Tored replied in a loud voice, "There will be no duel. I will punish Taros Sundar myself according to the laws of Pan Taros."
Umra Vyle laughed sardonically. "When did you become an advocate of pacifism, Tored? Suddenly it suits your purpose!"
"He's just a boy!" growled Tored.
"Sixteen seasons have passed by his reckoning! If he is of age to insult me so, then he is of age to fight! It is the law!"
Hemlock relaxed her guard a bit, but her expectation of immediate violence was replaced by concern for the fate of Taros Sundar. You should have listened to Tored, you headstrong fool!
As Umra Vyle stood close to Tored, both in a state of violent agitation, she was struck by their comparative physiques. Tored was the more powerful man, but he was also far older. Hemlock suddenly wasn’t as sure as she had been that Tored would be able to intimidate the younger Umra Vyle.
Umra Vyle was running from the Cat like a coward! But was it fear, or were the others already dead?
A shout from near the Elders distracted Hemlock from her troubling new questions about what she had seen in the canyon pass.
“The Elders will speak now!”
An aging man then spoke from the balcony. “Tored, Umra Vyle’s claim, though distasteful, is legal. Umra Vyle, we the Elders implore you to forgive Taros Sundar for this apparent injustice. Please rescind your challenge to duel!”
“I will not!” shouted Umra Vyle.
Hemlock glanced at Taros Sundar and saw the color drain from his face.
The Elder spoke again. “Umra Vyle: a duel would taint your honor and the honor of your Clan. I ask you again; please rescind your challenge!”
“I will not!” shouted Umra Vyle again, pointing his spear at Taros Sundar. “This runt will face me in the arena, and pay for his many insults against me!”
As she had in the cave, Hemlock thought that she saw a cunning look pass over Umra Vyle’s features.
“I will fight in his stead as his Champion!” shouted Tored.
A collective gasp erupted from the crowd.
Hemlock saw a look of triumph pass quickly over Umra Vyle’s features.
The Elder spoke. “Tored, you are a member of his clan, and of a higher stature, so you can be his champion. You know, however, that as the Steward of the King, your defeat would result in Umra Vyle being crowned the new King.”
Taros Sundar was at Tored’s side in an instant. “No! Tored, I will fight him!”
Tored shouldered Taros Sundar aside roughly, and then, while the youth was unbalanced, he quickly stabbed him in each shoulder with the point of his spear. Taros Sundar fell to the ground with a looked of shock and pain on his face.
The townspeople gasped again, as Tored returned his attention to Umra Vyle. Members of the Taros clan rushed to aid Taros Sundar, who had no strength in either arm, and lay helpless and bleeding.
“Tored, what is the meaning of this?” shouted the Elder.
Tored did not respond directly, but addressed the crowd. “As the Steward of the King, I reciprocate the challenge of Umra Vyle. Since he is foremost in his Clan, none can champion for him. I now renounce my role as Steward of the King. I will fight you as an ordinary man, Vyle! You will never be King!”
Umra Vyle’s face contorted anew in a fresh rage. “You can’t do that!” He then turned to the Elders. “He can’t do that! He challenged me as the Steward of the King! The throne will pass to me when I defeat him!”
A great stir passed amongst the town’s people and Hemlock saw the Elders conferring. After a few minutes, there was a call for silence.
“We have deliberated on the law that governs this disgusting situation. Never have I been as ashamed to be a Tanna Varran as I am today. But my feelings do not abdicate a need to resolve this lawfully. What Tored has done is within the law. He will duel Umra Vyle as an ordinary warrior. I, Acron Gallus, will take the role of Steward to the King until we can choose a new King. Sadly, two of our best prospects for becoming the new King have greatly dishonored themselves today. The duel will take place within the hour as is dictated by law.”
Umra Vyle pointed violently at Tored. “You may have outmaneuvered me in politics, old man, but I will avenge myself in the arena. I may never be King now, but at least I’ll have the pleasure of ending your pathetic life!”
Tored did not respond, and though he looked formidable in his cold silence, Hemlock again thought that she detected a hint of the malaise that had overtaken him since the incident with the Cat.
Umra Vyle stormed up the ramp with his clan in tow, and soon the Taros clan was surrounding Tored and Taros Sundar. Hemlock pushed her way to the middle of the group and looked at Taros Sundar, who was being loaded onto a litter. The youth shrank from her gaze, and lay in silence. Others were already coaching Tored. “Tored, he’s fast—very fast, and he has great endurance. You’re going to have to strike early or he may outlast you.”
Tored remained silent and he looked at Hemlock thoughtfully.
“It is a good day to die,” he said to her.
A hush fell over the clan, and all eyes turned to her.
“Come here! Everyone, give us a few minutes!” she shouted.
“But you are not a clan member!” someone protested.
“He’s like family to me now! Give us a minute!” she growled.
Tored followed her several paces until they were out of earshot.
As she began to speak, she heard a shuffling approach behind her; and before an outstretched hand was able to grasp her shoulder, she had taken a step forward and spun to confront Renevos the wizard.
“Hemlock, what of this tribal madness? Are these people savages?” raged the old wizard.
“Renevos, please wait for Tored and I to talk. I’ll make sure you and the other wizards are taken to quarters during the duel. Or do you want to watch?”
Renevos’ entire face puckered in disgust. “I’ll not participate in whatever barbaric spectacle is about to unfold.” He turned to Tored. “You have seemed like a just and fair man. I wish you well, though your recent behavior leaves me puzzled.”
Tored nodded almost imperceptibly.
The wizard shuffled off and left Hemlock and Tored alone.
“Did you have to hurt Taros Sundar so badly? Surely a small wound would have sufficed,” said Hemlock.
“You know how headstrong he is. I had to incapacitate him and remove any possibility of him foolishly facing Umra Vyle himself.”
“Fair enough… But, Tored, what is with you?! You can beat Umra Vyle! But you carry yourself like a condemned man!”
“Perhaps I can defeat him. But if I cannot, I am prepared to die. I have seen my people through the trial of the witches, and they are now set on a course to return to our homeland and flourish. They will not need me any longer. And Umra Vyle will not be King. Pan Taros was my King, and Taros Ranvok was like a son to me. Now that they are gone, there is nothing left for me in this new age. But I am at peace with that.”
Hemlock teared up as he finished, and turned away. But Tored saw her tears.
“Hemlock, I am sorry if this upsets you.”
She turned back to him angrily. “Who do you think I have left in this world? I still have my family and friends, but nobody who understands me like Safreon did. I know what it feels like to be an outsider—I am one. But I’ve realized over the past few days that there is someone else like me—someone who understands me, and who can be a companion to me. But he’s too thick-headed to realize it!”
Tored looked uncomfortable.
“Not like that! As friends! You’re old enough to be my father!”
Tored smiled with what appeared to be a mixture of amusement and relief.
“When you’re fighting him, think of me. Kill him for my sake!”
Tored looked contemplative. “Would you return with me to my homeland?”
“That’s not my place, Tored. The City is my home. And I think it should be yours, too.”
“Perhaps. Th
e Elders will no doubt be displeased with my bending of the law to suit my purposes.”
“Damn the Elders, just kill that snake and come back to the City with me!”
Tored looked at her and the expression on his face made her suddenly fear that he would turn her down. But a smile slowly overcame him. Taking a cloth from his belt pouch, he began to rub his arm.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I will no longer wear the blue powder. I am no longer a Tanna Varran. I’m with you now.”
Tored gave Hemlock a brief hug and then returned to the waiting Taros clan, continuing to remove the chalk all the while. Hemlock watched as he explained himself to them—watched as initial comprehension turned to disbelief and then acceptance. Some angry glances were cast her way, and some left Tored's side in disgust. A handful of other clan members remained with him.
After a few minutes the town elder and new Steward, Acron Gallus, approached Tored. "It is time." Hemlock appraised the man and liked what she saw. He seemed to epitomize balance: he was old but still fit, looked strong but also just, and delivered the order to proceed to the duel with a firm tone that also carried a hint of regret.
“May these wizards take their rest in your town during the duel? For my own part, I would prefer to watch,” said Hemlock.
“Yes, of course—on both counts,” responded the Steward.
The group gathered and walked up the ramp and into town, where the townsfolk were moving down the many stairs toward the lower levels. Hemlock bade farewell to the wizards, and followed the flow of townspeople toward the duel. She soon noticed members of the Umra clan walking nearby, and as the many people merged onto the broad stairs, Hemlock found herself shoulder to shoulder with a striking woman. The woman stared at Hemlock with coal dark eyes.
"It is you," she said, as they both walked downwards in the midst of the throng of people around them.
"Who are you?" Hemlock asked.
"I am Syrelene of the Umra clan, and the betrothed of Umra Vyle. My beloved will soon dispatch yours. You have my sympathy," replied the woman with her head held high, as Hemlock noticed her powdered hair, which was tied behind her head in a tight and long pony tail. She wore finely crafted skirts and golden jewelry that would have made an Elite City woman jealous.
"Why do you call Tored my beloved?" Hemlock asked.
"Why shouldn't I? It is obvious that he is yours. And the crowd says that he will run away with you if he survives."
"True enough—though not for the reasons which you imply. And rest assured that he will survive."
"Will he? Vyle is younger, faster, and almost as strong. Vyle fought beside Tored at the battle of Tor Varnos. He was the one who protected Tored from the ghosts after he fell."
"Is that so? And the heroic act of Taros Ranvok confronting the Witch played no role in that protection?"
"Vyle is twice the warrior that Taros Ranvok was!"
Hemlock felt her pulse quickening. "If you weren't such a fool I would silence you right here! I was there! I saw Taros Ranvok sacrifice himself to save Tored. I didn't even notice Vyle in the battle. When Tored slays him, you will have to piece together the truth about your lover. Vyle is not the hero that you think he is."
Hemlock did not wait for a reaction before pushing her way ahead, leaving Syrelene behind.
She was now descending into a damp and dusty passage that sloped sharply downward. There were handholds on the sides of the passage, but many in the interior of the crowd were forced to steady themselves by grasping the shoulders of their peers.
Hemlock turned to a warrior that she recognized from the Taros clan. "Where is the arena?"
"It is in a deep cavern that is seldom used."
Hemlock thought that she detected a note of trepidation in the man's voice, and turned away from him for fear of it stimulating her own undercurrent of anxiety.
After a long descent, which heightened her anticipation, she noticed that the floor leveled off and she flowed with the crowd into a series of dim, sweaty tunnels that ringed a cruel arena. She surveyed it through rusty iron grates stretched over periodic gaps in the rock wall. Bladed iron spikes were mounted on every surface of the arena's interior, including around a natural column of rock that rose in the center.
She waited for several minutes while more and more people pushed into the cramped space. The torches on the walls did not give much light, highlighting the more brightly lit arena. Soon Hemlock began to feel slightly sickened by the cramped space and the proximity of the unwashed, sweating townspeople. The delay became interminable.
Then there was a loud trumpet fanfare and a great crash of iron doors falling against rock.
A moment later, the winged combatants dropped into the tall, circular, central arena from a long and narrow hole in its top, one after the other. One was covered in blue chalk, the other was bare skinned. Each held a spear and a long hunting knife strapped at their belt. Beside the wings on their backs and a loincloth, they wore no protection.
A trap door shut above them with a resounding thud.
The top of the arena widened as it stretched downward, opening into a broad chamber that widened considerably. It was widest at its bottom.
Tored and Umra Vyle began to fly swiftly around the arena. To land or lose control was to suffer death by impalement, and the many bones that littered the walls of the arena attested to this. The chamber reminded Hemlock of an inverted womb—but instead of exiting it to be born, men entered it to die.
Umra Vyle was flying slightly faster than Tored, and soon the younger flyer began to creep up behind. Tored was forced to glance backwards as he careened around the two hundred foot space. He started to tighten his circle of flight, but Umra Vyle did the same. The latter began to hold his spear in a throwing position, looking for an opening.
Suddenly Tored wheeled upwards in a hard climb toward the narrow top of the arena. Umra Vyle was surprised by the maneuver, and despite a hard climb of his own, was unable to avoid flying past Tored.
But Tored had lost control and fallen into a somersault. He was able to regain control and stopped just short of the wall of spikes near the very top of the arena.
Umra Vyle kept his attention on Tored as he circled below him.
Tored began to fall back into the arena and soared away from the younger flyer in an evasive maneuver. Umra Vyle surged toward Tored with his spear outstretched and just missed a thrusting hit on Tored’s receding legs.
The crowd, which had been silent up to this point, began to murmur and then to roar words of encouragement to the combatants. Hemlock was oblivious to their cries—she was riveted by the combat taking place before her. Her heart skipped a beat whenever Umra Vyle approached Tored to strike—but each time Tored managed to evade the faster flyer, and Vyle had not yet dared to throw his spear.
A sense of dread began to grip Hemlock as she noticed Tored’s breathing was becoming labored and his evasive motions more erratic.
He’ll have to risk throwing his spear before he becomes too tired to defend himself. Come on, Tored!
As if his thoughts were linked with Hemlock’s, Tored broke hard to the outside of the arena as Umra Vyle was again closing on him from behind. The older fighter turned in the air to face Umra Vyle, and as he did so, he directed a desperate spear throw toward the younger man.
Umra Vyle was surprised by the suddenness of the attack, but he reacted well and was able to dart to the side quickly enough to protect his body. The stone tipped shaft did tear through his right wing, however, and Umra Vyle flew off in disarray.
But the tenacity of Tored’s attack had come with a price; Tored, moving through the air backwards, lost control and slammed into the wall of the arena. His wings took the brunt of the impact, but a spike bored through the flesh of his thigh, causing a spray of blood to cover the wall and drip from the nearby spikes.
Tored fell in an arc as his impaled leg held his weight for a moment. He screamed in pain, but was able to grasp t
wo spikes with his hands and stand on a third to support himself. His ruined wings dangled helplessly from his back. It was clear to Hemlock that he would not take flight again during the duel.
Umra Vyle had regained control of his damaged wings and circled the arena slowly, sizing up Tored’s condition.
The supporters of Umra Vyle chanted for a death blow, while Tored’s sympathizers cried desperate epithets at him in an attempt to rally him.
Hemlock worried that Umra Vyle might be content to let Tored bleed out, but she soon saw that he would try for a more decisive victory.
Without warning, a realization hit her like a pile of rocks. He’s lost. But I can still help him! I have to help him!
She pushed her way through the crowd toward the entrance of the viewing area. She realized in desperation that she hadn’t noticed how to reach the upper parts of the arena.
She doubled back, and was forced to lose sight of the duel as she re-entered the dark passages and ran upwards at top speed.
Every roar of the crowd was like a dagger penetrating her back as she ran.
Tored!
She finally reached a cross passage that she hadn’t noticed on the way down. Following it, she came to an iron grate that covered another passage. The roar of the crowd was louder down that blocked path.
This has to be it!
A huge rusted padlock secured the gate. She didn’t have time to pick it—she reared back to kick, and as she did so, she felt a familiar tingle of power surging through her. Her kick blasted the door open and the shorn padlock clattered to the rocky floor about twenty feet distant.
She heard a noise from the passage beside her, but she didn’t hesitate and ran forward blindly.
In moments, she burst into a room that she sensed sat above the top of the arena. The first thing she saw was a heavy wooden trap door in the center of the floor. Then she noticed a few pairs of wings scattered in the corner. Finally, she noticed a full squad of Tanna Varran warriors. Acron Gallus was there, as was Umra Vyle’s betrothed.
“See, I told you she would come,” sneered Syrelene.
“Don’t try anything foolish, girl,” growled Acron Gallus as he extended his spear toward Hemlock. The eight other warriors in the room followed suit. Syrelene drew a long ceremonial hunting knife.
Hemlock And The Dead God's Legacy (Book 2) Page 10