in chainmail shirts over crimson robes. They had great widowmaker swords slung across their backs though none had donned their plumed helms.
Xerc resheathed his sword and his followers did likewise. “Guardians of the Wanderer,” he said. “The Order of Noble Yrenil.”
Yarr nodded and said nothing, but he kept his hand near his sword. While he trusted the flag of respite that flew in the training grounds, he had learned the hard way that nothing was ever as it seemed and nowhere was truly safe.
They stood and waited for the Monsjurin to arrive.
The leader was enormous, with a bushy black beard nearly as long as Yarr was tall. He held up a hand in greeting and spoke in clear Trykathian. Cavalier Xerc answered, and they seemed to have an argument. Then the guardian turned to regard Yarr.
“I am Guardian Jdost,” he said, in Cikathian now, “come to battle for honor and glory and freedom. Cavalier Xerc tells me you are a Supremator. I disbelieve.”
Yarr held back a grin. None of the Jurin peoples ever came to Cyvair of their own free will. Still, he guessed the alternatives were worse for a warrior people. “I am,” he answered.
“It is not possible. I step on you and you are dead.”
“That may be so,” Yarr said, turning to walk away.
Jdost unsheathed his sword, slammed it into the ground to block Yarr’s retreat. The flat edge of the sword was as wide as Yarr himself. The hilt beyond stood several spans above Yarr’s head.
Yarr turned back to the Monsjurin, pointed to the drab gray flag flying over the field. “The flag of respite,” he said. “No training. No sparring.”
“I am promised nine killing days, and on the tenth freedom.”
Xerc and his followers moved to stand between Jdost and Yarr. The Trykathians were thick limbed and thick bodied, standing nearly as tall as the gargant’s sword hilt, but only half as tall as the gargants. Xerc said, “Rules are as they are.”
Jdost and his lot clearly thought otherwise. Jdost took up his sword, shouted, “Coward, coward,” and ranted with obscenities.
All conversation in the training ground stopped. Yarr felt a sort of trembling in his soul. “I have told you that the flag of respite flies. I will fight you another day. Our conversation is done.”
“You don’t walk away from me!”
Yarr, ignoring the gargant’s screams and the curses that followed, walked toward one of the few he counted truly a friend.
“Well done,” Dhon told him, offering him a place on the bench beside him. “It would shame us all if you were to fight under respite.”
Yarr sat next to the hulking Fhurtroll. “I care not of these duties, but I would never purposefully bring shame.” He paused, turned to ensure the cavalier and his men were behind him. “Let me introduce you. Cavalier Xerc, this is Dhon of Fetinwol.”
Dhon and Xerc clasped forearms. The Fhurtroll and the Trykathian were of a height but the troll’s girth was easily twice that of the Trykathian. “I took you for a Trykath slayer. Are you not?”
“I cannot claim that honor. I am but a cavalier.”
“It is good to meet you,” Dhon said, still gripping Xerc’s forearm. “Are you allied with the Dwelmish? They are Goeks, are they not?”
“They are, but we are not allied.”
Silence followed. Both Yarr and Dhon had thought all Goeks were allied. It crushed hope.
“Well, I see,” Dhon said, breaking the silence. “You are a welcome addition all the same. You join us, do you not?”
“Auy,” the cavalier said, and his followers nodded agreement.
The Trojk Master of Keys brought them drink. He was a Trykathian and had won a part of his freedom. The games of the colosseum were his trade. They brought him respect and wealth, much of which was purchased by Yarr’s blood and sweat. He honored Yarr when he could, but it was poor substitute for the thing Yarr yearned for. Freedom.
As they drank, Yarr listened to the talk but only participated sporadically. His thoughts were elsewhere, lost to another time and place.
The key master mistook his bliss for something else and whispered, “The new woman, she was good. Yes?”
It took Yarr a moment to return to the here and now. “She was,” he said. It was a lie but a small one. The girl was a victory gift, but Yarr did not fight for women or glory. He fought to stay alive. He fought until he need not fight any more. “Send back Rigga. It is her I miss.”
“I thought as much,” the Master of Keys said. “Rigga it is. She will await your pleasure in the rooms below.”
Yarr feigned a smile, which the key master took as genuine. “Thank you, I’ll go shortly.” He clasped the key master’s arm.
He listened to Dhon and Xerc talk. He stayed quiet. The cavalier’s followers drank heavily. He did not. Drink clouded thought, slowed response.
When the conversation quieted and the key master had gone, Yarr touched a hand to Dhon’s shoulder.
“I will return,” he said. “Drink well while I am gone.”
Dhon looked at him and smiled knowingly. “I will.”
Yarr slid away from the table. He stood quietly out of sight for a short time to ensure all was well with Dhon and Xerc. As he knew they would be, he found the Monsjurin waiting not far off.
—
“Now, I think, we have proper introductions,” the enormous Monsjurin said to Yarr. “This is Grekl, my blade whom you’ve insulted.”
“Steel cannot be insulted. It is not a living thing.”
“Then you have never met a living blade. This is græsteel, the finest, forged and crafted for my father’s father’s father at the beginning of time.”
Yarr sighed, stepped to the side, prepared himself for the inevitable. “You don’t understand. I cannot contest you with steel under the respite flag. The battle that comes is in the colosseum.”
“Convenient for you, no doubt, but that’s no matter. I’ll tear you apart with my bare hands, no steel needed.”
Yarr relaxed the muscles of his neck, flexed the muscles of his legs and arms.
Jdost lunged, moving swiftly, more like a colossal ktothian cat than a gargant. Yarr was faster, jumping beyond grasping hands, diving back in to shatter the gargant’s front teeth. He continued through, swung around the gargant’s head, found himself with his legs about the gargant’s neck. He squeezed and twisted. The breath blew out of Jdost and he collapsed.
The other Monsjurin came at him then. From the corner of his eye, Yarr saw a fist. Rather than duck, he jumped up and over, meeting the fist and running up the gargant’s arm. He dug into the soft bone at the base of the neck with both elbows. The bone gave way with a splendid crack. The gargant went down.
Another ripped a fence pole from the ground and came at Yarr with it. Yarr ducked, lunged forward, struck groin. The gargant went down, dropping the pole. Yarr picked it up, rolled, and caught his next attacker in the shins. He pu
lled through with both arms and all his strength, shattering the left shin and bringing screams before the pole broke against the right shin. This brought screaming like all the stars being ripped from the heavens.
Yarr bounded to his feet. He picked up a shard of the pole, shoved it through the flesh of the gargant’s throat and out the gaping mouth. This quieted the screaming.
He picked up other shards of the pole. The largest, he drove through a hand that sought to grab him. The smallest, he hammered into a thigh.
No others came at him. He stood his ground, turned a wide circle. It seemed all eyes in the practice yards were on him. The gargants he felled were unmoving. Two others groaned in agony. Jdost panted in a heap on the ground. “Are we done with this?” Yarr asked.
The one left who could still speak said, “It’s done.”
“I must be going then,” Yarr said. “I look forward to our meeting in the colosseum.”
He brushed back his hair, swept blood and sweat from his face. Across the yard, he saw the Master of Keys shaking his head in disproval. He walked to him, certain already of the consequences of his actions.
—
“I was provoked,” Yarr protested as the master rebuked him.
The Master of Keys led Yarr indoors. “I’m sure ya were, as ever. However, the great ones have declared festival. Games every tenth day for ten to honor the Hundred World alliance. The Jurin were needed.”
They entered a narrow tower, crossed a small, private courtyard where the key master remanded his weapons to a hulking Gnog. They proceeded through a waygate, appearing in a dark hallway outside the eating gallery. Yarr stroked his chin. He glanced right. “How was I to know this? They demanded a fight. I gave one.”
The master raised an eyebrow as he walked. “Really?”
“Really. First of all, there were five of them and one of me. The big one, he said I insulted—”
“One dead. One dying. Three injured. Who’s to pay?”
“One I only got in the groin, not like I gelded him. The big one, I only choked the air out and loosed a few teeth. The other can’t be too bad off, got it in the hand and leg is all. Those other two…Well, they deserved it. Shin-struck was screaming like to wake the gods. That other, might be he was too stupid. Put his big neck right out in front of me.”
The old Trykathian frowned. He sat on a bench beside one of the long wooden tables and invited Yarr to do the same. “Still, who’s to pay? Them Jurin, they cost a fortune, and where am I to get more? Most Jurin commit kahar’ri or go into blood rages. Either way the same result. Their death before capture and dishonor.”
“And I’ve not made you a fortune these last cycles?”
The Master of Keys scoffed, blew out a breath. “I’ve not enough coin to cover this up. You’ve done me in.”
Suspicion flitted across Yarr’s face. “If so, why didn’t you stop it?”
“Like be any could stop ya once ya set your mind to it,” the key master muttered. He would have continued, but Rigga appeared carrying an ironstone platter of meat and cheese in bread trenchers, a pitcher of mead, and two tankards.
Yarr regarded Rigga. He touched her shoulder, saw that she was well. Suddenly realizing how thirsty and hungry he was, Yarr downed the tankard, refilled it, and started into the meat and cheese. The meat tasted of game hen but was from a much larger fowl. The cheese was pungent and buttery. The bread was hard wheat and not strictly for eating, but he ate it anyway. The mead was sweet and tasted of honey and mace but it was not strong, as Yarr preferred to keep his senses and the key master knew this.
He enjoyed the food and drink much too much to find the irony of the meat-eating, ale-drinking Elf he had become. What would his father’s father think of him? Would the ancients despise and condemn him? And then a faint whisper of thought: What of Akharran? Would she find him less repulsive?
The key master ate, too. Only Rigga seemed not to notice the food. Her attention was on Yarr. Yarr returned her attention to avoid further conversation, but the old Trykathian spoke anyway. “Order must be kept. I must punish you.”
Yarr stared at the other for a moment. “I know this.”
“Rules have been broken. I must—” The key master broke off when he seemed to realize Yarr had just agreed with him. He became flustered for a time. Likely, he had planned the argument’s turnings beforehand, and Yarr’s easy agreement was not something he had foreseen.
Rigga worked her way around Yarr’s neck with her lips. She was tall for a human and deeply bronzed by Cyvair’s suns. Her fair hair made her a prize of great value, and she once had been his prize for a hundredth win in the colosseum some cycles past. The dim torchlight behind her cast her shadow across the table and made her seem more than she was. A shifter or daemon perhaps, and perhaps she was such, but he had no knowledge of this. He knew her only as Rigga. Once she had told him that she was of the Instra peoples. There had been pride in her eyes at the saying, but that pride faded and had yet to return.
To break the silence, Yarr said bluntly, “Do what you must. Certainly, I deserve it.”
“Jurin,” the Master of Keys said, making the word seem portentous. He raised his tankard and drained it; Yarr did likewise. Rigga went to the far side of the gallery to refill the pitcher.
“I’ll make it up to you. In the colosseum next time you duel me, I’ll take a few blows, let them think I’m done for. You’ll get the wagers up and then I’ll make a comeback. Like old times.”
“Old times are done for, Yarr. Not many are willing to bet against you.”
Yarr watched Rigga return. The swing of her hips called his eyes. “The fat one. Surely, the fat one—”
“Speak of the great ones with respect. The big one no longer makes wagers. He is Prince of Praxix now, a ruler of the Hundred Worlds.”
“The titan—”
“Comes only to see you dead. You’ve lost him a fortune. And before you get any ideas of wealth, I get but a handful of brass lokes and copper drudgers for each gold crown traded hands. Lokes and drudgers for me. Crowns for them.”
Curled around Yarr’s waist, Rigga giggled and kissed his neck. Then she whispered something very quietly in Cikathian. Yarr was too busy filling his cup and the key master’s to note exactly what.
“The hunt? It always pleases. Surely there are some great fell beasts to parade and awe. I kill a beast and make amends. All’s good.”
“The mob grows weary. They lust for blood. Simple kills are no longer enough. We must be more and more refined to please.”
“What then?”
“The war with the Jurin goes badly,” the Master of Keys said quietly, “The great ones demand a grand spectacle. That’s all I know.”
“Then give them such spectacle as they will never forget.”
The old Trykathian sighed. “They’ll only want more.”
“Then give them more.”
“And if it means the death of all the great Supremators? And if it means your death?”
“I am death.”
“That may seem so,” the Master of Keys said. “But I’ve never seen any other fight so hard to live as you.”
No more words passed between Yarr and the master. They drank in silence.
With the second pitcher emptied and the mugs drained, the master touched Yarr’s shoulder and then left. The touch was a sign of deference. The old Trykathian left Yarr to his pleasures.
Yarr waited until he heard the other enter the waygate, and then he gently stopped Rigga. “He’s gone,” he said. “You’ve no more to…” His voice trailed off as he looked up at Rigga. She was straddled across his lap. A smile touched the corners of her lips and there was mischief in her eyes.
“To what?” Rigga asked, just before kissing his lips. “I missed you. It is you I want. You may not believe it, but I do. You are kind and strong and true. No others are this way to me. This one you long for. This Dierá—”
“—Must we?”
“We must. You’ve said you
rself it was others who wanted you to be together and promised you each to the other. You have never been with her. You’ve been with me, and yet it is her you think of.”
Yarr lifted Rigga away and up to a seat on the tabletop. “I can never be what you want me to be, Rigga. Dierá is hope, and together we are the vitality of my people.”
Rigga leaned forward and whispered. “I do not ask you to be anything. I ask only that you be with me in this moment. This moment is what we have. The rest may never be.”
Yarr could not argue with the logic of her words. He returned her kisses and soon her caresses.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“G’rkyr, G’rkyr, where are you?” Dierá called out as she ran. She peaked behind a large couch upholstered in golden silk and threaded with the visages of majestic birds, continued toward her bedroom suite with its canopied bed and wide, wide windows. She entered, saw the curtains move, and was certain the other was hiding behind them. She jumped to the window and pulled the curtains back, only to find the windows were open and the movement was the wind playing.
Bright sunlight streaming in through the window caused her eyes to lose their focus. She had to wait a moment before she could return to her search among the shadows of her apartments. She stood absolutely still, listening. “Come out, I know you’re there. I know where you are,” she cried out, though in truth she did not.
A voice returned, sounding far away and small, and a smile lit her face. She hurried off, racing into the dressing closet, jumping to the pile of clothes that spoke and moved, knowing it was her G’rkyr.
“G’rkyr, G’rkyr,” she said. “Come out, come out, my love.”
G’rkyr emerged from the clothes pile. He saw Dierá and laughed. “I picked the best spot. How did you find me?”
Dierá hid a smile with her hand. “I just knew.”
He reached out and touched her ear with a hand that was almost as big as hers was now. “It must be this. You hear a hoppish a field away with this.”
“Ear,” Dierá said in the language of the Élvemere.
“Ear, ear,” G’rkyr repeated excitedly, also in Elvish.
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