The false Thuite stepped out from the throne. In spite of his wound, he led with his sword on that side. He took careful, measured steps. Einar did not see a hitch in his gait or a falter in his advance.
Cassus’ troop had begun to murmur advice to their lord, suggesting stances and maneuvers which they thought most effective. Derek remained calm, gazing at his blade as if checking his own reflection, but the warlord must have been watching his opponent from the corner of his eye. Just as Duncan was in reach, Derek twisted, dropping one foot back and setting the other forward. He used his momentum to thrust at Duncan’s unprotected left side.
Duncan reacted smoothly and unexpectedly. He sidestepped toward the strike, bringing his own weapon against the offense. The sharp clang of contact resounded in the hall, focusing the audience response. Cassus and his men were shouting advice now.
“Keep your guard up, lord!”
“Watch his footwork!”
“Strike his wound while he’s distracted!”
“Go for a clean stroke and end it quick!”
Einar kept his silence, trying not to reveal his loyalties. It would be all too easy to cheer on his friend, but he would be signing his own death warrant.
The hubbub did not distract either combatant. They were circling each other now. The strain of the battle must have been taking its toll on Duncan and his wound, because the Alkimite was clutching at his injury with his free hand. Blood continued to seep through his clothes and fingers, Einar noted sadly. Even if he beat Derek, Duncan was not likely to survive for long.
Derek had a cruel smile on his face. “Tiring, I see,” he said mockingly. He gripped his sword with both hands, providing stability and power.
“Not too much yet,” Duncan retorted with a smile of his own, defiant and broad. He lunged, but his sword was swatted away. Twisting with the parry, he brought his sword around over his head and slashed down with a backhanded swing.
Derek kept up easily. He blocked the slash, pushing the sword back the way it had come. The strength behind his two-handed stance forced Duncan to turn, exposing his right side and back. Derek took advantage of his momentary lapse in defense. Springing forward, the warlord got too close for Duncan to separate them with his sword.
The Leonite slammed a gauntleted fist into Duncan’s side. Even if Duncan had not been injured, the blow would have broken several ribs.
Crying out, Duncan fell away from the fight and into the arms of Icenar and Shotan, watching from that side of the hall. They grabbed his arms and shook him roughly before throwing him back toward Derek. The Leonite let him fall past, and Duncan crashed into the ground heavily.
Groaning, the Alkimite rolled onto his back. Derek stood over him, sword point not far from his nose. “Admit defeat,” the warlord commanded.
Duncan looked between the tip of the blade and the man wielding it. “Never!” he answered and immediately rolled to his left, dodging a downward thrust. Rolling back, he brought his own sword up and knocked Derek’s aside. While the Leonite was distracted, Duncan regained his footing, though his side and hand left bloody smears on the stone floor.
Einar knew that this fight was coming to its inevitable end. His stomach wrenched with grief for his friend, though a small part of him held out hope for victory.
Derek growled at being frustrated by the weakened Alkimite. Spinning back to the battle, he launched a series of furious strikes. As each blow fell, Duncan’s defense became feebler. Duncan backpedaled, trying to create distance, but Derek gave no quarter. If the warlord could not extract surrender from this impudent man, he would exact punishment.
Then whatever hopes Einar had left were dashed. Another strike fell, knocking Duncan’s sword away, and then another, opening the man from shoulder to hip. Duncan collapsed, mortally wounded.
Einar was already moving, to rush forward and avenge his friend, when a strong hand gripped his shoulder. Looking back, he saw Azos’ stern expression and knew that he was being foolish. The best way to avenge Duncan was to defeat Derek’s army in battle when they reached the Valley.
Derek knelt by the dying man. He looked closely, squinting, as if recognizing something he had missed. “You’re no Thuite,” he said at last. “Who are you?”
Duncan smiled triumphantly. “The man who saved an entire people by keeping you here,” he replied. At that, he expired, his final, victorious grin still mocking the warlord.
Derek stood, furious. He marched from the hall, pausing only long enough to order Cassus: “Burn everything.”
*
The 2040th year of the Sixth Era
The eighth of the month of Ennemen
Late in the first hour
Five days later, Aneirin stood with his brothers, his countenance hardened with confidence. Tate, Alastair, and Liam looked less sure of themselves as they faced down an army of fierce men.
After thirty-five days, exactly seven weeks by the Fylscem calendar, the four remaining Guardians had recruited the warriors of twenty-two tribes to join the Alkimites against Derek, most notably the Daraeags, the Athranlati, and the Annali. But now, far north and slightly west of the Valley of Kyros, they faced a horde twice the size of the Alkimites’ own militia, a tribe that had gained great strength through conquest. The other tribes had joined the Alkimites out of honor and in obedience to the Code of Lords, but among these feral Wellites, only their chieftain, called Wellyem, seemed to have a shred of honor.
“What brings you to our lands, shiny ones?” Lord Wellyem demanded, his attention focused on Aneirin. The Guardian lord of the Alkimites, leader of his kind, wore his authority plainly.
A lesser man might have been terrified by the barbaric manner of those he faced, but Aneirin replied boldly, “My brethren and I are here on behalf of the Alkimites. They are subject to an unprovoked and unjust war with the Chimaera Regiment. In the name of Anthea, I ask for your assistance.”
“You wish us to fight under your banner?” Wellyem surmised incredulously. Not pausing for a response, he continued proudly, “Why should we? We could defeat this ‘regiment’ on our own.” There were some shouts of assent, and others of derision, echoing from the crowd. Wellyem smiled, but held up a hand for silence.
Aneirin eyed the warlord carefully. “Tell me, lord,” he said ponderously, “were you sworn in according to the Code when you became a lord?”
Wellyem bristled at the challenge to his position. “Of course,” he answered, “but our Storyteller has since died, without a replacement.”
The Guardian gestured at him. “But you know the Code, since you swore to uphold it?”
Wellyem did not answer immediately. He could not afford to look dishonorable before the gods, but neither could he claim honestly that he knew the Code. At last, he chose to lie for the sake of his soul. “Yes, I know the Code,” he said.
“Then you know,” Aneirin continued, “that the Code holds that any man not at war must defend those under illegitimate assault. And I have told you of the Alkimites in this regard.” Wellyem frowned angrily, but did not answer. Aneirin did not wait for one. “And you know,” he said, “that suppliants invoking the name of Anthea command the help of even the gods. And I have done that.” Wellyem was about to interrupt, but Aneirin cut him off. “And you further know that all men are to aid any agents of the Fylscem Empire, of which I, as Guardian lord of the last heir of that royal line, am one.”
Wellyem was not happy, but he could not refute the claims outright. Even so, he was a clever man. “There is no Storyteller here,” he called out, so that his soldiers could hear, “so how can we confirm what you say? Perhaps you are lying about the Code, or worse,” he accused, his tone darkening, “perhaps you are lying about these Alkimites you say you represent.”
Aneirin’s face turned stoic and cold. The sharp change might have unsettled a lesser man, but Wellyem did not wither beneath that hard gaze. “If you will not obey the Code, the gods, or the rights of blood,” Aneirin declared, loud and clear, “then you
will obey the sword.” Raising his voice and pointing a cold metal hand at the warlord, he shouted for the whole assembly of men, “I, Lord Aneirin of the Alkimites, challenge you, Lord Wellyem, to a Duel of Lords!”
Wellyem withered then, but only for a moment. His warriors did not notice. They burst into laughter, comparing the thin frame of the Guardians against their own size and strength. Wellyem let them guffaw while he considered his options, then finally silenced them with a raised hand. He announced, “We are great men, you and I, Lord Aneirin. We need not engage in these frivolous pursuits. Let us have our greatest warriors compete in our stead.”
“This is not a matter of entertainment,” Aneirin replied sharply. But Wellyem had command of the whole army, and even with all their power, the Guardians would fall to such a force. If he refused now, no doubt Wellyem would order their deaths. So Aneirin continued, “But very well. I will fight your greatest warrior.”
The Wellites burst into laughter again. Wellyem did not silence them now, but smiled victoriously and called out to his warrior, “Frecennis!”
The ground almost seemed to shake as the mighty warrior approached. His thick, angular head stood out above the other warriors’ as he pushed his way through the crowd. By Aneirin’s estimation, Frecennis was half again as tall and as broad as a regular man. His arms were like tree limbs, and he wielded a battle-axe nearly the size of Aneirin himself. The Wellites chanted his name in rhythm, pounding their spears against their shields to keep the time: “Cennis! Cennis! Cennis!”
When Frecennis reached Wellyem’s side, silence fell. The warlord turned to Aneirin. “Lord, do you have a weapon to wield?” he asked ritualistically.
Aneirin bowed his head and answered according to custom, “I have no weapon to call my own.”
Wellyem drew his own sword and handed it to the Guardian. Then he continued, “Lord, have you armor for the fight?”
Aneirin did not raise his head. He answered, “I wear my armor in this battle.” Wellyem nodded to Frecennis, signaling the completion of the ritual. Aneirin raised his head and fixed his gaze on his burly opponent. A series of synapses fired in his inorganic brain, faster than the mind of any man, analyzing the strengths and weaknesses of his foe.
Wellyem was a large man, and his double-edged sword was the size of a spatha, but the battle-axe that Frecennis brandished had a haft as long as Aneirin’s blade. The battle-axe was a double-headed variety called a labrys. The spatha was meant to be wielded with both hands on the hilt, but when Aneirin fell into his defensive stance, he held it with only one. Frecennis was undeterred by the show of strength.
The brute moved first. He was quick for one of his girth. He charged with an unintelligible battle cry. The axe came up over his head, and he swung in from his left. He aimed to decapitate his enemy. Aneirin barely moved. He flicked the sword into the path of the axe-haft, parrying the strike with such force that Frecennis recoiled. The big warrior nearly lost his balance as he took a few clumsy steps back, trying to avoid a counter. None came.
Scowling, Frecennis charged again. He recognized that brute strength would not end this duel, and he began to fight with finesse. His strikes were smoother, more agile, and more varied. He aimed first at Aneirin’s head, then his knees, then his midriff, hoping the variety would catch the Guardian unaware.
Aneirin dodged subtly. A step back here, a sidestep there. Once, he merely leaned to his left, avoiding a blow that would have split him from collar to hip.
Frecennis backed up, then charged again, aiming for Aneirin’s midsection with the sharp points on top of the axe. Aneirin waited until the last moment, then he sidestepped again. The boulder of a man tore past, almost impaling another Wellite before he ground to a halt. He turned to face Aneirin again, his breath flowing in gulps and sighs. “Use the blade you’ve been given, shiny one!” he rasped, “And stop your prancing!”
Aneirin smiled and bowed his head obligingly. He strolled away from the Wellite until there were about eight paces between them. He turned and put his left, unarmed side forward; placing his weight on his back foot, he bent his knees and leaned back, like a coiled spring. He kept his sword low, with the hilt near his hip and the point angled up toward his empty hand.
Then he lunged.
Any man who blinked in that moment never saw the attack. In an instant, Aneirin was beside his foe, too close for the battle-axe to reach. Frecennis’ gut was pierced by Wellyem’s sword, through armor and flesh. The tip of the blade jutted from the back of his neck.
Aneirin was holding the hilt, still protruding from the dead man’s abdomen. He released it, and Frecennis fell. The entrenched sword prevented his chest from curving. He landed heavily, more like a thick plank than a corpse, and his eyes, still wide with surprise, glazed over in silence.
For nearly a minute, no one moved.
Overcoming his astonishment, Lord Wellyem entered the ring that had formed around the two combatants. Kneeling beside his champion, he checked for a pulse, though it was clear he would find none. Slowly, he stood and turned to Aneirin. Defiance burned hot in his eyes as he stared the Guardian down. Then his visage became downcast, and he dropped to one knee. “The Wellites, lord,” he said loudly, “are yours to command.”
It took a few moments for his army to follow suit, though their angry glances were more honest than their bended knees.
Aneirin allowed a long pause. Then he said, “You and your warriors will accompany us back to the Valley of Kyros, where you will bolster the defense of the Alkimites against the Chimaera Regiment.” He paused again, briefly reconsidering his next declaration, but he knew it was the only way to ensure the barbarians’ loyalty. “When that battle is won, you may return to your own people and abandon your loyalty, on the condition that you never declare war on the Alkimites or their allies.”
The response was not immediate, but it was without complaint. The Wellites stood and returned to their homes, where they began preparing themselves for war. Few spoke at all; barbarian or not, they feared the gods.
As the Wellites dispersed, Tate approached Aneirin. “Accompany us?” he echoed, “Aneirin, as mighty as these warriors may be, we still don’t have enough men to defeat Drystan and his charge.”
Aneirin nodded his head toward the sun, as if it signified the undaunted march of time. “We can’t wait any longer,” he said, “Already, we shall have to descend the western cliffs to reach the Alkimites before the Regiment does.” Tate nodded as despair crept onto his face. He turned to rejoin his brothers, preparing for the return journey, when Aneirin stopped him. “And Tate?” he called, “I would be more worried about Derek than Drystan. The former is an ambitious and formidable warrior; Drystan is just a corrupted, self-absorbed fool whom I am displeased to call my brother.”
Chapter Nine
The 2040th year of the Sixth Era
The eighth of the month of Ennemen
Late in the eleventh hour
Much to Hector’s surprise, Eitromal ordered that he and Brynjar be given a chance to heal before their next battle. To that end, it had been five days, rather than the usual three, since their last fight—but Eitromal was not giving them nearly long enough, for tomorrow, they would fight again.
Hector lay in his cell, wide awake and wishing for sleep. The guards had extinguished the torches over an hour earlier, leaving the whole place lit only by the whispers of dusk on the ramp. Hector wanted to be well-rested for the battle tomorrow, or at least somewhat rested, but the sweet embrace of night eluded him. The cell was dank, murky, and uncomfortable, but those things never changed anymore; yet more than usual, he was uneasy. Brynjar had been especially terse lately, and when he did speak, he was often moribund.
“Are you still awake, Hector?”
Hector gasped. The Drengar’s guttural voice had startled the boy, but he soon took control of his breathing. “Yes,” he said in the calmest voice he could muster.
“I never told you, Hector.”
Hector frown
ed. He did not know what Brynjar meant. “What didn’t you tell me?” he asked.
“I know who you are, Hector,” he said, “heir of the Fylscem Empire.”
Hector was not surprised. “I had assumed that Lord Aneirin told you that, before we left.”
“I suppose he did,” Brynjar answered, “but I knew before. I knew when I met you in the street. I knew when Lord Bayl ordered me to come to the Alkimites—to you.”
Hector frowned again. “But you said that Bayl ordered you to find Lord Aneirin. That was why—”
“I know what I said,” Brynjar interrupted, “but I did not tell all. Lord Bayl gave me your name. He told me who you were. He told me that I had to leave my wife behind and go with you.”
Hector ached when he heard that. It had hurt when he thought he was the ultimate cause of Brynjar’s loss, but to learn that Bayl had used his name in the order broke his heart. “Why would he do that?”
But Brynjar changed the subject. “Do you know why the Guardians exist, Hector?”
Though Brynjar could not see him, he nodded. “Lord Aneirin told me that they were created to protect the seven imperial bloodlines,” he replied, “so that heirs would survive to recreate the Fylscem Empire.”
“And haven’t you been wondering,” Brynjar pressed him, “why Lord Bayl was so close to my family?”
The thought had never occurred to Hector, but he suddenly recognized what must have been the truth. It should have been so clear. “You’re the heir in the Drengari line,” he said.
Brynjar laughed. “Not me, you young fool,” he said through his chuckles, “My wife was.” There was a long pause, and when Brynjar spoke again, his voice cracked in his grief. “My son was.”
At the realization of the pain Brynjar suffered, tears sprang unbidden to Hector’s eyes. He wiped them away, determined to be strong—if not for his own sake, then for his friend’s. “What was his name?” he asked, hoping to bring back good memories of the child.
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