by E G Manetti
Honor knows not fear. Chrys. Milord. Lilian expects no help from the training masters. They follow Thorvald’s lead and disdain her. She can only pray that Chrys summoned help in time. I will not fail.
The crowd is growing. Nickolas appears at the edge, observing. Lilian is reaching the end of her strength. Her movements are jerky, awkward. Another blow lands and she stumbles and falls to the mat. She rolls and comes up hard against Roger’s training boots. The jeers become howls as Martin closes on the fallen woman.
Lilian tosses herself backward, away from Martin’s blow, her training compensating for muscle fatigue. Lilian finds her feet and continues to dodge the worst of Martin’s assault. The chamber, the crowd, and the din from the observers fade and blur into a haze of pain and exhaustion as Lilian attempts to dodge the heavy blows and protect her head. She has lost all hope of escape. Honor endures. Survive.
He is going to kill her! As the throng howls, Chrys races for the training blades and grasps a short sword. Before he is able to pull it free, a hand latches onto his wrist. It is the associate from the auto-racers. “Do not. Master Nickolas is here. He will end this.”
Wrenching his wrist from the woman’s grasp, Chrys snarls, “Do not wager on it.”
Lilian is on the mats. Her shielded forearms are raised to protect her head. A kick from Roger turns her, exposing her neck. Martin raises his blade, intent on his victim. The blade swings. Metal slams against metal as Chrys thrusts forward, blocking the descent of Martin’s blade.
The dull sound of lead striking lead is followed by the sharp smack of flesh striking flesh.
Nickolas has abandoned his detachment and blindsided Martin with a sharp blow to the temple. As the other protégé staggers backward, Nickolas wrenches the short sword from his grip and strikes twice more. As Martin folds to the mats, Nickolas raises the blade and then lowers it. His adversary is fallen. Nickolas will not strike. Spotting a Blooded Dagger associate, Nickolas tosses the training sword. “Have this sanitized before it is returned to use.”
Roger has fared no better. Entering the chamber in time to observe Roger’s dishonorable kick to the fallen Lilian, Simon joined the fray. Catching Roger’s sword arm, Simon spun him about and landed a hard blow to Roger’s solar plexus. Both short sword and associate dropped to the mats.
Simon’s entrance to the chamber was followed by Seigneur Thorvald. The training associate on duty lacked the authority to hinder Martin. Concerned that a routine taunting was becoming dangerous, she alerted her superiors. As Roger hits the mat, Thorvald commands, “Hold! Disarm!”
Heavily muscled, Thorvald has a scarred, grim, unhandsome face. In repose his deep blue eyes, surrounded by incongruously long lashes, keep the intimidating warrior from being completely terrifying. At the moment, blade-sharp anger blazes from eyes turned to metal and reveals the death-dealing warrior that pirates once named ‘Rimon’s Condemnation.’
Without hesitation, Chrys releases his blade as he comes to attention. Nickolas has already discarded Martin’s weapon, and Roger’s remains on the mats. Simon turns to Thorvald as Chrys drops down next to Lilian. Nickolas joins Simon in discussion with Thorvald while Martin and Roger are aided by several of their friends. The remaining spectators slink away, hoping to remain unnoticed and knowing that it matters not. Thorvald will have the monitor records.
As Chrys carefully raises Lilian in his arms, a water vial appears. Nodding his thanks to the associate from the auto-racer, Chrys sends a trickle across Lilian’s lips.
Lilian wishes to be sick. Do not. Must not be sick on milord’s rugs.
“Lilian!” Strong arms are holding her. An urgent voice is demanding her attention. Milord?
“Lilian, are you aware? Can you hear me?” The familiar voice holds a desperate edge that brings Lilian to the verge of consciousness.
“Chrys?” Lilian wonders. I live.
“Thank the Shades! Drink,” Chrys insists.
Water sluices across Lilian’s lips. Involuntarily they open, eagerly sucking the liquid. Eyes closed, Lilian drifts for long moments where there is naught but the coursing water. The water ceases and Lilian moans. The invigorating fluid has brought her fully aware. Fire lances across her ribs to be greeted by thundering aches along her shoulders, back, and thighs. How many blows found the mark?
Opening her eyes, she encounters Chrys’ worried gaze.
“More,” Lilian pleads.
“I dare not. Not without a medic,” Chrys apologizes. “Rest, it will be but a moment.”
Sighing her understanding, Lilian attempts to focus on her surroundings. Her arms feel deadened. Ignoring her body’s protests, Lilian gasps as she reaches for the fasteners on the forearm shields.
Discerning Lilian’s purpose, Chrys drops the empty water vial to assist. A moment later, the auto-racer associate is working to free the shields on Lilian’s shins. As the last of the heavy objects hits the mats, Lilian reaches for the hilt of her thorn. Adelaide be praised. She has not lost it. With that thought, another surfaces. “My. Slate.”
To lose one’s slate is to compromise the security-privilege and honor of one’s Cartouche and the Cartel. Between Bright Star and the synthetics, Lilian’s is more dangerous than most.
Lilian’s satchel! Chrys wildly rakes the chamber with his gaze, unwilling and unable to release Lilian. Once again, the auto-racer associate comes to their aid, placing the satchel next to Chrys. As the medics arrive, the unknown woman fades into the throng.
With the assistance of their friends, Martin and Roger have reached the nearby benches. Ignoring the two men, Master Medic Chin moves directly to Lilian, crouching with precise grace. The moment is eerily reminiscent of their first encounter, when Chin tended Lilian after she was disabled by tainted stimulant wafers introduced to her supply by an unknown assailant.
Chin briefly flashes a light in Lilian’s eyes as he questions, “Is your vision clear? Are you able to hear me?”
“Yes. Master. Medic,” Lilian replies haltingly through the pain. Now that the master medic has arrived, she can have more water. “Water. Please.”
“In a moment, Lilian,” Chin assures her as he collects Lilian’s left wrist. Lilian’s right hand is locked on her thorn.
“Where are you injured?” Chin’s inquiry is accompanied by a brief pinch and the sensation of cool water running up Lilian’s arm.
“Ribs,” Lilian responds as she struggles to distinguish specifics in the wash of pain gripping her. After a moment she adds, “Left side.”
The last word is a strangled gasp as the medic’s probing sends fire racing across her rib cage. The chamber dims and then retreats. Distantly, Lilian hears Master Trevelyan demand, “What goes forward here?”
»◊«
Lilian is floating. No, moving. She is on a medic’s sled directed by two associates in medics’ turquoise. The sand, gray, and midnight of Serengeti common areas blur in passing. The movement ceases. The pungent herbal scent of the Dispensary signals Lilian’s location. Before she can inquire, the two associates lift her from the sled to a cot. Their skilled movements send another wave of pain lancing through her battered body. Lilian’s startled cry is echoed by a curse from the master medic.
Once again, Lilian experiences the sensation of cool water flowing up her arm.
Chin speaks, “I am giving you another injection. You will feel better in a moment.”
“Make me silly,” Lilian complains, recalling the prior occasions where she received the aid of the medic’s injections.
“It will make you oblivious,” Chin retorts. “As the first one should have.”
As he speaks, the medic begins to release the fasteners of Lilian’s training tunic. Resisting the pull of the sedative, Lilian attempts to protest. “Only milord.”
“Peace,” Chin commands. “I must seal your ribs. I cannot do so through your tunic.”
“One and four,” Lilian insists, asserting the only two apprentice strictures to which Chin is subject. Milord’s
will first and foremost, and only milord may enjoy her.
“Monsignor wills your health, and I have no designs on your person,” Chin snaps. “Cease so I may do Monsignor’s will.”
Yielding to the medic’s instructions, Lilian succumbs to gray space. Her right hand remains locked on the thorn.
The sea-demons have her surrounded. They must not pass. She must defend the fortress. Lilian reaches for her thorn, and the sea-demons are upon her. They wish her thorn. She must not yield. They will be weaponless. She must fight.
“Lilian, yield. All is well. You must yield.” The elf queen is beyond lovely. She wishes the thorn. Lilian may not refuse her.
Accepting the thorn from Lilian, Rebecca wonders at being referred to as ‘elf queen.’ Her bewildered glance toward Trevelyan is met by a gesture indicating she should pass Lilian’s weapon to Monsignor Lucius.
Alerted by Chrys to Lilian’s peril, Rebecca contacted the spymaster, knowing him to be formidable and, unlike Thorvald, friend to Lilian. Like Lilian, Rebecca has been subject to Martin’s torment of the apprentice staff. Late in the past dry season, his nasty tricks against Rebecca were halted by Seigneur Thorvald, who favors Rebecca and provides her with special tutoring in martial arts. Unlike Trevelyan, Thorvald does not abstain from enjoying the lovely blonde.
It has been over a bell since Chin’s medics carried Lilian from the training chambers. Heavily sedated, Lilian retained her grip on the archaic weapon. None had been able to pull her grip free of her thorn. Conscious or not, an apprentice is forbidden to bear arms in her lord’s presence.
Handing the thorn to Lucius, Rebecca remarks, “They waited until she was exhausted and burdened. I wonder how they’d have fared if she were fresh and able to employ her blade.”
Nothing in Rebecca’s tone or words can be indicted as criticism of a superior in rank. Her entire being shivers with contempt to the ends of her hair. Trevelyan bites his cheek as he considers the lovely blonde and his lord’s possible reactions.
Accepting the thorn, Lucius briefly entertains the notion of having Rebecca belted for effrontery. There is no question she is a vulgar and lamentable influence on his apprentice. It will not serve, Lucius decides. Trevelyan finds Rebecca useful and Lilian needs her few allies. Tucking away the blade, Lucius returns naught but cold dismissal. “Mistress Rebecca, leave us.”
With the thorn’s release, Chin returns to tending his patient. The pale form is garbed in naught but the training thong she wore beneath her trousers. Covering the left side of Lilian’s ribcage is an opaque patch of pale green film used in bone sealing. A two-inch band of the same material encircles her left arm above the elbow where a blow struck beyond the shield. Currently hidden is an expanse of the same substance covering most of Lilian’s right shoulder blade.
Lilian’s normally creamy skin is waxen where it is not covered in sealant. Her nose is puffy, and the nostrils hold a black crust of dried blood. The slender, athletic frame appears terribly fragile.
Sebastian goes too far. Lucius has no doubt that Sebastian encouraged this assault in retribution for the failure of his Bright Star shares intrigue. Lilian’s blood and broken bones are added to the lengthy tally of retribution that Lucius has been building against his rival for most of a decade.
“Lucius, you need not scowl,” Chin remarks as he goes about his labor. “Except for the blooded nose, Lilian’s head is untouched. There is bruising but no internal injuries. Lilian has taken no permanent harm.”
Shade intervention? Lucius wonders. Certainly the assault was intended to cause permanent damage.
“Shadeless scum broke my ribs,” Lilian voices. Dragged into awareness by Rebecca’s removal of her thorn, Lilian’s gray eyes are open, albeit unfocused.
“They did indeed. Two, to be specific,” Chin acknowledges. “Cracked, through, but not separated. You require sealant only.”
The green film has yielded to a slick yellow ointment that Chin applies to the reddened, swollen areas that will blossom into bruises if left untended. “Do not twitch. I will be done soon.”
“Yes, Master Medic,” Lilian replies obediently. She is aware that various parts of her anatomy are not well. The medic’s potions are shielding her from the discomfort and dissolving her discipline.
A large familiar hand strokes her temple. Turning into the caress Lilian encounters milord’s gaze. Milord is here. Where is her thorn? Katleen must take it.
“I have it safe, Lilian,” milord reassures her, holding her blade in view.
“My thanks, milord,” Lilian returns. Before she can voice more, something cold slithers across her abdomen. Turning her attention to Chin, Lilian complains, “Master Medic, that is cold.”
The complaint is immediately followed by a revelation. “I lack garb. This is unseemly. Fourth stricture, only milord—”
“Peace, Lilian,” Milord interrupts. “I am here and you are injured.”
“Injured, milord?” Lilian returns confused. Oh yes, that crevasse-crawler Martin and his toad Roger. Pity I could not slay them.
“Pity, indeed, Mistress Lilian.” Chin is laughing lightly as something cold runs up her left thigh before turning pleasantly warm.
“What is a pity, Master Medic?” Lilian wonders, unaware she is speaking her thoughts.
“Chin, do not encourage her,” Lucius admonishes. In different circumstances, Lucius would exploit the ability of Chin’s potions to loosen Lilian’s tongue and reveal thoughts she would keep hidden. At the moment, Lucius needs Lilian’s recall. The accounts of the event are contradictory. It will be several bells before Thorvald and Associate Master Straus are able to sift the monitor records for an accurate rendition. Returning to his apprentice, Lucius asks, “Lilian, what do you recall of the training chambers?”
“The first victory in battle is survival,” Lilian says smugly, quoting Sinead’s Canon.
“You could have avoided battle entirely by yielding,” Lucius points out. Truly, he thought her more pragmatic. She is condemned as a coward. It could get no worse.
“Twenty-ninth stricture, milord,” Lilian explains and then adds, “nor could I yield the thorn.”
“The thorn?” Lucius inquires. What of her thorn? Lilian’s commitment to defending the honor and wealth of the Blooded Dagger Cartouche as defined in the twenty-ninth stricture is well established, although her refusal to yield to Martin is extreme. This is the first Lucius has heard aught about Lilian’s blade.
“Yes, milord. Lick his boots and yield the thorn,” Lilian confirms. “Vile notion. Vile man.”
Lick his boots? This was hardly a routine taunting gone awry. Martin did not merely demand Lilian yield. He demanded a debasement intended to shame Blooded Dagger and, by extension, Lucius. Within warrior custom, Lucius’ honor is synonymous with that of his Cartouche.
The additional demand for the blade would have sealed Lilian’s resolve. When he first examined the weapon some months gone, Lucius concluded that the elegant antique was most likely a family blade. Possibly the only relic Lilian retains of the time before her disgrace. Its value to her would be far greater than the price of a replacement or the shame of yielding a weapon to a foe.
Before Lucius can respond to Lilian’s revelations, Lilian begins to shift under Chin’s hands.
“Tried to leave, milord,” Lilian gasps as she attempts to rise from the cot. “Roger, the others . . .”
As one, Lucius and Chin reach for Lilian, pushing her back.
“Lilian, be still,” Chin orders as Lucius questions, “What do you?”
“Contrition. Failed, milord. Avoid Master Martin. First stricture, milord’s will.” The disjointed and incomprehensible speech has Chin reaching for his instruments to peer once again into Lilian’s eyes.
“Chin, leave off. She is not addled.” Lucius has no difficulty understanding Lilian’s concern. In the first month of the year, Lucius commanded Lilian to avoid Martin whenever possible. Lucius finds Sebastian trial enough. He will not have Lilian enm
eshed in the intrigues of Sebastian’s protégé.
“Peace, woman. You did not err,” Lucius reassures, lightly stroking her temple.
“Milord is not angered?” Lilian blinks dazedly, turning her face into the gentle stroking.
“No, Lilian, I am not angered. You did well,” Lucius says encouragingly.
“My thanks, milord?” Lilian’s eyes half close. “It is not well to be on the wrong side of milord’s will.”
“No, it is not,” Lucius agrees, responding to Lilian’s spoken thought and surprised by a twinge of discomfort at Lilian’s concern. It is appropriate for his apprentice to fear his displeasure. At the moment, her fear is unfounded.
“Milord?” Lilian blinks in confusion, clearly unaware that she is speaking her thoughts.
“It is not well to be on the wrong side of my will.” Lucius smiles into the unfocused gray eyes. It is a pity he must let her rest. Lilian can be delightfully forthcoming under the influence of Chin’s potions.
“Did I voice that?” Lilian wonders.
“You did, and you are correct. It is not well to be on the wrong side of my will.” Lucius’ smile fades as he adds, “Master Martin is about to discover how unpleasant that can be.”
“Aye, Monsignor,” Trevelyan voices, his fingers tightening on Lilian’s satchel. He has correctly interpreted the fragmented discourse. “You have the right of it. It would not have mattered what the girl yielded. She was not leaving that chamber under her own power.”
6. Warrior Pride
After three centuries of strife, history pivoted on the point of a blade. Would the balance tip to order or anarchy, societal advancement or annihilation? Although marauders bedeviled all three systems, within the First and Second Systems—controlled by Socraide Omsted and Rimon Ben Claude, respectively—massive warfare had ceased. In the Third System, Jonathan Metricelli prayed that the First and Second Warriors would turn on each other while the two mighty warlords weighed the potential conquest of the Third System against the risk of leaving their realms vulnerable to each other.
