Mobius

by Garon Whited

  On the other hand, while it had a hard time dealing with my saber, it was a valid question on how well it did with plasma attacks. I counterattacked, swinging with my saber and using Firebrand’s longer reach to drive Tobar back. As he shifted to a more defensive posture, I stepped back and switched hands, saber in my right, Firebrand in my left. He immediately moved to attack again, but I met his swing with Firebrand.

  Darn, dang, and damn, the enchantment on Tobar’s weapon was more broad-based than I’d hoped. A line of white light flashed along Firebrand’s edge, but Tobar’s blade failed to liquefy. I thrust with my saber, but he blocked with his shield. As the point slid down off his shield, I tried to ride the momentum and whip my saber down and around in a circle, to make an overhand cut into the upper edge of his shield, but he twisted his sword, circling Firebrand and moving it out of line as he stepped back, out of range. He didn’t like my longer weapon being in my left hand, no longer fully covered by his shield.

  Unfortunately, while it was more dangerous for him, it was more dangerous for me, too. He wasn’t slow in adapting to the unusual nature of my sword—none of the others used anything of comparable size. While I can wield Firebrand one-handed, it’s slower than a smaller, lighter weapon would be. It’s really a hacking tool when it’s not a flamethrower, and it certainly isn’t a fencing weapon. Tobar took advantage of this, double-feinting and performing a hard beat, drawing Firebrand’s point inside and across. While I was bringing my saber around for an attempt on the outer edge of his shield—thrusts were useless against the enchantment—Tobar handed me a thrust of his own, directly for my heart.

  The magical blade penetrated my breastplate, super-duper molecular structure notwithstanding. It didn’t get deep enough to wound me, but the point of his weapon made a crunching noise, tearing toward my favorite skin, and darn near poked a hole in my underwear.

  I swore to myself I would make the time to fully enchant the whole damn suit.

  I brought Firebrand in a backswing, attempting a head-cut, but he wasn’t having any of it. His shield snapped up and I sliced under it with my saber, screeching through the armor on one thigh. The enchantment on his armor was also good. Not good enough to stop my saber, but good enough to slow it. He bled, but the wound wasn’t enough to prevent him from retreating.

  His expression was grim and perhaps a little fearful. I think he expected his attack to be more devastating. It didn’t do my morale any good, that was for sure. On the other hand, the vast majority of his experience only called for scoring a “deadly” hit to end the fight. I was still up and moving, which had to throw him off.

  We circled each other, weapons moving, both seeking an opening. I kept thinking about how to step outside the box and throw him even more off his game. If we kept to the normal rules of engagement, this was going to go on for a while. Worse, I was liable to require medical attention. He was too skilled to make his shield vulnerable. His armor—well, his armor was tough, but breaching it wasn’t impossible. The trouble was his sword. I thought I saw a weakness.

  I’m not going to like this, am I? Firebrand queried.

  I’m not liking it either, but I think we’ll both be okay.

  As we circled, I probed at him, repeatedly stabbing Firebrand forward to keep him at a distance. He shifted to a different posture, holding his shield directly in front of his body with his sword in a high guard. It was a good position, given our circumstances, but it was also one likely to turn into a downward cut at my head. I encouraged him to think about it as I made half-hearted attempts to cut upward, under the edge of his shield.

  He took the bait. As I had Firebrand out of position, low, he closed enough to take a cut at my head. Properly done, it would split both helmet and head, descending into the torso. I parried with my saber, of course, and the sparks flew again. This time, I locked blades with him, shoving hard instead of beating the blade aside. I brought Firebrand up to cross my saber, catching his in the place where they crossed, like catching his blade in scissors. I drew both blades across each other, slicing at his, forcing the shielding enchantment to focus on one or the other—or divide its force.

  The metallic shriek sounded like some infernal locomotive screaming to a stop at Hell’s last station. It ended abruptly with an eerily-quiet ping!

  Tobar stared at the four or five inches of blade left. The rest of it tumbled to the sand. The severed ends glowed and oozed and smoked.

  That wasn’t so bad, Firebrand allowed.

  Good. Hold that thought.

  I thrust for Tobar’s face with my saber and he raised his shield. I reversed my grip on Firebrand and thrust it down, penetrating his armored boot, his foot, and the sole, carrying on through the sand and into the ground below. Tobar screamed as we nailed his foot nailed to the arena floor. I left Firebrand there to restrict his mobility, grabbed the top and back edges of his shield, and turned it like a wheel. It went around and up and I moved forward, forcing it behind his head and as far down his back as I could. I kicked the knee of his un-nailed leg, making it fold to the tune of a wet pop. This forced him down, still screaming. He tried to stab me with the broken sword, but it could barely scratch my armor, now.

  He did a stupid thing. Well, maybe not stupid, since he had no way of knowing. Perhaps it was unwise. Desperate, certainly. He was on his now-ruined knee and his nailed-down foot. He dropped the remains of his sword and tried to un-nail his foot by pulling Firebrand out.

  The first rule of Firebrand: Do not touch.

  The second rule of Firebrand: No, really. Do not touch. I can list the people it likes on one hand. It does not gladly suffer being handled by others, which is why I generally bring it with me or leave it in a fire. It is also capricious, arrogant, and bloodthirsty bordering on cruel. If it does like you, treat it with respect. If it does not like you, you will learn to treat it with respect, or at least a deep-seated caution. If it actively dislikes you…

  The white flare of light and heat reminded me of an open door into a steel-making forge. The smell of burning leather and burning meat was strong. When the light dimmed, I saw Tobar’s right gauntlet was missing, sort of. The inscribed and decorated steel glove had turned molten, instantly burning the hand within to a twisted, carbonized caricature of flesh. The molten metal continued to drip from the remains and from what should have been his forearm.

  He did succeed in un-nailing his foot, after a fashion. It, too, was burned to near nothing.

  Tobar’s eyes bugged out as he tried to continue screaming, but he couldn’t be bothered to inhale. Having been fried, myself, I found a few particles of empathy for him. Not enough, but a few.

  I forced his left arm farther, pushing on the edge of the shield with my right forearm and using my left hand to seize his elbow. His shoulder made unpleasant noises, but I don’t think he was in any shape to care—possibly not in shape to notice. Shock, I presume. I just wanted his shield arm ruined, and it was.

  I pulled his helmet off. He didn’t even try to resist. He made a peep sort of noise as he breathed rapidly and shallowly through his nose. His eyes widened enough to show the whites all around. His jaw clenched tight and he might have bitten his tongue.

  Putting an arm around his throat, lifting him to his feet—foot—was simple. The more complex maneuver was drawing the edge of my saber under my arm to cut his throat. I wanted to start facing the VIP box, turn slowly in a circle as I cut, and end facing the VIP box again as I finished opening him up. I think I did pretty well on the timing of the maneuver, actually.

  Tobar flopped to the sand, still pumping blood. I ignored his dying, recovered Firebrand, and turned in place again as I addressed the assembled warriors.

  “Is there anyone here in the employ of House Sarcana?”

  There were several who were willing to admit it. I suspect there were several more, but they weren’t about to acknowledge it.

  “Good. I heard a rumor of a vendetta being declared. I haven’t seen the paperwork or had anything o
fficial delivered to me. Please let me know as soon as you can. I plan to be leading from the front, so you’ll see me in the field, fighting. I’d like to get this over with so I can go back to minding my own business without further petty annoyances.”

  I walked away from what would soon be the foil-wrapped meat. I wanted to check both my swords and see how they fared. Sundering enchanted blades is not what they were designed to do. My saber also needed cleaning. Firebrand manages on its own.

  As I sat down on the bench, someone blew the horn and announced the practice would now begin. Fine. I was in no mood for practice, today. In fact, I was in a rather foul mood. I suppose I should expect to be. I’m an angry person.

  Damn it.

  I sat there and regarded Tobar as he finished pumping his lifeblood into the sand. No one touched him. No one acknowledged the body. No one went near him. I murdered him there on the sand—and for what? I was angry? Yes. He pushed me over a minor, unintentional insult. One of his retaliations pissed me off, and I killed him for it. I used to be a pretty mellow, forgiving sort of guy. At least, I think I was. This isn’t me. This isn’t like me.

  Is it?

  Recently, I’ve been more prone to violent outbursts. I think I know why, so there’s half the battle. The other half is doing something about it… and I suspect it’s going to take time. Not only time in the sense I have something to wait for, but time in the sense I’ll have to spend a lot of it learning a greater degree of self-control. Or learning to be a hermit.

  “Velina?”

  “Sir!”

  “See if you can bring Malath over here.”

  “Right away, sir!”

  I winced at the cadet tone in her voice. I might not have much rank on the ladder of warriors in Sarashda, but I was way, way up there among my own people. She went off and took… what’s-her-name, the fourth one—

  Sharna.

  Right. Thanks.

  —with her, while I sat in the shade and wiped down my weapons. Firebrand was okay. It doesn’t have to touch metal to cut it, much as a plasma torch doesn’t need to touch the metal it cuts. Besides, it let my saber carry most of the load. By contrast, my saber was not a happy blade. A long stretch of the edge was dull—dull enough to touch, had I cared to. The metal was discolored and somewhat wavy, probably from the heat. It would take a little while to repair itself, but it was already working on it.

  Hazir sat with me. Jolus and Galtos chose to hit the sands and some other people.

  “You seem upset,” Hazir observed. I almost hit him, but I checked the impulse.

  “Yes,” I agreed, trying not to snarl. I took a moment to get a grip on my tone. “Got any oil?”

  “At a warmeet? Of course. You never know when you’re going to get blood on something.” He unstoppered a vial and passed it to me. I wiped down my saber. “Do you need a whetstone?”

  “Enchanted sharpness.”

  “Yes. Upon reflection, perhaps it was a stupid question. I am still somewhat taken aback by the death of Tobar.”

  “I suppose I’ll have a vendetta with the Ak’anthai, now?”

  “I doubt it, but I suppose it’s possible. You are more likely to have some repercussions from his more loyal students—or, rather, those he employed as instructors in the arts of the warrior.”

  “I should have beheaded him,” I muttered.

  “The gear is yours,” Hazir informed me, “but the body belongs to his son.”

  Inwardly, I recited my litany of swear words.

  “How old is the boy?”

  “His eldest is nearly twenty. The younger is… sixteen, I believe. The younger has chosen the priesthood, however, so he is of no concern.”

  “Not to you, maybe,” I muttered. Hazir gave me a peculiar look.

  “May I return to the subject of how you feel?”

  “Hazir, I like you. You seem like an honest, helpful, upright individual. I’m not sure about the degree of our friendship, but I’d like to think we are friends.”

  “As do I.”

  “The trouble with discussing my feelings,” I went on, “is they’re hostile, unpleasant, frustrated, and angry feelings. They’re nasty things—at the moment—and I’d rather not expose you to them. I accept you want to help, but I would rather not know my friend is standing in pig shit only because I am, if you follow my meaning.”

  “I see. Is there anything I might do to help you with your…?”

  “No. At least, I don’t think so. If I have any ideas, I’ll be sure to tell you.”

  “I am pleased.”

  Velina and…

  Sharna, Firebrand prompted.

  Why can I not remember her name?

  No idea, Boss.

  Velina and Sharna carried Malath through a door in the arena and deposited him on a bench. He was still out cold. I sighed and started stripping him out of his armor. Velina helped and stacked the armor under the bench. I examined Malath and determined he wasn’t in immediate danger. He was badly beaten and had some internal injuries, including a couple of broken bones, but he would probably live. He would also probably stay in bed for a week.

  I’m better with open wounds. Those are easy to stitch back together. I’m okay with broken bones, though. I aligned them, tack-welded them together, and wrapped healing spells around them to speed the natural processes. Telling his internal bleeding to stop and organizing his blood vessels was trickier. A generalized healing spell encouraged his body to route more of its energies into fixing damage.

  He woke up as I finished. He started to sit up, but Velina and Tellith held him down while I explained why he shouldn’t move. He took in the situation and relaxed, but eyed me warily.

  “What will you do with me?”

  “Order you to rest.”

  “You know why I challenged you.”

  “Of course.”

  “That is what I meant.”

  “Oh, that. Yes, you’ll have to pay for what you did. Therefore, you are condemned to a week of rest and recuperation.”

  “And my armor?”

  “Your stuff is under the bench. I presume you have a servant or two who can carry it and possibly you.”

  “I… yes.”

  “Good. Now stop talking. I’m not in a good mood and you’re trying what little patience I have left.”

  Malath wasn’t an idiot. He shut up. I helped him into a sitting position and stomped off to my default bench.

  I sat quietly and watched the fighting for a while. Hazir and many of the other First did the same during warmeets. I’m not sure why. To observe maneuvers? To gauge potential challengers? To select possible hirelings? I don’t know and I’m not sure I care.

  Hazir, seated next to me, eventually spoke again.

  “May I trouble you?”

  “Sure.”

  “I observed your treatment of Osric.”

  “So?”

  “I also observed your treatment of Malath.”

  “Again, so?”

  “They were not the same. Osric’s injuries were slight. Malath’s were more severe, and your actions… less comprehensible.”

  “Oh? Oh.”

  “Yes. If I did not have telling evidence of your quality as a warrior,” he nodded in the direction of Tobar’s untouched corpse, “I would think you might have another profession.”

  “Not a physick or a manzhani, I take it?”

  “No.”

  “How much trouble do you want to make for me, Hazir?”

  “I? None at all. But I am not a priest.” He nodded toward the stands. There are always people in the stands, usually servants or retainers or family members. Warmeets aren’t open to the general public, but there are always spectators. I followed his nod and saw a red robe. I recognized Jatell from my lesson on paint and wished for my night-sight. His expression was complicated but contained a high percentage of suspicious.

  “Priests are allowed to watch?”

  “Priests are shown every courtesy.”

  �
��What are the local laws on beheading them?”

  “Al!”

  “I know, I know. I’m just being grumpy and my sense of humor isn’t what it should be.”

  “Since you just came from a personal battle, I will let it go. Do not make jokes of such poor taste in the future,” he added, severely.

  “I’m sorry. I really am. I’m not myself, today.”

  “So I see,” he sighed, quietly. “Speaking ill of the priesthood must be done quietly,” he continued, voice low.

  “Cutting their throats is quiet,” I replied, equally low. He smirked slightly and nodded, eyes dancing. Then he sobered.

  “I wish I could help, but your heart is not something I may mend. Your body, however, may be in danger, and soon.”

  “Wait, what? What do you mean?”

  “Yon priest seems suspicious. It is their charge to hold the order of the Empire. Each to his appointed tasks and all that.”

  “And he’s going to be mad at me for…”

  “Spells,” Hazir whispered. “I see the sense of it, to know a charm for mending a broken body,” he went on. “Who better than a warrior to know such a thing? But it is not our place to do so.” He sounded a trifle bitter.

  “Surely, someone besides me must have asked why not.”

  “What kind of world would we live in if everyone learned everything? There would be no rulers, no followers. There would be anarchy, chaos. The gods appointed their priests to keep order among men. One cannot defy the gods.” I was wrong about him sounding bitter. Sarcastic, maybe.

  “Maybe people would rise to those positions based on their own merit,” I suggested. He smiled and I continued with, “I’ll try not to be so obvious outside the valley.”

  “It is well, but perhaps too late. You should not have shown such compassion for Malath.”

  “Malath is a decent man, determined, loyal, and unwilling to quit. He didn’t deserve the beating he got,” I told him. One of my rented servants emerged into the stands and looked around. He waved and sat down.