Percepliquis trr-6

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Myron did not look concerned. He listened carefully, thoughtfully, then recited: “ ‘ Erebus, father unto all that be, creator of Elan, divider of the seas and sky, brought forth the four: Ferrol, the eldest, the wise and clever; Drome, the stalwart and crafty; Maribor, the bold and adventurous; Muriel, the serene and beautiful-gods unto the world. ’ ”

  “Do not quote me text from your cultish scriptures,” Mawyndule said.

  “I’m not,” Myron said. “It’s yours-section one, paragraph eight of the Book of Ferrol. I found it in the tomb of Nyphron. I apologize if I did not get all the words correct. I am not entirely fluent in elvish.”

  Mawyndule’s grin faded. “Oh yes, I recall your name now. You are Myron Lanaklin from the Winds Abbey. You were the one left as a witness while the other monks were burned alive, is that right? That incident was Saldur’s doing-he had a fetish for burning things-but you are as much to blame, aren’t you? You forced him by refusing to reveal what you knew. How do you live with all that guilt?”

  “Seemingly better than you live with your hatred,” Myron replied.

  “You think so?” Mawyndule asked, and leaned forward. “You’re about to become a slave while I am about to be crowned king of the world.”

  His attempt at intimidation had no effect on the monk, who, to Arista’s astonishment, leaned forward and asked, “But for how long? You are ancient, even by elven standards. How short-lived will your victory be? And at what cost will you have achieved that which you think is so great? What have you had to endure to reach this moment? You wasted your long life to obtain a goal you can’t possibly live to appreciate. If you hadn’t allowed hatred to rule you, you might have spent all those years in contentment and love. You could have-”

  “I’m already enjoying it!” Mawyndule shouted.

  “You have forgotten so much.” Myron sighed with obvious pity. “ ‘ Revenge is a bittersweet fruit that leaves the foul aftertaste of regret. ’-Patriarch Venlin, The Perdith Address to the Dolimins, circa twenty-one thirty-one.”

  “You are clever, aren’t you?” Mawyndule said.

  “ ‘ Clever are the Children of Ferrol, quick, certain, and dark their fate. ’-Nyphron of the Instarya.”

  “Shut up, Myron,” Hadrian growled.

  Arista also saw the flare in the elf’s eyes but Myron appeared oblivious. To her relief, Mawyndule did not strike out. Instead he stood and walked away. His two guards followed with the chair. The banquet vanished and the fire’s flames dwindled to mere embers.

  “Are you insane?” Hadrian asked Myron.

  “I’m sorry,” the monk said.

  “I’m not.” Mauvin clapped the monk on the back, grinning. “You’re my new hero.”

  CHAPTER 27

  THE CHALLENGE

  Trumpets announced the gray light of the predawn.

  The elves had transformed the top of Amberton Lee overnight. Where once only the desolate remains of ancient walls and half-buried pillars stood, the crest of the hill now displayed seven great tents marked by shimmering banners. In the misty haze of melting snow, a low wall of intertwined brambles created an arena marked by torches that burned blue flames. Drums followed a loud fanfare and beat to an ominous rhythm-the heartbeat of an ancient people.

  Degan shivered in the cold, looking even worse than the night before. Hadrian, Royce, and Mauvin fed him coffee that steamed like some magical draft. Gaunt clutched the mug with both hands and still the liquid threatened to spill from his shaking. Arista stood with her feet in the cold dew, every muscle in her body tense as she waited. Everyone waited. Aside from the three whispering last-minute instructions into Gaunt’s ear, no one else spoke. They all stood like stones on the Lee, unwilling witnesses.

  Modina waited with the girls, prepared to face what could be their last sunrise. The boys stood only a few feet from her with Magnus and Myron. The lot of them formed a straight line, uniformly standing with their arms folded across their chests-all eyes on Degan.

  Mawyndule appeared relaxed as he sat in his chair, his legs outstretched and crossed, his eyes closed as if sleeping. The rest of the elves milled about in small groups, speaking in hushed, reverent tones. Arista guessed this was a sacred religious event for them. For those in her party, it was just terrifying.

  She turned when she heard Monsignor Merton say, “I know you have a good reason.” At first, she thought he was speaking to her, but when she saw him, his eyes were looking up. “But you have to understand I’m but the ignorant fool you made. I don’t mean that as an insult, of course. Perish the thought. Who am I to pass judgment on your creation? Still, I hope you have enjoyed our talks. I am entertaining at least, aren’t I, Lord? You wouldn’t want to lose that, would you? Many of us are entertaining and it would be a shame if we disappeared altogether. Have you considered how you might miss us?” He paused as if listening, then nodded.

  “What did he say?” Arista asked.

  Merton looked up, startled. “Oh? What he always says.”

  She waited, but the monsignor never explained further.

  The drums grew louder, the rhythm faster. The sky began to lighten and birds, newly returned to the north, began to sing. The faces of the men and elves grew more serious as the priest of Ferrol entered the ring with a thurible burning Agarwood incense. He began singing softly in elvish.

  Gaunt placed a hand to his chest, rubbed his shirt, and whispered to himself. Arista cringed and Hadrian said something sharply but quietly and Gaunt pulled his hand away. Arista glanced at Mawyndule and suspected the damage was done. The old elf narrowed his gaze at his opponent.

  Mawyndule rose from his seat and walked toward Gaunt. He glanced to the eastern horizon. “Not long now,” he said. “I just wanted to wish you good luck.”

  The once Patriarch held out his hand. Gaunt looked at it hesitantly but reached out to shake. Mawyndule was quick and nimble and he tore Gaunt’s collar wide, revealing the medallion hanging there. He staggered backward as Hadrian and Royce quickly pulled Gaunt away. Mawyndule sneered and glanced at Arista, then Hadrian, and lastly Myron. He looked about quickly, nervously.

  “Not long now,” Royce reminded him. “And how will you fare when your magic is useless?”

  Mawyndule smiled and with clenched teeth he began to laugh.

  “ Muer wir ahran dulwyer! ” Mawyndule shouted suddenly. All the elves turned to face him. Everyone else looked at Myron.

  “He evokes the Right of Champion,” Myron said.

  “What does that mean?” Royce asked.

  “It means he asks for someone else to fight in his stead.”

  “Can he do that?” Arista asked.

  “Yes,” Myron replied. “Remember the inscription on the horn: Should champion be called to fight evoked is the Hand of Ferrol, Which protects the championed from all, and champion from all-save one-from peril.

  “If the champion wins, Mawyndule will be king.”

  “ Byrinith con duylar ben lar Irawondona! ” Mawyndule shouted and there was a loud murmur among the elves as they all turned to face the elven lord.

  “Oh damn,” Hadrian said. “He had to pick the big guy. I’m pretty sure he knows how to fight.”

  Lord Irawondona stepped forward in his shimmering armor. He said something that none of them could hear. Mawyndule replied by nodding and Lord Irawondona raised his hands and shouted, “ Duylar e finis dan iskabareth ben Mawyndule! ”

  “He just accepted,” Myron reported.

  Gaunt, who had been shaking his head, erupted, “I’m not fighting him. I’m supposed to fight the old guy, not this guy.”

  “Myron.” Arista spun the monk to face her. “Can Gaunt do the same? Can he pick a champion?”

  “Ah-yes. I believe so. It would only make sense, as the entire competition is designed for a fair contest between the opponents.”

  She watched Lord Irawondona remove his cloak. The elf looked imposing even from across the field. “Hadrian is the only one who has any chance of winning. Name h
im your champion. Myron, tell Gaunt the words he needs to say.”

  “They weren’t on the horn.”

  “You just heard him,” Royce reminded him. “Just repeat what you heard Mawyndule say, and quickly.”

  “Oh, right. Muer wir ahran dulwyer,” Myron said.

  “Degan, say it! Say it loud!”

  “ Muer wir- ah- ahran- ah-” Gaunt stumbled and hesitated.

  “ Dulwyer,” Myron whispered.

  “ Dulwyer! ” Gaunt shouted.

  The heads of the elves turned.

  “Now the next line and substitute my name for Irawondona,” Hadrian said.

  Myron fed him the words and Gaunt recited them. The elves looked confused for a moment, until Gaunt pointed at Hadrian. Myron gave Hadrian the next line and Arista stood shaking as she heard him recite it aloud, accepting the role of Gaunt’s champion.

  “Degan,” she said, “give Hadrian the medallion back.”

  “But he said-”

  “I know what he said, and he’ll let you have it after the fight, but right now he needs all the help he can get. Give it to him now!” Degan tore the chain off his neck and handed it to her.

  “Boys!” Hadrian shouted. “Fetch me that bundle near my blanket and the shield!”

  The four boys sprinted down the slope to the camp.

  “You can beat him, can’t you?” Arista asked while slipping the chain over his head. She was trembling. “You will beat him for me, won’t you? You can’t leave me like Emery and Hilfred. You know I couldn’t take that, right? You know that-you have to win.”

  “For you? Anything,” he said, and kissed her hard, pulling her to him.

  The boys returned and threw open the bundle, revealing the brilliant armor of Jerish Grelad. “Help me on with this,” Hadrian said, and everyone, including Degan and Myron, looked for ways to assist.

  An elf appeared before them, holding one of the strange halberd weapons they had seen images of in Percepliquis. He held it out to Hadrian.

  “You know how to use this?” Arista asked.

  “Never touched one before.”

  “Something tells me he has,” she said as across the field Lord Irawondona lifted his own halberd with both hands spread apart, holding it like a double-bladed quarterstaff. He spun it with remarkable speed such that the blades hummed.

  “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

  Hadrian took a breath and turned to her. Their eyes met just at the moment the sun broke over the trees and shone on their faces. Hadrian looked beautiful, glimmering in his golden armor. He appeared like an ancient god reborn onto the world of man.

  The priest of Ferrol shouted something and neither needed Myron to translate.

  It was time.

  Arista found it hard to breathe and her legs grew weak as she watched Hadrian enter the ring of torches. He stepped to the center and waited, planting his feet in the packed snow and shifting his grip on the strange weapon.

  She looked at Mawyndule and saw he was no longer smiling; his face showed concern as Irawondona entered the ring. The blue torches flared with his passing and the elven lord strode about the space casually, confidently.

  “Hadrian’s the best in the world, Arista,” Mauvin whispered to her. “Better than any Pickering, better than Braga, better than-”

  “Better than an elven lord?” she asked sharply. “He’s probably played with that weapon since he was a child-some fifteen hundred years ago!”

  The drums rolled and the horns blared once more in a sharply definitive sound that hurt her ears. She tried to swallow but found her throat tight. In her chest, her heart hammered, and her hands rose to her breast in an attempt to contain it.

  Hadrian waited awkwardly as if uncertain whether the fight had begun. Irawondona walked around the circle of blue burning torches, spinning his spear, rolling it across his shoulders, down his arm, and around his wrist, grinning at the crowd. He threw the weapon up, where it rotated above his head, and whirled it such that it made the sound of birds in flight. He caught it again and laughed.

  “How good is he?” Arista asked Mauvin. “Can you tell by the way he moves?”

  “Oh, he’s good.”

  “How good? You’ve fought Hadrian. Can he beat him?”

  “He’s real good.”

  “Stop saying that and answer the damn question!”

  “I don’t know, okay?” Mauvin admitted. “I can only say that he’s really fast, faster than Hadrian, I think.”

  “What about all the whirling? What can you tell from that?”

  “That’s nothing, he’s just trying to intimidate.”

  “Well, it’s working on me.”

  Hadrian stood still, waiting.

  Irawondona continued to spin the spear with his hands. “I must commend you on at least knowing how to hold the ule-da-var,” Irawondona told him.

  “Yeah, but I don’t know how to do all that fancy spinning stuff,” Hadrian replied. “Does that help? Or is it just needlessly tiring your muscles?”

  Irawondona closed the distance between them with brilliant speed and slashed at Hadrian. One stroke aimed down and across with the top blade and another up with the bottom blade. Hadrian dodged the first strike and parried the second with a last-minute swing.

  “That was good,” Mauvin whispered. “I’d be dead right now.”

  “In the first exchange?” Arista asked.

  “Yeah, contrary to popular belief, sword fights don’t last long, a few minutes at best. I watched his feet and they fooled me-he’s very good.”

  Irawondona jabbed-Hadrian slapped the blade aside. He jabbed again, and again; each time Hadrian caught the stroke.

  “Very nice,” Irawondona said. “Now let’s see how good you really are.”

  The elf slapped the shaft of his spear, causing it to hum and the blade to quiver. He jabbed again, this time too fast for Arista to see. Hadrian blocked, caught, and slapped but then Irawondona swung.

  “Duck!” Mauvin shouted. “Oh no!”

  Hadrian did duck, stabbing his lower blade into the snow. Irawondona’s first stroke passed over Hadrian’s head, but then the second came down. Before it landed, Hadrian pulled on his planted pole and slid himself across the snow on his knees, leaving Irawondona to strike nothing but the bare ground.

  Both combatants paused, breathing hard.

  “Whoa!” Mauvin said. “That was really good.”

  “You don’t move like a human,” Irawondona said.

  “And you fight surprisingly well for a talking brideeth.”

  The reaction on Irawondona’s face was immediate. His happy grin vanished.

  Arista looked to Myron.

  “I don’t know that word,” the monk replied.

  “I wouldn’t think you would,” Royce said. “I taught him that one.”

  Irawondona lashed out again. He moved with blinding speed, spinning forward so that the dual blades flashed in the growing sunlight, their movement visible only by the streaks of light they left. She could hear the sound of the humming knives vibrating the air.

  Hadrian leapt back, looking uncertain how to deal with the oncoming whirlwind of metal. He dodged and dodged again as the blades swept close to his head and legs equally. The elf lord drove him back to the edge of the thicket wall. Once there, he flicked the bottom blade, slashing out at Hadrian’s chest. With an agile spin, Hadrian traded places and slammed the elf lord with his elbow while tripping him with the pole. Lord Irawondona quickly somersaulted to his feet with a look of shock on his face.

  “You fight like…” Lord Irawondona stopped. He was breathing hard and eyeing Hadrian with concern.

  Hadrian now advanced.

  This time the blades collided. Staccato strikes sounded across the hilltop. Poles spun up against each other, striking, crossing, clipping. Again there were the hum of bees and then more strikes. Irawondona pushed Hadrian back, jamming him, driving him off balance, his whirling pole streaking in the golden light. Hadrian stumbled and sta
ggered off balance, and the elf lord flashed a grin. He pressed his attack but then Hadrian made an unexpected twist and raked Irawondona across the side with his long blade. A clean stroke-Hadrian’s blade sliced from neck to leg.

  The elven lord fell back, shocked. He felt along his side with fear on his face, at the same time Hadrian looked at his weapon-neither found blood. They looked bewildered for a moment; then Irawondona shook it off and regained his stance. He no longer made an effort at exhibitionism.

  They circled each other, more hesitant than before, each feinting and falling back, reaching, searching for a weakness in the other. Irawondona charged again; once more the blades clamored, ringing with a sound horrible to hear. One blow after another the metal collided edge to edge, razors striking razors. Just listening to the noise made Arista weak.

  Once more Hadrian fell and again Irawondona stabbed, this time faster, forcing Hadrian to log roll away. Irawondona chased but was not fast enough and Hadrian was able to get back on his feet and caught the elf in mid-stride. The elf lord was too late to pull back and Hadrian’s short blade sliced down the back of Irawondona’s exposed calf.

  “Ha-ha!” Hadrian laughed. “Not fast enough! Now you’re-”

  No blood.

  Once more the two looked at the clean blade and the unscarred flesh and slowly Irawondona began to smile.

  “Oh dear Maribor!” Arista cried. “Not again, oh please god, not again.”

  “What is it?” Mauvin asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “Hadrian can’t harm him. I don’t understand. Did we make a mistake when naming him as champion?”

  The elf lord, grinning with confidence, attacked again, this time more openly. Hadrian dodged and counterattacked and his strike found Irawondona’s neck. The long blade came slicing across from under the exposed throat from the bottom up. Irawondona’s head jerked up, but once more, the blade did not bite.

  The elf lord laughed. “I am a god,” he said, and began to strike out at Hadrian without fear.

  “No!” Arista screamed. She looked to the others desperately, tears filling her eyes. “Oh god, Royce, do something. Save him! Please, you have to save him!”