by Andre Nolton
I truly am the alien here. If they knew how we treat our humans, they wouldn 't hesitate for a moment to bring us all down. He would be considered a traitor to his race, and worse than the Wizards and the wild humans. He had to remember to keep his guard up!
The two feuding parties finally arrived, with great fanfare, at exactly the same moment. With each of the Elvenlords came an entourage of glittering, fancifully-costumed hangers-on. There were box seats at either end of the arena, directly above the two doors that had disgorged the combatants; those boxes were now occupied by the newly-arrived lords and their entourages. Kyrt-ian found that he could not for the life of him remember their names and Houses—not that it really mattered to him. He would, if he was introduced later, congratulate the winner and be properly sympathetic to the loser. It wasn't likely, though, that Aelmarkin would make such an introduction, unless he thought he had a way of making Kyrtian lose face.
How they took their seats and in what order was clearly as choreographed as an elaborate ritual. Neither of the Lords wished to be seated first, and there was much arranging of the chairs and jockeying of seating before the two Great Lords sat at precisely the same moment. They glared at each other across the span of the arena, before turning away with studied indifference to speak with a companion.
Now Aelmarkin, as host, stood up; Kyrtian caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned j ust enough so that he could watch his cousin without being obvious about it.
"Most noble Lords," Aelmarkin said, his smooth and impersonal words carrying effortlessly above the whispers of those seated all around him, "You have determined to settle your differences in trial-by-combat, and have accepted my offer to host this venture. Are you still of the same mind to accept the outcome of this combat as the settling of your feud?"
He of the azure serpent replied with a gruff, "Aye" while he of the white alicorn simply nodded.
"Very well," Aelmarkin said calmly. "Let the record show that both agree to be bound by the outcome here below us. Let all who ye assembled here so bear witness."
"We so bear witness," came a chorus of voices, some indifferent, sxjme full of tense excitement. A hush came over them; all whispers and movement stopped. So profound was the silence that the slightest rustle of fabric came as a shock.
As if this had been a signal, the fighters below tensed.
Aelmarkin surveyed the two opposed lines of fighters for a moment, an odd smile on his lips. "Very well," he said at last, into the stillness. "Begin."
Kyrtian's full attention immediately turned to the arena. The two lines of fighters leapt at each other, hurling themselves across the sand to meet in a clangor of metal and harsh male shouts. The noise echoed inside the arena, making Kyrtian wince involuntarily. Added to the noise of fighting was the clamor of shouts and cheers behind him and to either side of him, as the onlookers cheered the combatants on.
Kyrtian was still trying to figure out how Aelmarkin intended to score this combat, when the swordsman nearest him managed to beat down his opponent's guard and laid open the other's sword-arm from shoulder to wrist with a single blow.
The rnan screamed, and dropped to his knees, a torrent of shockingly scarlet blood pouring from the wound into the sand as his blade fell from his slack fingers.
For one moment, Kyrtian was startled by how realistic the wound was—then he realized that it wasn't "realistic," it was real.
He felt as if someone had rammed him in the midsection and knocked all the breath out of him. He started to shake, as a wave of sick horror twisted his throat and stomach.
It's real—it's real. They're trying to really kill each other.
They 're dying, and all so a couple of idiots can settle an argument! Senseless—useless—insane!
Then, strangely, it all dissolved under a flood of blinding rage. He lost caution, lost focus, lost everything except the will to make it all stop. He rose abruptly to his feet.
"No!" he shouted, spreading his arms wide, his voice somehow carrying above the noise of combat. His powers, leaping to answer his will, poured out; an angry and violent burst of magic tore out of him.
It flung the combatants to their own sides of the arena, and dropped every man in the arena to his knees—except the injured one, who was frantically trying to close his gaping wound with his good hand.
The sudden silence, heavy with anger, seemed louder than his shout.
For a moment, no one moved—no one seemed able to believe what he had done.
Then in an instant, both of the Great Lords turned to stare at him with an anger as overwhelming as his. Kyrtian felt the weight of that anger, all of it directed solely at him, and came to his senses with a start.
This might have been a tactical error.. . .
The lord of the white alicorn was the first to rise from his seat; there was lightning in his gaze and thunder in his voice as he addressed, not Kyrtian, but his cousin.
"Aelmarkin," the Elvenlord said, enunciating each syllable with care, "I trust you did not anticipate this?"
Aelmarkin also rose, and his voice fairly dripped apology and concern. "Good my lord, I assure you, I had no idea that my cousin would indulge in such bizarre behavior! I do apologize, I would never have invited him if—"
Kyrtian, who had been staring down at the wounded fighter, now being aided by one of his companions, felt fury overcome his good sense again; he swung around to face his cousin, twisting his lips into a snarl, a red haze settling across his vision.
"Bizarre behavior? Bizarre? I call it sanity—stopping utterly senseless and wanton waste! What—"
"Waste?" shouted the other feuding lord, furiously, the ice in his voice freezing Kyrtian's words in his throat. "Waste? What do you know of waste, you impudent puppy? You provincial idiot, who let you in among civilized beings? I—"
"I apologize again, my lords," Aelmarkin protested, waving his hands about frantically. "Please, take your seats and the combat can resume—"
"Resume? Resume?" At that, Kyrtian's rage sprang to full and insensate life again, and grew until it was beyond anything, he had ever felt before. He went cold, then hot, then cold again, and a strange haze came over his vision. "Haven't you heard a word I've said? This idiocy will not resume, not while I'm standing here!"
"That can be remedied,'' muttered someone, as Gel finally put a calming hand on Kyrtian's arm. Kyrtian had the sense not to throw it off, but he was quite ready at that moment to snatch up a sword himself and take them all on single-handed.
"Don't back down," Gel muttered, "but get hold of yourself. Think fast—if you can't salvage this situation, we're going to have three feuds on our hands, two with them and one with Aelmarkin."
Aelmarkin was so angry he could scarcely think. When he'd invited that fool Kyrtian here, he'd hoped the puppy would make some sort of blunder that would prove he was as foolish as Aelmarkin claimed. Well, he'd blundered all right—but he'd managed to do it in such a way that now Aelmarkin was potentially in as much trouble as he was! How had he managed to stop the combat? Where did he get all that magic power?
To the desert with that! How am I going to save myself?
This was nothing short of a disaster. The amount of status he stood to lose over this debacle was incalculable. This might even cost him his Council seat.
"Please, my lords," he said, entreatingly, to his two furious guests, "my young cousin has never seen one of these exhibitions before and—"
"Exhibitions?" Aelmarkin blinked at the tone of Kyrtian's voice—a moment ago it had nearly cracked with strain, and Kyrtian was clearly a short step from losing control entirely.
Suddenly now—the anger was still there, but it was controlled anger, and overlaid with calculated scorn worthy of an experienced Councilor. He turned to see that Kyrtian's face was now a carefully haughty mask.
Could Kyrtian actually salvage this situation?
"Exhibitions?" Kyrtian repeated. "Is that what you call these senseless slaughters?" His lip cu
rled in what was unmistakably a sneer. "I suppose if your idea of 'sport' is to take tame pets and line them up for targets, then you could call something like this an exhibition, but I certainly wouldn't dignify this idiocy with such a term."
Aelmarkin saw with hope that the two feuding lords had forgotten all about him. Kyrtian's declaration and attitude had caused them to focus all of their insulted rage on him.
"I suppose it's too much to expect you to answer that statement of utter nonsense with anything like a challenge?" asked Lord Marthien, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Yes it is," Kyrtian replied, answering sarcasm with arrogance, "Because your fighters are no match for mine. You would lose before the combat began. That is why I say this is senseless. The least of my fighters has four years of combat experience—the best of yours can't possibly have more than one. No, less than one, since I doubt your men ever survive even that long."
That arrogance took them rather aback; Lord Wyvarna glanced at Aelmarkin as if asking for confirmation of the astonishing statement. Aelmarkin made a slight shrug.
"And are we supposed to accept this bluff at face value, impudent puppy?" Lord Wyvarna demanded.
To their astonishment, Kyrtian laughed, albeit mirthlessly.
"You would be wise to, since it is hardly a bluff," he replied. "Consider what you already know about me and my—hobby. Consider that I have very little to do except train and drill my fighters in every possible style and manner of combat, and that I do not and never have sold any of them for any price. Consider that I have been doing this every day for the past ten years at least, personally overseeing the training and practice in every aspect. Meanwhile, what have you been doing? Entrusting the training and practice of your gladiators to others, quite without supervision, and slaughtering the best of your men in useless exhibitions. And what stake do those you entrust with this training have in your success or failure? What personal incentive have they to make certain that nothing is left to chance? And how many of your gladiators die or are crippled in training? For that matter, what incentive do your gladiators have to succeed? The best and cleverest of them are surely contriving to get themselves mildly crippled in the first week of your so-called 'training!' It would seem to me that the very smartest ones, the ones who would make the very best fighters, would see to it that they were always crippled in training, in order to avoid being slaughtered in one of your so-called exhibitions!"
Kyrtian cleverly left the questions hanging in the air, and now Aelmarkin saw a certain wariness creep over the expressions of the two feuding lords.
"And I suppose you have a better idea?" boomed a new voice.
Both Aelmarkin and Kyrtian turned to face the new speaker, who stood up from among his son's entourage. Aelmarkin was startled; he hadn't realized that Lord Lyon had come with his son Gildor—
Damn! Has he been there all along, or did he just arrive for the combat? Did I somehow insult him by not noticing him? Can anything else go wrong here today?
Aelmarkin's thoughts scurried after one another, like frantic slaves trying to clean up a terrible spill. V'kel Lyon Lord Kyndreth—Lord Lyon of the Great House of Kyndreth—stood wrapped in a scarlet cloak embroidered with leaping stags, his arms crossed over his chest. Aelmarkin shivered; the man was one of the most powerful lords of the Great Council. A vote from Lord Lyon was worth three from anyone with a lesser Council Seat. The number of allies he had—the number of people he could make or break with a single word—
Aelmarkin held his breath. All his own prayers might be answered in the next few moments. If Kyrtian insulted Lord Lyon badly enough—if he convinced Lord Lyon that he was as insane and unstable as Aelmarkin had been claiming ...
Then before this day was over, Aelmarkjn might be organizing his slaves for the move to his new properties.
Kyrtian looked at Lord Lyon, a veritable icon of power, as if he were no more important than any of the lesser sons and hangers-on.
"Yes," he said, simply, "I have. And I'm quite prepared to demonstrate it, here and now in front of you all."
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.
