Apart from their gift with weaponry, an Upaka could be recognized by their uniquely colored irises. Unlike most eyes of green and blue and brown, Upakan eyes were pale gray. It was said that the Creator had marked them this way to give fair warning to any who would dare challenge that they were dealing with one of the Upaka. Ayrion figured it had more to do with the fact that they lived underground in the ruins of the Forgotten City than some unique sign from the Creator.
Ayrion’s fingers opened and shut in sync around the hilt of his swords as he tightened his grip, waiting for the inevitable. Lowering his head, he closed his eyes and reached out with his senses as was his routine before every fight since he was a child. It was as though he could feel what his opponents were going to do even before it happened.
His father had always told him, “You have magic, son. And that gift is going to come with a price.” Of course, at ten years old, he had no idea what his father was talking about. All he knew was that he was better than the others, and there was nothing more glorious than to be the best. He soon discovered how wrong he was. It was that same arrogance which had eventually cost him his family, his home, and his very identity.
He took a deep breath.
Ayrion’s eyes opened as he felt the first wave of movement. From his right, one of the lancers lunged forward, striking from an overhead position and swinging at a downward angle from right to left, attempting a shoulder cut. He’s going to move left. With the speed and agility of a veteran, Ayrion pivoted on his right foot, spinning his body toward his attacker. He raised his right arm, parrying the oncoming strike and forcing the lancer’s blade to veer away from its intended target. His left arm was now free to counter. Head-strike, definitely a head-strike. Ayrion spun around and punched the unprepared guard in the face with the hilt of his left sword, dropping the man to the ground, unconscious.
Behind you! Ayrion used the momentum of his spin to deflect the next attacker who had thought to catch him with his back turned. The second lancer struck once, twice, three times, each with lethal intent, bringing all his strength to bear. But strength alone does not a champion make. Ayrion moved with remarkable skill. He used his right sword to not only block each strike but to beat-parry them away from his body with what seemed to be as little effort as swatting at an annoying fly.
Angered at the lack of exertion required by his opponent to counter his aggression, the lancer pushed even harder, hoping his sheer size and brute force would be enough to bring Ayrion down. But, as Ayrion’s father used to say, “Fighting is most often won with a head clear of emotions.”
Alright, watch for it. You need to go underneath. Ayrion used his attacker’s energy against him as the guard took one last lunging swing toward his midsection. Anticipating the cut, Ayrion reversed his position. He spun low and swept the lancer’s legs out from under him. The man hit the dirt face first. Ayrion quickly kicked him in the head with the side of his boot, just hard enough to make sure he didn’t get back up.
From the courtyard came a sense of awe as the armed lancers stood around shaking their heads in amazement. Wafting down from above came the sounds of clapping and giddy excitement as the high nobility watched in lustful anticipation. The lords, with their soft hands having never seen an honest day’s labor in their lives, clapped with eager praise, while some of the ladies busied themselves by hanging out over the railing, using their physiques as a way to garner his fervent attention. Ayrion scoffed at the ridiculous pomp of it all.
Only from the royal terrace was there a sense of respectful admiration as the High King and Queen sat back and judged the reactions portrayed by each ambassador. Ayrion could tell the king had more in mind than mere entertainment when he had called for this little exhibition.
Ayrion stepped over the second lancer and moved to face the last three. They had decided to use a simultaneous assault. He applauded their common sense.
Like the others, he could feel their courses of action, and with movement that did not seem humanly possible, he feinted left and then right. Parrying one sword while throwing back another. Blocking with his right and striking with his left. The whirl of motion left his dark blades as nothing but a blurry distortion to the average observer.
After the dust had settled, only the Guardian Protector remained standing while around him lay five lancers nursing their newly formed bruises and sadly depleted egos. Cheers erupted from the viewing audience as Ayrion slid his blades back into the sheaths he had strapped to his back. He turned and bowed toward the center terrace and the High King.
His eyes, however, were quick to drift away from the royal family as they searched out those of Amarysia. There was something about her that seemed different from any of the other women he had been introduced to at court. Of course, their first meeting hadn’t exactly been the grandest, unless you call bumping into one another in the hall and her running off, a formal introduction.
With the title of Guardian Protector, Ayrion was a highly sought-after-prize for many of the young, and not so young, ladies at court. Many beautiful pairs of eyes had blinked fondly in his direction, but he had never been one to be coerced by a pretty face. In fact, he would take a plain but kind woman over a spoiled debutante anytime.
From his experience, most beautiful women of means tended to be quite snobbish and annoying. He figured it must have something to do with the way they viewed themselves. In Amarysia’s case, however, her outward beauty was a reflection of what was truly inside. This could be seen in no greater way than her ardent service to her queen.
The remaining onlookers shuffled their way back indoors as Barthol Respuel, the High Guard Captain and Ayrion’s right hand, stepped into the ring. “Any idea what this was all about?” The big man helped an unsteady lancer to his feet and pounded the man’s back, trying to dust off the dirt. But with fists the size of stone hammers, Barthol’s helping was more detrimental to the poor lancer’s health than anything else.
Ayrion handed the lancer his sword. “My guess is the king wanted us to put on a show for the ambassadors.” He nodded toward the now empty terrace. “No doubt to instill a little trepidation in them before they report back to their overlords. Hopefully force them to think twice before planning any future incursions into Elondrian territory.” He shrugged. “But that’s just a guess.”
“A pretty close one, I’d wager.” They watched the long procession of lords and ladies follow the royal family back inside the splendor of the second floor ballroom. “You’re gonna need to keep an eye on that one.”
Ayrion turned to follow his friend’s gaze, but with the wave of bodies moving toward the large double entrance he couldn’t be sure who Barthol was referring to.
“The prince,” Barthol said, realizing Ayrion hadn’t seen who he had been pointing to. “If I were you I’d watch my back. Everyone knows he’s got an itch for that lady of yours.”
“First of all, she’s not my lady. And second, I’ve known Dakaran since we were children. He might be a bit high-strung but I don’t believe he’d take it that far.”
Barthol gave Ayrion a hard look and grunted.
Dakaran wasn’t the same person he used to be. He’d changed, grown more distant. A dark cloud had taken up permanent residence over his head. Part of it was this new advisor, Valtor. Something about the man didn’t sit right with Ayrion. He was always smiling. Ayrion didn’t trust a man who smiled that much. “I think the Arch Chancellor is having a bad effect on him.”
“Bet your bottom he is,” Barthol barked. “Now there’s a right nasty piece of work for you. What bog hole he came slithering out of I’ll never know. But he done hooked his barbs into the prince, and there’s no denying that.”
Ayrion nodded. With someone like Valtor weaseling his way into the royal family, he couldn’t imagine what kind of problems they were all going to be facing down the road.
Chapter 12 | Ayrion
AYRION WAS HALFWAY back to the palace, passing under an arched trellis of hanging wisteria wit
h its purple spray floating around him in the breeze like a fine mist, when a member of his guard rounded the corner and approached.
“Sir, the High King requests your presence in his study.” The young ranker saluted with his right fist crossing his chest. Ayrion returned the gesture before dismissing him.
He was a little curious as to the summoning. Knowing the king, he probably wished to congratulate Ayrion on his performance and, in a roundabout way, check to make sure he was unharmed. Ever since the king had taken Ayrion in as a boy and given him a position in the palace, he had kept a close eye on him. The king’s attention had in no small part helped make up for the loss of his own family.
Ayrion walked across the courtyard and through the statue-lined pavilion toward the main floor of the foyer. If Aramoor was considered the jewel of the empire, then the royal palace was its splendor. Its towers and halls, courtyards and gardens sat protected, an island on the edge of a cliff, overlooking the Bay of Torrin. It could be seen for miles in any direction. The capital city lay spread in a semi-circular pattern out from the palace, like a bride’s train spreading outward behind her.
The sound of Ayrion’s boots echoed off the checkered marble of the atrium as he headed in the direction of one of the grand staircases on the far side. The stairs split as they wound their way up to the second, third, and fourth floors. He followed the inlaid railing to the top and made his way down a labyrinth of warmly lit hallways and corridors, each as lavishly decorated as the next. The king’s study was located on the northwest side of the palace.
Ayrion stepped out of the final stairwell and rounded the corner. He could see the prince waiting in the corridor ahead, a large goblet resting in one hand. He looked to be well on his way to full intoxication. Ayrion hated dealing him when he was like this. Dakaran had always resented his father’s affection for Ayrion. The older they had gotten, the further that wedge of jealousy had been driven.
“Well, if it isn’t the great Ayrion,” Dakaran said, his words already beginning to slur. “The king’s Guardian Protector. I see you managed to outshine your opponents once again.” He raised his glass in salute. His unsteady hand dumped some of its contents onto the lush gold and crimson carpet.
“I did what was asked of me, nothing more.”
“Yes, the pride of Elondria. The Dark Warrior. The man who can’t be beaten. Tell me, how does it feel to be my father’s champion? His favorite little lap dog.” Dakaran snickered. “Does he pet you on the head when you’re good?”
“You’re drunk, Dakaran.”
“So glad you noticed.”
“I’m not talking to you when you’re like this.” Ayrion moved to walk around him but Dakaran cut him off, pressing Ayrion up against the wall. His breath was as strong as a vintner’s.
“What makes you so special, huh? Even as children you always got away with everything. The perfect little boy.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Our adventures. You remember our little adventures, don’t you?” Dakaran patted Ayrion on his cheek with his free hand. “Sneaking outside the palace walls with Kira and Reevie and Po, you remember. Except . . .” Dakaran glanced down the hall as if he were about to divulge some great political intrigue. “Whenever we were found out, you were conveniently never around.” He smiled and took another sip of his wine.
“Dakaran, we were kids, and the only reason I was rarely caught was because I was never foolish enough to brag about it. Now if you don’t . . . mind.” Ayrion tried pushing Dakaran to the side.
“Oh, I mind, I do. You know, you might have everyone else around here fooled, but not me.” He sloshed some more of his drink, this time catching part of it in the laced tie around his waist. “Not me. And I’ll tell you something else, I’m going to let that little lady friend of yours . . . What’s her name? Amarysia? I’m going to let her know all about our little Ayrion.” Dakaran patted Ayrion’s shoulder. He wiped a few leftover flakes of sand from his black leather coat. “You better be careful,” he said as he leaned in to whisper in Ayrion’s ear. “Someone might just come along and steal her away.”
Ayrion clenched his fists and bit his tongue to keep from lashing out at the open threat. The prince took a step back and made a swooping bow, gesturing for Ayrion to be on his way. Ayrion didn’t hesitate. He wondered how long Dakaran had been holding that in, obviously a while. If it hadn’t been for the wine, he’d probably still be carrying it.
Ayrion stopped in front of the ornate, golden oak doors leading into the king’s study. On either side stood a member of the High Guard, trimmed in black and silver livery. Each had a shortsword strapped to his waist and one to his back. A halberd rested comfortably in the hand furthest from the entrance, allowing for free access to the doors’ handles. As much as Ayrion had complained about the archaic ritual of holding those large obtrusive weapons, the High King was a stickler for tradition.
The two guards saluted. Ayrion waited as one of the soldiers stepped forward and opened the door to announce him. “Master Ayrion to see you as requested, Your Majesty.” From the other side of the door, Ayrion could just make out the sound of hushed voices. “Good, send him in.”
The guard took a step back to let Ayrion pass, but before Ayrion made it halfway through the door, Dakaran shoved his way by and sauntered over to where a small group had assembled in front of the fire. Taking the empty seat in the middle, he promptly had one of the servants refill his glass.
The king’s study was a large room with a vaulted ceiling layered in crosshatched beams of rich, mahogany cedar. To his right was a wall of inlaid shelves crafted of the same dark wood, housing an impressive selection of books of all shapes and sizes. There was an enormous hanging on the far wall, depicting a detailed cartography of Aldor along with its five kingdoms, natural landmarks, and an updated collection of outlying cities, towns, and villages. Ayrion had spent many an hour studying and memorizing the illustration.
At the head of the room was an enormous stone hearth, large enough for a grown man to walk around inside. The High King stood beside it, nursing a glass of wine.
Turning his attention back to the front, Ayrion took a few steps into the room then bowed. “You sent for me, Your Majesty?”
“Guardian, please.” Rhydan motioned for him to approach. “I would like to introduce you to our esteemed guests.” All four of the ambassadors remained seated. The high-back chairs had been positioned in such a way as to best enjoy the heat of the fire.
“It would be my honor, Your Majesty.” Ayrion walked around to the front of the small gathering and bowed, low enough to be considered respectful of their position, but not so much as to be groveling for attention.
The king started from left to right. “We have Ambassador Gyin from Briston, Ambassador Belkor from Cylmar, Ambassador Lanmiere from Sidara, and Ambassador Nierdon from Keldor.” The king motioned in Ayrion’s direction. “Gentlemen, I give you, Ayrion, Guardian Protector to the king.” Rhydan glanced at Ayrion. “They were most impressed with your display earlier and requested an introduction.”
Ayrion bowed once more. “I thank you. Although, I’m certain these gentlemen have no doubt witnessed more impressive displays of swordsmanship than what I have bestowed.”
Nierdon, with his long face and beady eyes, crossed his right leg while spinning his finger around the stem of his goblet. “Ah, a self-deprecating warrior . . . You’re a dangerous man, sir.”
“Only to those who wish harm to my king.”
“And loyal, I see.” Ambassador Lanmiere ran his fingers through his neatly groomed beard. “It is indeed reassuring to see the king has shown such wisdom in his choice of champion.”
Ayrion nodded in the Sidaran Ambassador’s direction. “I thank you for your kind words.”
The Briston Ambassador, a rotund individual with a flushed face, no doubt due to his unhealthy aptitude for merriment, lowered his goblet. “Wherever did you find him, Your Majesty? Hup,” he half-burped
, half-hiccupped. “His eyes are quite . . . unique.”
The king raised his glass. “You are perceptive, Ambassador Gyin. He’s Upakan.”
Belkor, the ambassador from Cylmar, spit his wine. “May the Defiler take all Upaka, mongrels that they are!”
No one moved.
Gyin gulped as he tried swallowing his latest mouthful.
The Cylmaran Ambassador’s brow lowered as he fixed Ayrion with a harsh glare.
Ayrion smiled. It hurt, but he was used to the constant slights to his heritage. He knew his people were quite often despised for their choice of profession as mercenaries, especially those on the receiving end. He could only imagine that the ambassador, or someone he knew, had undergone such an experience.
“I’ve always found, Ambassador, that it is the mongrel which tends to be the most dangerous. They have not been bred into servitude and stupidity as some,” he said with a rather obvious undertone, “which makes them . . . unpredictable.” Ayrion took a deep breath. “Yes, I believe if I were a betting man, I’d take the mongrel over the pedigree every time.”
“Ha!” The Sidaran Ambassador laughed. “He’s got you there, Belkor.” He gestured with his glass. “If I were you, I’d think twice before insulting one of the Upaka with nothing more between you and him than a beaker of fine wine.” He continued chuckling as a few of the others nodded their agreements.
A fleeting smile crossed the king’s face as Rhydan held out his arm. “Well, I believe adequate introductions have been observed. Thank you for your presence, Guardian.”
Ayrion bowed. “Thank you, Your Majesty. By your leave?”
The White Tower (The Aldoran Chronicles: Book 1) Page 11
