Elvenborn

6

That's V'kel Lyon Lord Kyndreth," Gel hissed in Kyrtian's ear. Kyrtian made the finger-sign for I understand, but did not look away from the tall, powerfully-built noble who had addressed him. That was one name he definitely recognized, and the half-formed plan he had thrown together in an instant of panic-ridden thinking took on a new importance and urgency. If he could persuade Lord Lyon to use his methods, not only in training, but in challenge-matches, how many thousands of lives would be spared? For if Lord Lyon decreed it, all training and matches would be performed Kyrtian's way.

So he turned his half-formed plan into a bluff. "In fact," he continued, as calmly as if he spoke the truth, "I came here hoping to stop this nonsense for all time with such a demonstration."

"Really?" Lord Lyon looked amused, which boded well for Kyrtian. "And how is that? I take it you intend a live demonstration, and not some illusory shadow show."

"Pit one fighter of your choosing against my bodyguard," Kyrtian said, boldly. "They will use my methods of fighting. They will fight to a death-wound, but neither will be harmed by the experience. You can use the best of your men—the one you would least care to lose—without any fear that harm will come to him and you will be without his services."

"Indeed." Lord Lyon looked from one side of the arena to the other. "Wyvarna, Marthien—if I proposed using my bodyguard in this combat, would you accept the results of such a duel instead of using your gladiators as settling your dispute?"

The lord of the white alicorn looked sullen; the lord of the blue serpent responded first. "How would we decide which fighter represented which of us?"

"Draw lots," Lyon said carelessly. "I know my man takes second-place to very few, and I hardly think Lord Kyrtian's man is less expert." He turned back to Kyrtian. "I agree in principle that this is a waste of fighting-strength. The training is expensive, and it's all gone to waste when a fighter is killed—or runs off to join those damned renegade Wizards. Before the current unpleasantness, there were no Wizards to run off to, of course, and there was no need to field battle-troops, but our present situation does call for some changes in our own customs. In fact, some of the members of the Council have even asked openly if it might be wise to outlaw challenges altogether to save the waste of trained fighters." He smiled thinly. "Some have even suggested that if challengers are unwilling or unable to conduct duels-by-magic, that they should take sword in hand themselves to settle their quarrels."

Astonished mutters and a few gasps followed that announcement, and Lords Wyvarna and Marthien looked openly dismayed.

Lord Lyon looked down his long, aristocratic nose at Kyrtian with a hint of sardonic interest. Kyrtian raised his chin and reminded himself that his lineage was as long and proud as that of the House of Kyndrefh. "How much better, then, if you can have your challenges without the loss of a single fighting man or spillage of a single drop of blood?" he demanded. "Maybe your gladiators will stop running off if they know they aren't going to be killed in a senseless grudge-match. And I know I need not point out to a Lord of your experience and wisdom that such training will make better field-forces than anything our foes can create. Think of the kind of fighters you will field, when you can breed the best to the best, then give them real combat experience where they can learn from their mistakes!"

"Bloodless matches? Where's the sport in that?" someone behind Kyrtian muttered.

Kyrtian ignored the comment—and ignored the fact that the spectators were leaving, one by one, grumbling. He had Lord Lyon's attention, and he was not going to give it up. "I am well aware that many consider my interest in the past to be eccentric," he continued, "but because of that interest, I have learned at least one of the secrets lost when we passed the Gate from Evelon. I know how the Ancestors conducted their duels-of-honor and their training sessions—how they taught and practiced combat without pulling blows, without using blunted weapons, yet without spilling blood. Didn't it ever occur to you that they must have had some way to learn sword-work themselves without risking hurt? After all, unlike us—" here he looked down his nose at the young Lords around him with a bland expression "—they engaged in sword-duels themselves, and not by proxy. Their method is what I use to train my own fighters. Furthermore, I give every able-bodied human on my properties a basic training in fighting-skills, against the day that they may need to defend the manor until my real fighters can come to their rescue!"

He did not say what foe he trained his humans to fight—he figured that Lord Lyon would assume that he meant the army of the Wizards or of the Wild Humans, not an army commanded by his fellows. Not a flicker of mistrust appeared on Lord Lyon's face, only a growing interest—and if anyone here had been thinking about the idea of taking his holdings by force, that last statement would give them a reason to think better of the plan.

"If all this is true—" Lord Lyon turned to a silent, black-clad, flame-haired human who stayed at his side like his shadow. "Kaeth-—get down to the arena and get some armor and weapons. I want to see how this works."

The human saluted, and left Lord Lyon's side, jumping down into the arena and walking past the gladiators as casually as if they were statues. Kyrtian caught Gel's eye and nodded; Gel followed him.

"I believe that you will find this well worth your time, Lord Lyon," Kyrtian said evenly, then turned to the feuding parties. "My lords, will you make your choice of combatant?"

There was more grumbling, but finally it was settled that Lord Marthien would be represented by Gel, and Wyvarna by Lord Lyon's man Kaeth. Since it was obvious that there was no longer going to be the bloody spectacle that everyone had planned on, no one really wanted to remain any longer, and both lords lost most of their entourages, leaving only their human bodyguards and one or two other slaves in attendance.

As for Aelmarkin's guests, they had all departed as well, probably returning to the Great Hall and the food and drink and other pleasures they had abandoned to watch the combat. That left only Aelmarkin, Lord Lyon and a young er-Lord who was probably his son, a couple of young lords who looked to be friends of his son, and Kyrtian. Those who remained seated themselves, and waited with varying degrees of impatience for something to happen.

Gel was no stranger to getting into armor quickly, and neither, apparently, was Lord Lyon's red-haired bodyguard. Both appeared at the same door of the arena a remarkably short time later; Gel must have told Kaeth not to bother about weapons, for neither man carried any. Kaeth looked up at his master, who nodded to Lord Wyvarna; Kaeth immediately picked up one of the discarded shields stacked at the side of the arena bearing the azure serpent, and Gel took one of the discarded white alicorn shields.

"We've agreed to longsword and shield, master," Gel called up, in a servile voice that Kyrtian hardly recognized. He suppressed a nervous chuckle, and nodded.

Then Kyrtian fixed his gaze on a point on the sand at Gel's feet, and concentrated, drawing motes of power out of himself, and spinning them into the fabric of a pair of his very special blades.

He'd conjured up longswords so many times, that it was hardly any effort at all to spin out a mere pair of them. The air above the sand misted briefly, then shimmered, and a pair of fine blades condensed out of the mist as Kyrtian felt a slight inward drain of power. He looked up to see that Aelmarkin was watching closely, with a look of intense concentration on his face.

I wonder if he can follow what I'm doing? Has he the talent to read all the special modifications I've made?

Gel gestured to the identical swords and let Kaeth pick first.

The bodyguard picked up the nearest, and gave it an experimental swing, then rapped his shield with it. The shield gave off a perfectly normal metallic clang, and Kaeth nodded with satisfaction. "Feels like a regulation longsword, Lord Lyon," he called up into the viewing stands, squinting against the light. "Maybe a bit better balanced than most."

"These blades will act in all respect like a normal battle weapon," Kyrtian assured the few who were left in the stands, but concentrating on Lord Lyon. "With a single exception, that is. They will not cause any physical damage. Gel, please offer your opponent a target."

Gel held out his sword-arm with a grin, knowing that Kyrtian would eliminate the shock of being struck for this part of the demonstration.

"Kaeth, if you would swing at Gel please, and cut off his arm?"

Lord Lyon's slave did not hesitate; he took a full, overhand swing at the arm Gel extended for him as Lord Lyon leaned forward a little with interest. The blade passed through Gel's arm, leaving a glowing line, and making about half his body glow.

"Wounds cause a slight shock to the wounded man to tell him that he has been wounded, and the blade leaves a mark that he and any referees can see," Kyrtian explained. "There is no other effect on the fighter so struck, but for the purposes of scoring, there is full attention paid to the realities of battle. The longer Gel stands there, the more of him will glow, representing how close he is to death by blood-loss from such a massive wound. If he had only gotten a slight wound, there would only have been a mark and a shock. Eventually, according to the rules we follow, he will glow all over and be forced to retire."

"And if the wound was immediately mortal, he'd glow all over as well?" Lord Lyon supplied.

"Yes, and he would get a larger, quite unmistakable shock."

Kyrtian replied. He permitted himself a smile. "We allow for the heat of combat causing people to forget themselves, and the shocks they receive will get their attention." He negated the glow with a moment's thought, and Gel shifted his feet in the sand.

Lord Lyon nodded thoughtfully, and even Wyvarna and Marthien looked more interested than they had been. "I'm sure there are more details that I will want to ask you about later," Lord Lyon said after a moment of silence. "But meanwhile— let's settle this quarrel and have our practical demonstration, shall we?"

At this point, Kyrtian caught a decidedly unfriendly expression on Aelmarkin's face. It was there for only a moment, but it reminded him that his cousin was the host of this combat, and that Kyrtian had done him a fair amount of damage.

But maybe there was a way to begin repairing that damage— or at least, doing something to make up for it. Never make an enemy that you don't have to, he reminded himself, and never give an enemy you already have another excuse to act against you.

"Cousin?" he said, gesturing to the arena. "As host, yours should be the honor."

Aelmarkin looked briefly startled, then suspicious, but stood up. He bowed to the two for whom this entire combat had been arranged. "Lord Marthien, Lord Wyvarna, will your feud be settled by the outcome of this challenge?"

"Aye," came the reply—grudgingly, but without much hesitation.

"Be it witnessed," Aelmarkin intoned.

"We so witness," came the chorus of Kyrtian, Lord Lyon, Lyon's son, and a pair of hangers-on, thinner than before, but enough to satisfy custom.

"Very well," Aelmarkin continued, as Gel and Kaeth eyed each other and settled into nearly identical stances. "Begin."

Aelmarkin seated himself, and crossed his arms over his chest. Kyrtian leaned forward to watch what he suspected would be a very fine show.

There was no rush to combat and clash of weapons this time, not with two such seasoned fighters. They circled each other warily, taking careful measure of each other, making tiny feints and gauging the speed of response. Gel and Kaeth were a good match for one another, and although Aelmarkin leaned back in his seat and looked dreadfully bored, Lord Lyon and the two feuding Elvenlords were quickly on the edge of their chairs, recognizing the level of skill each man represented. Kyrtian felt a thrill of pride as he watched Gel's catlike, powerful moves; it was obvious that Kaeth was an extremely well-trained and probably very expensive slave, and regarded Gel as his equal in ability.

When the first exchange came, it was sudden; Kaeth thought he detected a weakness and drove in, making Gel's shield and blade ring with a flurry of blows. Gel countered successfully, and when Kaeth sprang back, both of them had tiny glowing marks, Kaeth along the back of his sword-hand and Gel across his forehead.

Well used to the rules of the game, Gel did something that surprised Kaeth; he sprinted backwards out of reach for a moment, just long enough to pull a scarf from around his neck and whip it around his forehead. Kyrtian risked a glance at Lord Lyon, and saw him frown suddenly in puzzlement, then just as quickly nod and smile slightly.

Good. He understands that if Gel hadn 't done that, the glow would drop over his eye, obscuring his vision as blood would without a scarf to stop it. He's beginning to understand how complex the rules-magic is.

Kyrtian abandoned himself to watching the fight, able to enjoy it as a demonstration of grace and expertise. He noticed that Kaeth was grinning, just as Gel was; evidently, Kaeth seldom found himself with an opponent of comparable ability, and without needing to worry about crippling injuries or death, had given himself over to the exhilaration and visceral pleasure of such a duel. With each exchange of blows, one or both of the combatants came away marked, but only superficially—and by the time they'd acquired half a dozen "cuts" each, Lord Marthien and Lord Wyvarna were on their feet, cheering their representatives on with as much vigor as they would have used if their contest had gone as planned. Kyrtian's own heart was pounding at this point, and his fists clenched with excitement. It was a terrific combat, and he honestly wasn't certain who he wished to see win it.

Kyrtian noticed a pattern in Kaeth's shieldwork, a weakness, a tendency to push an oncoming blow to the outside rather than hold up under it. That spared the shock to the shield-arm, yes, but it left him open for a sliding parry under the shield or a feint and a drive straight to the chest. If he saw it, certainly Gel did—

Gel made a little dance to the side, another blow towards the shield—but it wasn't a blow, it was a feint, and he followed it with a lunge straight for Kaeth's unguarded throat!

But Kaeth was ready for him! The pattern had been a ruse, a lure to see if Gel would take it! He dodged aside, moving just enough so that Gel's blade slid over his shoulder without harming him, and slashed up in a vicious gut-thrust.

Gel stiffened, and burst into glowing light. Obedient to the rules (and his own sense of high drama), he toppled over and dropped to the ground, "dead."

Lord Lyon rose to his feet, applauding enthusiastically, as Kaeth saluted him, then saluted Lord Wyvarna, who was also on his feet and cheering. So, for that matter, was Kyrtian—

—and oddly enough, Lord Marthien.

"By the blood of our Ancestors, Lyon, I haven't seen a better fight in decades!" Lord Marthien shouted, as Kyrtian banished the weapons, and Kaeth offered his now free hand to Gel to help him up. "It's worth losing the challenge to have seen it!" He turned his attention briefly to the arena, and waved graciously at Gel. "Well fought, boy! I couldn't have had a better champion!"

He gathered up the remains of his entourage, and in amazingly good humor, led them out.

Kaeth and Gel left the arena in a similar state of accord, and Lord Wyvarna made his way to the area of seating where Lord Lyon still stood, clearly in a high flood of euphoria. After a moment of hesitation, Kyrtian followed to join them.

When he reached them, he found them involved in a rehash of the combat, but Lord Lyon broke off when he noticed Kyrt-ian's approach.

"Well, you impudent young puppy, you were right and I was wrong!" Wyvarna exclaimed, laughing. He showed Kyrtian a friendly face for the first time since he'd entered the arena. "Ancestors ! That old fool Marthien was right for the first time in his life—even if I'd been the one who lost, I'd have thought it was worth it to have seen a fight like that!"

He shook his head, and now that he was closer, Kyrtian realized that Wyvarna was much older than he had thought. It was often difficult to tell the age of an Elvenlord, but a hint of lines at the corners of his eyes, and a certain sharpening of the tips of his ears indicated that he was older than Lord Lyon. If Lord Marthien was just as old—

Then I've gotten myself two very well-entrenched allies; maybe not as powerful as Lord Lyon, but certainly respected by the Council. This is coming out better than I dared hope!

"And I think it was just as well that it never came to a challenge with young Kyrtian, here, hmm?" Lord Lyon asked, slyly. "Given how well his bodyguard fought—what must his trained fighters be like?"

Kyrtian's respect for Lord Lyon rose a notch. He's reminding Wyvarna that this could have been very expensive—and he's making sure that Wyvarna will spread the word. So although I might be considered a dolt, I'm a dolt no one will want to challenge.

Lord Wyvarna gave an exaggerated shudder, and laughed again. "Damn me if you aren't right about that! His men would have cut mine to pieces without even breathing hard!" He clapped Kyrtian on the back, hard, trying to make him stagger. Kyrtian, who had been expecting something of the sort, braced himself and stood firm, smiling.

"It was a pleasure to show you the secret I discovered, my lords," he replied blandly. "Of all the things I dislike the most, waste is highest on the list, and there is no reason other than losses in a real battle to have to replace a gladiator or a fighting-slave before his time. Humans are hardly difficult to breed, but it takes time and resources to train them, resources that could more sensibly be put to other uses! Besides, if we keep killing the strongest and cleverest of our breeding-slaves, what do you think we'll end up with? These techniques are quite easy to learn, and even easier to apply; if you can set a collar-spell, you can create these training conditions."

Wyvarna gave a half smile, and glanced over at Lord Lyon. "Then I expect we'll be getting a mandate from the Council about using them shortly, eh, Lyon?"

"I believe that you can count on that, Wyvarna," Lord Lyon replied, just as blandly as Kyrtian.

Wyvarna coughed, and then shrugged. "Well, times change, and the ones who won't change with them are fools," he said to no one in particular. "I'll be off; Marthien will be sending his conciliation-party, and I should be there to receive them properly, or there'll be another feud on my hands."

With that, Lord Wyvarna turned and led his own entourage out of the arena, leaving Kyrtian standing beside Lord Lyon.

"Well, either you are the cleverest young lordling I have ever seen, or the luckiest," Lyon observed softly. "I wouldn't have given you any odds of getting out of that situation intact."

"The luckiest, my lord," Kyrtian replied quickly—hoping that he sounded modest. "I fear that although I had come to this event intending to demonstrate my discovery, I made a profound mistake in permitting my feelings to get the better of me, initially. I am, I fear, a very provincial fellow, and this was the first combat-trial I have ever attended. And if I offended you with my untutored manner, I do apologize, for I had no intention of offending anyone."

And once again, he turned to his cousin. Aelmarkin's expression was so bland it could not have been anything other than a mask. He was probably still infuriated.

"Cousin, I must ask your forgiveness for using your premises as the intended venue for my display, but—well, not to put too fine a point upon it, this is the only combat-challenge I have ever been invited to, so opportunities have not exactly been thick upon the ground." He had no real hope that this would pacify Aelmarkin, but at least it would make it look as if he'd tried.

"I wouldn't worry about it if I were you, Aelmarkin," Lord Kyndreth told the stone-faced Elvenlord, with a raised eyebrow. "I can promise you, this little demonstration is only going to reflect to your glory. If you like, I can even spread it about that you colluded with young Kyrtian here—"

"To what end, my lord?" Aelmarkin asked dryly.

"Ah, well, to a most proper end. You are aware of the dreadful wastage of fighters we've had in this campaign against the so-called Young Lords. And I assume, given the age and rank of your two main guests, you were aware that I would appear at this combat. Of course you are aware of my keen interest in new methods of training our fighting-slaves faster." Lord Kyndreth smiled; the smile reminded Kyrtian of a large cat with its prey beneath its paw. "So you decided to help your cousin and yourself at the same time, by giving him a venue to demonstrate the fruits of his hobby for me. Hmm?"

Aelmarkin's expression remained as bland as cream, but he bowed. "As you say, my lord, and I am deeply grateful to you."

"No more than I am to you." This was clearly a dismissal, and Aelmarkin took it as such.

"I must return to my guests, my lord, if I may excuse myself?" Aelmarkin bowed.

Lord Kyndreth waved him off, and Aelmarkin departed; the line of his backbone suggested further trouble to Kyrtian. But that was for the future; there was a larger and more dangerous predator in front of him still. Aelmarkin was a jackal at best. Lord Kyndreth was a lion in truth and not just in name.

"Thank you again, my lord," Kyrtian said, meaning it.

"Hmph." Lord Lyon eyed him as if suspecting further cleverness. "Well, I shall be wanting to come visit you within the next few days. I want to discuss your training methods—and other things."

"I am at your service, Lord Lyon," Kyrtian replied, stunned. "I will send a Portal-token to the Council Hall in your name." Before he could think of anything else to say, the Old Lord had sketched a brief salute and turned away, leading what was left of his entourage off through the exit.