by James Dale
"I wish I'd thought to wear my black mask," Jack replied in the same hushed tone. "After all, they died trying to protect me."
"You had other things on you mind," Cassy consoled him.
"It didn't even occur to me to find out their names," Jack commiserated.
"I know this will be difficult my lord," said Cassaban, "but you must not dwell on what happened yesterday. Peul Rurik will not. Kiathan most certainly won't. There will be time enough to mourn them later. The best way for you to show your respect would be winning your matches today, so they will not have died in vain."
"I guess it will have to do," Jack sighed. "For now."
A fanfare again announced the arrival of the royals, but this morning as they filled into their seats, Annawyn immediately searched the field for the Disinherited Knight. When Jack caught her eye, the auburn-haired princess' hand clutched at her breast, where an object briefly flashed silver. His crucifix? She knew! He bowed to Annawyn and she graced him with a smile that washed away all pain.
"I know who you are as well," a smooth voiced suddenly announced behind him.
Jack recognized the speaker instantly, though he hadn't heard his voice in nearly a year. He turned slowly and found himself face to face with Kiathan Ellgaer.
"I have searched long for you Jack Braedan," the Traitor of Raashan informed him. “Or should I say, Bra’Adan?”
"Now you have found me," Jack replied, his voice arctic cold as his hand slid unconsciously to Grimrorr's hilt.
"Do you wish to finish this now?" Kiathan smiled. "It would certainly save my Master a great deal of time. Go ahead. Draw your elven blade. Before you clear half its length, twenty archers will have their arrows speeding toward your heart. Look if you doubt me. There will be no repeat of yesterday's unfortunate…tragedy."
Jack turned to look around the field and noticed for the first him the hundred or so silver and blue clad guardsmen positioned along the edge of the coliseum's grassy bowl. Those nearest where he and Kiathan stood facing each other were watching them warily, bows held ready, though not yet drawn. He slowly released Grimrorr's hilt.
"Not going to chance it?" Kiathan asked, his white teeth flashing like daggers. "Pity. I would like to see you die today."
Jack's fists clenched in rage.
"Ah well...perhaps tomorrow?" Kiathan sighed with resignation. "If fact," he whispered, leaning so close Jack could feel his breath on his ear, "I promise you it will be tomorrow. And when you lie dying at my feet, with Annawyn weeping over your last breath, know this, she will not be long in joining you. Though her dying will take much, much longer. Sleep with that knowledge tonight as you are surrounded by your Pig Soldiers. If indeed, you can sleep."
With a laugh evil delight, Kiathan turned abruptly, leaving Jack seething with fury.
Cassaban was instantly at his side. "He's trying to rattle you my lord," he hissed, having heard Kiathan's threatening words.
"That son of a bitch..." Braedan snarled through clenched teeth.
"Is afraid of you," Cassaban interrupted.
"He threatened Annawyn!"
"Of course, he did! He knows threatening the princess will enrage you. And it has! Look at yourself! An enraged swordsman is a careless swordsman. With no thought of himself, only his anger. And while you fume with hatred for Kiathan Ellgaer, Peul Rurik will slip a sword through every chink in your forgotten defenses. Listen to me Jack Braedan! You know I am right!"
"I know. I know!" Jack hissed.
"Then calm yourself," Cassy implored him desperately. "Or you will never get the chance to face Kiathan. What will become of Annawyn then?"
That last warning finally succeeded in breaking through the red haze which had enfolded him. Braedan closed his eyes and breathed deeply, forcing himself to relax. It was not easy, but slowly his pulse returned to normal, his mind cleared, and he opened his eyes once more.
"Thanks Cassy."
"You're welcome," his captain nodded. "Kiathan does fear you know."
"He certainly hides it well."
"Trust me. He does," Cassaban assured him. "Now my lord... shall we run through some forms and remind him why?"
"I believe we shall," Jack nodded grimly.
When Daenel d'Lachaeland motioned for the trumpeters to sound the fanfare announcing the resumption of the tournament, the crowd's solemn mood lifted somewhat, and as the Cryer began calling for the morning's first contestants, their enthusiasm slowly returned to some semblance of normalcy. Today, with so few contestants remaining, each competition would take place individually, giving the spectators chance to appreciate the participant's display of skill without distraction.
First up were the archers, and five bowmen took the field led by the reigning Bowmaster, Lukas a'Maeridon. They each would shoot ten arrows from three succeedingly more difficult ranges; twenty-five yards, fifty yards, and seventy-five yards, with only the archer amassing the highest combined score advancing to the next stage of the competition. Of the thirty arrows Lukas fired, only three failed to strike his target's black center ring. The Ailfar's closest competitor, an Immerman named Rhumael Na'bi, scored twenty-two in the black, a respectable number for sure, but considering Gustaf Mendelson was still to shoot, he held little hope of advancing with the Bowmaster to the final round.
Following the bowmen came the Competition of the Lance. Arrgenn Dunnahel unhorsed his opponent on their first pass down the lists and the cheers of the crowds finally approached a volume heard during the proceeding days. Julian Brin duplicated the feat not much later, and if not for the black armbands and other signs of mourning worn by many of the cheering spectators, it would have been difficult to recall the tournament was but one day removed from tragedy.
When all the lancers had taken their turn in the lists and the jousting was completed, the field was hastily cleared by the ground’s keepers for the Competition of the Sword. Cassaban and Tarc Macuna were the first pair of swordsmen called and proceeded to treat the crowd to an epic display of skill destined to be remembered for generations. Halfway through their match the crowds began a chant of "Borg! Borg! Borg!" Cassaban seemed to feed off the support of the spectators, and though Tarc Macuna battled fiercely, the man from Brydium finally defeated his long-standing nemesis.
Jack had little time to revel in Borg's triumph however, as soon as the pair had bowed to the royals, He and Peul Rurik were called to the field. Rurik was a fine swordsman, possessing skills nearly equal to Jack's own. With his destiny drawing closer by the second however, nearly was not going to be good enough. Grimrorr was like an extension of his arm. At times the elven forged blade seemed to move with a will of its own, rising effortlessly to meet each parry or thrust Rurik offered. By the time Braedan scored the third and final winning point, Rurik was so overcome with frustration at his inability to pierce his defenses he was cursing in rage.
"Damn, but I would have n'er believed I could be so easily bested by another man," Rurik sighed, saluting Braedan as the official stepped between them to announce Jack the victor.
"It was just my lucky day," Jack said, offering Rurik his hand.
"Ye seem to be having a run on lucky days," Rurik observed enviously. "I hope they dunna leave ye. If I canna be Swordmaster, I would at least like to say I was bested by him. Good luck to ye sir knight," Rurik bowed. "Though I dunna think you be needin' my wishes."
"I will take them just the same," Braedan nodded graciously.
A smiling Cassaban met him as he exited the field to cheers of "Blue Knight!"
"Well done," he said, passing him a ladle of water.
"Thanks," Jack nodded, accepting the cooling drink gratefully. "You weren't so bad yourself."
"It was close," the wiry swordsman grinned, "but you're right. I didn't do so bad. Now if Kyl Caracal has not suddenly becoming a blade master, I shall be the first of us to get a chance at Kiathan."
Caracal was good, nearly a master in fact, but the Duke of Raashan had a destiny of his own to fulfill. Only
a few minutes into their fight it became obvious Cassaban would get his wish. When it was over, Kiathan walked off the field untouched by his opponent's blade. After bowing to the royal box, he turned to salute Jack, ignoring Borg with an arrogant display of disdain.
"The bastard acts as if he's already beaten me," Cassaban muttered angrily. "He'll soon learn Borg Cassaban is not to be taken so lightly."
"Now who's letting Kiathan get under his skin?" Jack asked quietly.
The final match of the morning saw Marcus Adeon and the fighter calling himself the Shadow Warrior engage in a protracted battle of attrition lasting almost an hour. Both men were evenly skilled, but the day finally belonged at last to the swordsman in black mail, leaving only four remaining to vie for the title of Swordmaster; Kiathan, Borg, Jack and the Shadow Warrior.
After a short intermission, the archers once again took the field. Old Gustaf Mendelson scored twenty-eight arrows in the black, a feat never before accomplished in the history of the Haelfest. In a display of uncommon sportsmanship, the first person to greet him as he made his way to the sidelines was Lukas a'Maeridon. Sensing they were in the presence of the two greatest archers to ever bend a bow, the crowd rose to its feet and showered them with the loudest cheer yet to be heard in the tournament. It lasted until the lists were constructed again and the first pair of horsemen were barreling toward each other with lowered lance.
When the thunder of hooves had finally quieted and the last lance was rung on shield, Julian Brin and Arrgenn Dunnahel had dispatched all challengers. After the two remaining lancers had acknowledged the cheering crowds with a tip of their armored visors, an expectant hush fell over the coliseum as the grounds keepers took down the list for the final time of the day and laid out a single white circle in the center of the field.
"Shadow Warrior and the Disinherited Knight," a tournament official announced. "Let's go gentlemen."
"Keep your guard high," Cassaban advised him, quickly making a minor adjustment on the straps of his armor. "He likes to finish his attacks above the shoulders.
"I noticed," Jack nodded.
"Start slowly. If you do not press him at the beginning, he becomes impatient. An impatient swordsman makes mistakes."
"I know Cassy," Jack smiled. "I was paying attention."
Cassaban grinned and gave a final tug on his straps. "Make me proud."
As the Blue Knight and the Shadow Warrior approached the royal box to render their respects, Jack sought out Annawyn in the sea of cheering spectators. The princess smiled and her hand again went to the silver crucifix at her breast. "Kiathan will not touch you," he vowed silently, bowing to her and her only.
"Ready gentlemen?" the official asked, and they both nodded. "Then follow me please."
"When I have defeated you," the black mailed Shadow Warrior said as they moved to take their place on the field, "will you honor me by revealing your name? You are a true warrior, sir knight."
"Gladly," Jack replied. "If you will do me the same honor should I win?"
"It is agreed then," the Shadow Warrior nodded, saluting with his sword.
Jack returned the salute and assumed high guard.
"Fighters!" the official cried, raising his hand. "Begin!"
Of the hundreds of swordsmen Jack Braedan had faced in his life, on this world and one he once called home, the man calling himself the Shadow Warrior was by far the best. He possessed a perfect balance of speed and strength. His lightning quick reflexes kept Jack's sword at bay on the defense and his sledge hammer like blows pressed him to the limit on the attack. For the first time in the tournament, Jack was forced to call upon every move in his vast repertoire, sometimes even bastardizing various forms in a desperate attempt to counter his opponent's skill. Had he been one of the spectators and not the man facing the Shadow Warrior, he would doubtless have been watching the display of swordsmanship in stupefied awe.
How long their battle lasted, Jack could not say, nor could he recall later with any degree of certainty how he finally managed to defeat the black mailed swordsman. One minute, he was attempting an impossibly difficult riposte combining three different forms, then the next he was standing before his suddenly unarmed opponent, the sheathed point of Grimrorr poised at the Shadow Warrior's throat.
"I yield," the swordsman announced to the official hovering nearby.
"Match to the Disinherited Knight!" the judge cried, sending the coliseum into a frenzy. In a daze, Jack slowly lowered his sword and offered the man his hand.
"I am a man of my word," the Shadow Warrior shouted over the wildly cheering spectators. He removed his helm to reveal smoke gray eyes and a square, chiseled jaw. "My name is Baranir Samil."
"I am honored to meet you sir," Jack said, retrieving the man's sword and presenting it to him hilt first to the delight of the crowd.
"The honor is mine, sir knight," Samil bowed, accepting the blade. "You are the finest swordsman I have ever faced. You will be a worthy successor to the Duke of Raashan."
"To tell you the truth," Jack sighed, as they began to make their way to the foot of the grandstand. "I'm not even sure how I defeated you."
"Truly?" Samil queried as they stopped to bow to the royals.
Jack's answer was a silent, exhausted shrug.
"If you can defeat me without conscious thought...your victory over the Swordmaster is all but assured."
"If you'll be so kind as to pass that along to Kiathan," Jack grinned, "I'll just sleep in tomorrow morning."
"It would hardly be fair to crowds," Baranir laughed with genuine amusement. "And also, I am curious to know if my opinion of your skill is justified."
"I'll do my best not to disappoint you," Jack promised.
"What more can I ask?" Baranir said, bowing gracefully.
"That was Baranir Samil!" a nearby Immer guardsmen informed Braedan excitedly as the black mailed warrior moved away.
"So he said," Jack nodded, removing his helm and dumping a ladle of water over his head. "Tell me...sergeant. Just who is Baranir Samil?"
"Until two years ago, he was the Baron of Caer-Emn and Warden of Shadowood," the guardsman replied.
"What happened?"
"A fire destroyed half of Caer-Emn including the town grainier," the Immerman explained sadly. "After rebuilding his city, Samil could not pay his taxes to Doridan. He petitioned the crown for an extension, but the Duke of Raashan, who was Minister of Revenue at the time, denied his request, annexed Caer-Emn and Shadowood and stripped him of title and lands."
"Why am I not surprised?" Jack muttered. "I take it Baranir has no love for Kiathan?"
"Hardly," the guard snorted. "Last fall, Samil attempted to purchase back his lands, with money borrowed from the Merchant Guild of Caer-Emn, but Kiathan refused his is offer. The duke even had the gall to proclaim the money stolen and branded Baron Samil a thief and tried to arrest him."
"You seem to know quite a bit about the baron's affairs," Jack inquired. "Why is that sergeant?"
"I was a captain in the Caer-Emn Light Cavalry," the guardsman replied proudly. "Until Kiathan annexed the city, disbanded all of its forces and replaced them with his own troops."
"Sergeant," Jack said thoughtfully. "I have a mission for you. Go after Samil..."
"I cannot leave my post sir knight."
"Daenel d'Lachaeland offered me the services of Immer guardsmen yesterday," Jack informed the man, "and now I'm requisitioning one. Go after Baranir and tell him Jack Braedan, the Duke of Thonbor requests his company tonight at the Mercenary Guild Hall. For dinner...and to discuss the possible return of Caer-Emn and Shadowood."
"But..."
"I don't think you understand me sergeant," Jack said slowly. "Relay my invitation to Samil and by tomorrow night you just might be a captain again."
"Yes sir!" the guardsman saluted sharply.
Jack really didn't have any definite reason for sending the guardsman off in pursuit of the former Baron of Caer-Emn, other than the fact anyone with a
grudge against the Duke of Raashan was a man worth befriending. If things went well tomorrow, he would see Samil got his lands back, simply because it was the right thing to do. If they didn't...well the Shadow Warrior's skill with the blade would certainly come in handy in if it came to a fight with Kiathan extending beyond the confining, small white circle of the Haelfest. Jack turned his attention back to the field where Kiathan and Cassaban were just now receiving their final instructions from the official overseeing their match.
Kiathan seemed arrogantly bemused by the entire affair, his scarlet and gold armor flashing brilliantly in the late afternoon sun. By comparison, Borg Cassaban, a full head shorter than the duke and dressed in his drab mercenary garb and unpolished mail, seemed a man far out of his league. Unless you happened to see the grim determination in his eyes and knew his scar-formed, perpetual grin was in actuality an angry scowl. Cassy would give a good account of himself, Jack had no doubt. Yet he was also resigned to the fact Kiathan would doubtless prevail. The Elohara demanded it. And the visions of the Amarian ritual had not been wrong yet. So, it was in the end that Borg Cassaban, though he fought valiantly, could not overcome both Kiathan's skill and the burden of fate. Although Cassy did manage to strike Kiathan a glancing blow on his left arm, the first swordsman to do so during any match, the Duke of Raashan's sword was the one raised in victory. The chant of "Ki-Ah-THAN! Ki-Ah-THAN!" filled the coliseum as he bowed to the royal box.
"I tried m'Lord," Cassaban said wearily, walking unnoticed from the field by all save Jack and the traitor duke standing triumphantly in the center of the stadium, reveling in the cheers of the crowd.
"You were marvelous Cassy. Some things...just aren't meant to be."
"Apparently not," he sighed. "Damn I'm tired."
"Too tired for a bottle of Surcca Valley?" Jack asked with a consoling smile.
"I think it will require two bottles to wash the taste of defeat from my mouth," Cassaban muttered dejectedly.
"Two bottles it is," Jack said, taking his arm. "You've certainly earned them."