Authors: Tom Deitz
It would not be long.
Nor was it. At precisely half a hand before noon, a gong sounded in Gem-Hold’s topmost arcade, as it always sounded, regardless of who controlled the place, once every half hand.
And at that moment, Vorinn took a deep breath and strode down the High Road until he reached its juncture with the road that led to the south. Wet stone squelched beneath his boots: stone that had not been uncovered long enough to dry. Walls loomed above him and to either side, while straight ahead a pair of quickly constructed towers flanked the enormous steel-and-bronze doors that let onto the forecourt. Those
doors were closed now and—as early reconnaissance had shown—filled in with stone from within. And none too well either, for water oozed from around them, but never enough to indicate danger of collapse—or, more to the point—vulnerability to battering rams. More walls continued to the left in an artful marriage of new masonry and the raw stone of the mountain. A narrow paved path paralleled them, running below the level of the South Road until, halfway along its length, a simple stone stair barely wide enough for a single man to traverse angled up their flank. Veen had once proposed attacking from that quarter, but Vorinn had pointed out that to reach that stair required any attackers to move single file directly beneath five spans of well-defended wall. That was before the wall had been crowned with bound Gem-Holders, of course, and before the lower span of the stairs had been flooded. They were visible now, though still damp, and Vorinn supposed that the hold’s new wardens had contrived some way to direct the flow of the Ri-Eron’s waters in various directions as suited their intent.
Whatever the mechanism, the stairs were accessible for the nonce, and dry enough to climb if one observed caution. This Vorinn did, feeling impossibly vulnerable as he made his way up the side of the wall until he reached the top, where a waist-high bronze gate had been opened by Ninth Face warriors half a hand before. He turned through it, and found himself standing upon the topmost of five wide stone platforms that kinked around the plaza to form terraces that could double as seats. For the first time since their arrival, no armed warriors stood atop that wall.
Veen had accompanied him eight paces back—right behind his seconds—but not Preedor or Tryffon, for someone would have to retain command authority if the worst scenario occurred, and those two were best equipped for that station. Indeed, Tryffon was already—against his wishes—designated Acting Regent, though the bulk of the army did not know that. As for the others—they were soldiers chosen by the
ranking on-site Chiefs to represent certain clans, namely Argen, for the absent King; Eemon, for Rann; and, to everyone’s surprise, Common Clan. Crimson, maroon, black and gray, and beige. The third was not technically proper for Eemon, but that clan’s midnight blue had been deemed too close to the Ninth Face’s livery, so Eemon’s representative wore Stonecraft’s heraldry instead.
And then, with the sky blazing blue overhead and Gem-Hold white before him; with the mountains of Angen’s Spine looming beyond, and the forested heights that surrounded the vale at his back, Vorinn syn Ferr-een marched out to meet his fate.
As he stepped down onto the raised causeway that arrowed into the plaza where the white stone slab that would be the field of combat gleamed in the crisp autumn light, a door opened in the arcade opposite, and a length of wood two spans long and as wide as that doorway thrust out into the water that lapped about the plaza’s half-drowned walls. Floats barely visible beneath it buoyed it up, and as soon as it was in place, another followed. It took three of the objects to reach the dueling platform from that side, and a moment more for soldiers in Ninth Face surcoats to fix it firm, which they accomplished with practiced dispatch, whereupon they re-formed ranks and marched back into the arcade.
Precisely as the gong sounded again, to mark noon, Zeff himself appeared.
He was dressed as he had been dressed every other time Vorinn had seen him in official capacity, which is to say in full Ninth Face heraldry of dark blue surcoat and white-velvet cloak, all over what looked like a mail hauberk above dark blue leather armor on arms and legs, save where cups of finely worked metal protected elbows and knees. He wore no helm at the moment, but one of his attendants carried one, as another carried his shield and a third his sword. All of which was prescribed; Vorinn’s seconds carried exactly the same, though
he had twisted protocol slightly by shrouding all three items, the better to keep Zeff guessing.
Vorinn scanned Zeff’s regalia carefully. It was well polished; that was obvious. Indeed, the sun shone so brightly on both helm and shield that they hurt to look upon. It therefore took him a moment to realize that he, in fact, faced two parts of the false regalia. There was a red glitter within that metallic glare, too; one he didn’t like, though it was also one he had expected. By squinting, he could even make out the source: Between the helm’s eye ridges showed a fist-sized ring of all-too-familiar ruddy gems. They were small individually, but appeared to be of sufficient number to equal the mass of the single gem in the “magical” royal helm. The shield showed no such augmentations; then again, the gem in the “magic” shield had been on the inside, protected by steel and rare alloys from the bite of any normal blade. And Vorinn knew without bothering to look that the sword would likewise sport, either in the grip or the guard, a similar set of jewels. And though Vorinn was chilled to the bone by their very presence, he also knew that there was no particular reason why Zeff could not be playing Avall’s own game and trying to trick him with false panoply.
It was too late to worry about that, anyway.
By the rules that governed this kind of challenge, there would be no heralds and no marshals. And the combat would be, unless one of the combatants conceded verbally, to the death.
Vorinn waited until Zeff was on the last section of bridge before he himself progressed farther, so that they entered the platform at precisely the same moment. His cloak belled behind him in a gust of sudden wind, which he chose to call an omen of victory. Long since trained in the form of such things, the seconds took up positions of their own, two to a corner, facing their equivalents, even as the combatants faced off.
In spite of Vorinn’s higher rank, Zeff was challenger. It therefore fell to him to speak first. “I am Zeff of the Ninth
Face,” he announced. “I welcome you to what I hope we both agree will be, for this time and place, neutral ground on which no blood may be shed but our own. And I would now ask, as is my right, who it is I have the honor of facing on the field of honor?”
Though he stood barely four spans from Vorinn, Zeff held his head so that he appeared to speak to the Vale at large, and made a point of staring about as though seeking someone who was not present.
Vorinn cleared his throat. “I am Vorinn syn Ferr-een, Regent for this time for Avall syn Argen-a, now and until his death, for everyone here assembled, and for you and me especially, our anointed and rightful King. And likewise,” he added, once again breaking form, “brother to Strynn san Ferreen, Consort to that King.”
Zeff nodded stiffly, but his face twisted ever so slightly with a mocking grin. “This King of which you spoke—”
“Is indisposed. Any victory I achieve will be in his name and no other.”
“This indisposition—”
“Is not our concern today.”
Zeff shrugged. “No, I suppose it is not. In any case, it is time we were about our business. With time, place, and weapon already decided, do you see any cause for additional delay?”
Vorinn puffed his cheeks thoughtfully, playing for effect, then spoke. “Lord Chief,” he began, “I have agreed to meet you here as champion of the rightful King of Eron and as commander of his lawful armies. I have granted you all you asked, though it was my right to name these things: time, place, and weapon. I therefore crave a boon.”
Zeff raised a brow ever so slightly, though he had surely been expecting something of the like. It was part of the ritual, after all: threat, taunt, threat, and counter-threat.
But to deny any boon now would be unthinkable. Zeff’s power had to rest in large part on his own personal honor, and to refuse a boon would degrade that.
“If it is within my power and a just thing, I will grant this boon,” Zeff called confidently.
Vorinn spared him a tiny conciliatory bow. “Very well, my boon is this. You have determined what our weapons are to be. You have said nothing of our form of defense; therefore, it is mine to name. And I name it now. We will have
no
defense. We will fight with neither helms nor shields. By sword alone shall we meet our dooms.”
Zeff stiffened for the merest instant, and Vorinn felt a tiny thrill of anticipation. He had been right: Zeff had been expecting to meet the full achievement of magical regalia. Now he would not have to face the shield, which should increase his chances, not diminish them. But since he knew that, he would also suspect Vorinn of some trick.
“I will meet you thus,” Zeff answered, a breath before Vorinn expected. “Now, if we may match our swords, we can begin.”
“As you will.” And with that Vorinn claimed his sword from his primary second and stepped forward, even as Zeff did the same.
Matching swords simply meant that both men set the bare points of their blades on the ground before them in the center of the dueling platform and measured their length one against the other, so that each man would know the limit of the other’s reach. Happily for Vorinn, it would also give him a chance to examine Zeff’s weapon more closely. Which he did, noting that a spiral of tiny red gems did indeed weave their way among the gilded spirals on the hilt, each connected, as best he could tell, by a thin filament of bloodwire.
Which confirmed what Vorinn had already suspected: that Zeff had deduced the theory that underlay the making of gem-powered weapons. Still, that did not concern Vorinn overmuch, for Zeff could not know even half of what Avall had known and had put into the royal regalia, for the simple reason that Avall did not know it all himself. Much of what had determined the regalia’s final fashioning had been seen in
Avall’s subconscious mind by High King Gynn, who had then set the form of certain connections he had seen there in Avall’s awareness without his conscious knowing.
On the other hand, it was now obvious that even lesser swords could evince power when linked, however recklessly, with a gem.
“A fine weapon,” Vorinn heard himself say—though he barely recognized his voice when he spoke those words, or acknowledged that it was his own will that drove his tongue, for he was already allowing himself to sink into that trance state that for him always presaged battle.
“Back to our edges,” Zeff replied. “And when both of us have reached them and shed our cloaks, we are both free to advance again.”
And so it was. Vorinn turned smartly and strode back to where the walkway entered the platform exactly two spans away. Nor did he fear death at his back, for there was no point fearing early death when death had already been summoned. Once he reached the designated point, he turned smartly, shrugged his cloak into the waiting hands of his Common Clan second—and waited. Zeff was half a breath slower reaching his position, but wasted no time, once he likewise had turned and shed his cloak, in going on full guard.
Each took a step forward—rite again—and paused.
But Vorinn dared not wait. Everything he had planned depended on one act of desperation, because everything he knew about the gems, when incorporated into weapons, said that their wielder had to awaken them with blood. But awakening took time to complete, and during that interval, the weapons they empowered were no more than so much heavy, keen-edged steel. It also took a certain amount of will to call the lightning, and Zeff would not have benefit of that if Vorinn kept him distracted.
“Zeff!” Vorinn bellowed, charging forward as fast as he had ever run in his life, trying to forget that he might be running toward his death; that all it would take would be for Zeff to
shift even a quite ordinary blade any number of different ways to send him to his doom.
Caught off guard indeed, Zeff nevertheless rushed to meet him, raising steel to meet the steel Vorinn sent crashing down.
Metal belled in the noonday light, and sparks flew, bouncing off the white stone beneath them like grindings in a smithy. Vorinn was close enough to see the anger in Zeff’s eyes, but also the determination.
Quick as thought, Vorinn whipped his blade away, then swung it around again, in a quick curving blow to the right that should, by rights have caught Zeff in the upper thigh.
His opponent met it easily, then swung again himself—almost straight up. Had Vorinn not leapt back, the blade would have caught him in the crotch and continued on, probably to his heart. Fate, as much as reflexes, had delivered him from death.
And he had just done exactly what he wanted Zeff to do: broken concentration. He feinted recklessly, not to wound, but to distract, to buy himself the half breath needed to regain his wits.
Metal flashed again: A bright flicker caught at the corner of his eye. He met it—barely. For a moment they strove there, fighting with the force of shoulders, not of weapons, but Zeff yanked free again—and danced back a step, which brought him within a span of the water. Vorinn advanced, using every trick he knew to keep his sword moving, and with it—he prayed—Zeff’s eyes. It would only take one blow, he knew, one chance for Zeff to call the lightning—and that lightning would find him, unless he dodged very quickly indeed.
Strike!
Parry!
Strike again!
Metal sang a song of deadly tympani in the midday air.
Strike!
Strike!
Strike!
Left/right/left/right
.
Up/down; aim for the head, then for the body, then the head again, then the legs
.
Zeff met them all, though he was clearly on the defensive.
But every moment that Vorinn waited was a moment longer in which Zeff could prime himself to act.