by Phil Tucker
And then the first wave came pounding up into view. A hundred knights, easily. Tiron rode on, still watching behind him, letting his mount pick its own path. Two hundred. Then a third wave, this one more massive than both that had come before. Too many knights and light horse troops to count.
Grimly, Tiron turned back and focused on trying to catch up with his host, only to see the four remaining Vothaks peel away from the soldiers, riding out to the left and turning in a tight circle.
"Damn you, Alasha!" His cry was torn away by the wind.
A rumble filled the heavens, and Tiron felt a cold, wet wind cut across his face. There was a flash, and then, almost immediately, a second rumble. The Vothaks completed their turn and began to gallop right at him.
Tiron clasped at his empty scabbard. Even his dagger was gone. He had nothing with which to help them. Alasha was screaming something as she rode toward him, her eyes wide with terror, but still she rode on, black magic crackling around her fists as she raised them both to the sky.
Tiron wanted nothing more than to turn and ride with them, but without even a blade there was no sense at all in his doing so. Instead, he raised his fist as the Vothaks rode by, a mute salute to their sacrifice and bravery. He looked back to watch their doomed attack. Alasha rose up in her stirrups. Tiron could feel the ground thundering as the Ennoians drew close.
Another flash, and this time the lightning split the heavens, a fractured bolt of the Ascendant's fury lashing down and catching the raised tip of an Ennoian's lance. He screamed, flailed, and fell from his horse, and then the thunderclap BOOM that followed almost knocked Tiron from his horse.
Alasha chose that moment to strike. The black magic had been building into a vibrating arc between her hands, the other three Vothaks doing the same. For a moment Tiron swore that the arc of magic reached out and connected all four of them into a demonic ribbon, and then they flung it forward and as one fell from their saddles, blood pouring from their eyes and noses and gouting out of their mouths.
There was another thunderous rumble, as if the world was shivering itself apart, and then a heavy rain began to fall just as the black fire scythed into the knights.
It was horrendous. Forty knights were shorn into bloody halves, the upper halves of horse heads falling free, the center of the line collapsing in a welter of blood and ruin.
Tiron felt his gorge rise, felt madness seize his mind with icy hands and try to pry his sanity apart. He turned away from that slaughter and forced himself to stare numbly ahead, at the Agerastians who were riding steadily on in the rain. Hollow, spent, his mind devoid of thoughts, he chased after them, leaving his former countrymen dead and dying in the mud.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Wolfker was brutally beaten down in the next round by a young, clean-shaven Sigean youth whose power allowed him to wield a sledgehammer as if it were a toy. The Ennoian fought valiantly, refusing to give up until he was driven to the ground. Sighart dispatched a heavyset woman from Zoe after three minutes of frenzied fighting, while Gray Wind was beaten after a breathtaking aerial combat, each leap seeming to leave him and his opponent hanging in the air for an impossible amount of time.
Kethe's name was called after a long pause at the end of the second round. Her assurance and battle high had given way to trepidation; what was she doing? Should she throw the next round so as to not risk winning? But when her name was called she saw Theletos' mocking gaze resting on her, and sensed that he knew exactly what she was thinking. That he was waiting to see if she would crack under the pressure.
His mockery stiffened her spine. Chin high, she walked to the weapons rack along with her opponent, a surprisingly old man with a deeply lined face and hands swollen from a lifetime of labor. His head was shaved, but his goatee was iron gray, and he looked like he should have been resting in the sun with a pipe instead of preparing to do battle.
Kethe picked up her blade, swirled it once on either side of her body, the blade hissing through the air, and then snapped the blade still, front and center, to march to the center of the training grounds. The old man selected a wooden staff and trailed after her.
Kethe tried to remember who this Saadak had fought in the first round. It had been a quick, unimpressive bout, with his foe stumbling past him several times before a swift tap to the back of the head knocked him out. Not memorable at all. And yet here he was, in the second round.
Kethe studied Saadak as they stood facing each other. The old man had a gentle smile on his face. His eyes were almost hidden in a web of wrinkles, and his back was stooped. He held the staff before him, relaxed, and waited for the signal to begin.
The crowd was hushed. Kethe could feel hundreds of eyes boring into her back. Despite the cool morning air, she felt sweat running down her spine. Why was she the nervous one? The more placid Saadak looked, the more tense she realized she was becoming. They stood face to face, waiting, and Kethe forced herself to breathe slowly and easily.
The flag whipped down. This time the crowd remained silent and expectant, everyone leaning forward to watch.
Cautious, but not knowing exactly why, Kethe glided forward, her sword held in a low stance. Saadak didn't move. Kethe paused, gulped, and raised her blade to the middle stance, ready to parry at a moment's notice. Still, Saadak did nothing. She began to circle to the left. He turned to move with her.
Enough! Kethe darted forward, putting a burst of power into the attack, leaping forward and thrusting her blade at his chest.
He wasn't there. He was to her right, having stepped aside at the very last moment. Instinct screamed at her, and she turned her attack into a forward dive. His staff whistled through where her head had been moments ago. Her shoulder hit the ground hard, and her roll was clumsy; then she was up, wobbling, but he was gone.
She turned just in time to realize he'd moved behind her. Impossible. His staff caught her in the ribs with such force that she was thrown off her feet, her ribs blazing with pain, knocked aside as if a battering ram had slammed into her. She flew a good five yards before crashing down, rolling like a rag doll, and coming to a sprawling stop.
The crowd roared, people rising to their feet to applaud furiously. Kethe blinked in pain, gasped, tried to stand up and couldn't. They were cheering her defeat. The knowledge stung her. Why? Because she'd killed Makaria? Because of who her mother was? Because she'd won so easily in the first round?
This was it: the perfect moment to stay down, to concede defeat. To not draw any more attention. Kethe gritted her teeth. Had she broken a rib? Three?
She thought of her father, Enderl. The Black Gate take him, would he always haunt her? She saw his looming form, felt his scorn. Stay down, girl. Stay down if you are broken, if you are weak.
With a grunt she rolled onto her side, then took a deep breath, felt a flush of fury, and rose to her feet. Saadak hadn't moved, hadn't approached her. She got the sense that he never would, would always wait for her to attack. She bit her lower lip as the cheers died down. It was going to take more than one blow to keep her down.
Kethe walked forward, focusing on her breathing. Brocuff's words returned to her, seeming to come from another lifetime, a different world – their time of training in the forest glade outside Kyferin Castle. You're still relying too much on your eyes. I told you, in a real battle, you won't be able to keep everyone in sight. You're bound to get surrounded. Enemies on all sides. You need to relax. Sense 'em.
Kethe stopped, took a deep breath and held it. Saadak stood at ease, watching her. When she slowly exhaled, her breath hissing out, she saw him lower his brow a fraction. Kethe gave him a nod and approached. He's impossibly fast. He's steeped in the power. He can move quicker than I can track with my eyes. Well, all right, then. I've got power too.
Something told her he wouldn't attack, so she abandoned the middle guard for the high, blade raised up for a vicious downward slash. She approached, not rushing, and stared through Saadak. She focused on her breath, and when she was close
enough, she picked up speed and hacked down at him.
He was gone. Kethe didn't panic, didn't seek to spin, track him, react. A split second before the attack came, she sensed it, her whole body tensing – to her right. She pivoted and parried the blow from his staff, went to riposte, but he was gone. It was so hard to stay calm, to fight back the urge to see. From behind. She ducked. The staff screamed over her head. Down and left. She blocked, blade whipping down, but this time she put force into the parry, chopping with it, and sheared through the staff, lopping a good third of it off.
The staff's end bounced on the training grounds and she saw Saadak stepping back, his narrow chest heaving for breath, his frown visible to all. Kethe smiled at him. "My turn."
Fire roared through her veins. She didn't try for a killing blow. She simply unleashed her sword so that it spat at him like a viper's tongue, flickering in from all sides, a storm that pressed him from all angles.
And, oh, he was good. He was beyond fast. He didn't parry, but simply moved, dodged and swayed aside. But he was running out of stamina. His age was working against him, while Kethe felt as if she were just getting started. Over and over, she sliced and chopped, thrust and cut, driving him back until, without expecting to, she slapped the flat of her blade across his temple.
Saadak let out a cry and staggered back, fell to one knee, fought to rise, then collapsed.
Kethe stepped over to him. Her heart was pounding like a boulder racing down a steep slope. "Yield?"
Saadak blinked, his eyes unfocused, then smiled and nodded.
Kethe grinned and helped him up. He weighed next to nothing, and she bent to collect his fallen staff. "Good fight," she said.
He rubbed the side of his temple. "Indeed. I look forward to seeing how far you will go."
Before she could answer, the official called out sternly, "Kethe of Ennoia proceeds to the next round."
Scattered applause surrounded her. Kethe thought of making an irreverent bow, but the piercing eyes of the Virtues arrayed before her stilled any desire at mockery. She returned her blade and stood behind Sighart, who gave her an approving nod. Only twelve Consecrated remained to fight the next round, and then the winners would face off against the Virtues.
"You're doing well," said Sighart.
"You're not doing so badly yourself," said Kethe, a flash of joy racing through her.
The third round began. These were now the elite of the Consecrated, and Kethe watched wide-eyed. The battles were as intense as they were fast. Men and women from across the Empire matched their martial skills and control of their power in furious displays that were a thrill to watch. Kethe had grown up loving her father's tournaments, but these displays of prowess put every thundering joust to shame. She stood beside Sighart, simply watching and marveling. Did she move as quickly as these others? She kept glancing sidelong at the remaining contestants. Which of them would she fight?
Sighart was called forward. He faced off against a muscular woman from Zoe, her skin gleaming in the morning sunlight, her face intense with deadly intent. She chose a sword and shield and fought cautiously, giving ground, seeking her chance to launch a blistering counterattack. Sighart never gave her that chance. He battered her shield to pieces, drove her in circles around the training ground, and eventually forced her to one knee to yield. Kethe let out a whoop of excitement, heard Dalitha do the same from the sidelines, and then looked over to the other girl and shared a grin with her.
Sighart returned, breathing heavily, and clapped Kethe on the shoulder. "Let's see you do better."
Kethe's name was called. Her heart fluttered with excitement. "Just watch."
Her opponent was Richolf, a hulking Ennoian from Mixis' cohort. Kethe felt her heart sink. He'd dominated every one of his fights thus far, combining his muscle with terrible speed and intimidating power from the White Gate. Handsome in a brutally striking way, he chose a plain longsword which he held with both hands. His brown hair was cut short, his chin was dark with dense stubble, and his nose was broken in two places. He watched her with a steadfast stare, his eyes unreadable, his mouth set.
Kethe fought the urge to gulp.
The flag whipped down, and instantly he was upon her, crossing the distance between them in the blink of an eye. It was all Kethe could do to parry and avoid his blows, desperately bobbing and sidestepping, lurching back, knocking his blade aside with her own. Sparks flew whenever their swords touched, so hard was the contact.
He gave her no time to think, to plan, to react. She was driven back, and back again, her hands and forearms growing numb from the shivering force that ran down her sword each time she stopped his blade. His attacks came from below, both sides, overhead, thrust right at her face and chest.
Sweating, wanting to curse, she put a flood of power into her legs and threw herself back, retreating ten yards in one swift leap, but he followed right after her, giving her not a second to react. She was driven to one knee by a wicked overhead blow, then rolled to her left to avoid the return cut. She came up just in time to deflect a thrust, staggered back as a swipe nearly took off her head, and then nearly lost her sword from a vicious disarming flick of his blade.
Panic flooded through her. He was a wall without a chink for her to exploit. His speed was equal to hers, his strength much greater. Was she simply outmatched? She couldn't think, couldn't respond. Fear opened its wet, cloying wings in her throat. She was going to lose.
Richolf was grunting with each blow, swinging his sword two-handed, putting all his strength into each attack. Both of their blades were badly notched. Kethe raised her sword high to block a descending blow, and Richolf rammed his fist into her gut, lifting her right off the ground with the force of it.
The world contracted as she fell back on her heels, unable to breathe. She couldn't bring her blade to bear. Couldn't move. She saw him bring his sword around to finish her off.
Her panic was replaced by rage. No thought, no images, no memories; just a sudden flaring of world-consuming black berserker fury. She would not be defeated. She would not go down.
Grasping her blade's hilt with both hands, she stepped forward and swung right at Richolf's descending sword. Not to parry, not to block, but an outright strike. For a second before their blades met, she saw white fire run up the length of her weapon, felt herself become a channel, a conduit, heard the rushing roar of the White Gate's consuming ecstasy, and then their blades met and Richolf's shattered.
Kethe swung right through it, staggered and nearly fell, then turned to level her sword point at Richolf's throat as he stared at the foot of tortured steel that emerged from his hilt. Wheezing, gasping for breath, Kethe fought to stand straight.
The white fire was gone from her blade. Its tip wavered in the air. Richolf looked up, struck dumb with shock, and then dropped the remnants of his sword. It clattered on the rock.
"Kethe of Ennoia proceeds to the final round."
The official's voice barely penetrated her thoughts. She wanted to vomit, the blow to her gut having roiled her innards. It was all she could do not to drop her sword and place her hands on her knees.
Dalitha was calling her name. Kethe looked up, vision swimming, and saw her cohort cheering her on. Surprised, taking strength from their support, she straightened.
Richolf was simply staring at her. "How did you do that?" His voice was filled with wonder.
"I don't know." Her voice was clotted with pain. She should say something witty, something smart, but nothing came. Instead, she limped over to the weapons rack, returned her nearly ruined blade, and walked back to Sighart.
"Are you all right?" His voice was hesitant, his whole manner changed. "Do you need to sit?"
"No. I'm fine." She gritted her teeth and forced herself to push her shoulders back, spreading her bruised abdominal muscles. The pain was already easing. That white fire – how had she summoned it? When she was connected to Asho, it had seemed instinctive, a confirmation of their bond. But alone, without him? Wh
at did it mean that she'd felt the White Gate so close?
Theletos stepped to the edge of the platform. "Only six Consecrated remain. No matter how the remainder of the Quickening progresses, you have all earned great honor. We salute you – and, through that, know that you have earned the approval of the Ascendant himself. We now progress to the final round. Each Virtue will select a Consecrated with whom to do battle. When all the Consecrated have lost, we will confer and determine which of you showed the greatest merit. That Consecrated will have proven themselves to be the next Makaria."
Conversation and excitement swirled through the audience, but Kethe wanted to groan. She felt horribly depleted. She wanted to lie down, to rest, to sleep.
But Theletos wasn't done. "I shall go first. As my opponent, I call forth Selena of Nous from Henosis' cohort."
Kethe lowered herself into a squat. Despite how awful she felt, she wouldn't miss this for the world. Theletos leaped down easily from the platform and strode out into the center of the square, his silver blade in hand.
Selena, a wiry fighter who had demonstrated a lethal combination of speed and tenacity in each fight, rushed to the weapons rack, terror on her face, and selected her blade. She then ran to stand before him, her brown face ashen, her lips a bloodless line, and when the official called the fight, she nearly dropped her sword.
Kethe didn't know what to expect. She half-thought Theletos would toy with Selena, would humiliate her, but instead he began with an almost nonchalant series of attacks, warming Selena up, allowing her to shed her fear and focus on the battle.
He then began to press her, moving faster and faster, striking with greater force, until finally he was driving her back. She attempted several different attacks, ranging from high flying attacks to cunning ripostes, but Theletos calmly parried and pushed her till her defense became ragged, her blows went wild, and at last she was completely unable to keep up with his pace and her blade flew from her hand to skitter across the stone.
