Forging the Sword (The Farsala Trilogy)

by Bell, Hilari

  “I accept your challenge, for Farsala and for this man’s life.”

  “You’re Sorahb?” Garren asked. He looked completely taken aback—and in that moment Soraya knew that he himself had not believed in Sorahb’s existence. His spies, or the men who studied their reports, must have reached the correct conclusion. When Garren had realized that the Kadeshi troops were lost to him, he put together this whole farce—not as an excuse to kill Kavi, but to show the people of Setesafon, of all Farsala, that their champion didn’t exist. Or that if he did, he wouldn’t risk himself to save one of them.

  Garren had never been stupid, but this maneuver was brilliant! He could have taken the heart out of the resistance, all over Farsala, just when he most needed them to fail! Now … Soraya suppressed a giggle. Now his whole plan was thwarted, because a foolish deghan youth stood before him, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “Yes. I’m Sorahb.”

  He didn’t sound very convincing. Soraya knew that Fasal was willing to claim the name only because he too knew the truth—that everyone who had fought the Hrum was Sorahb. He had as much right to that identity as anyone.

  The crowd didn’t know that. Their roar of approval, of adulation, made the stands shake and had Soraya clapping her hands over her ears. The expression on Garren’s face was magnificent, but even he didn’t look as dumbfounded as the peddler—who also knew that there was no Sorahb—as he stared at the total stranger who had just ridden up and offered to fight for his life. A deghan stranger!

  Soraya’s laughter was lost in the crowd’s cheers, but the burst of thunder that echoed it was not.

  Garren looked up at the gathering clouds, his expression dark with furious thought. He’d had no objection to waiting in the rain to prove to Farsala that their champion … wasn’t. Now his plans were changing. Now there was only one way to kill the myth.

  He pulled off his robe and tossed it into the hands of one of his guards. Because he’d had to make it look as if he expected to fight, he had arrived wearing his sword and the steel breastplate of an officer. As Soraya watched, one of his guards brought forth his helmet, and Garren buckled it on.

  Fasal wore a Farsalan deghan’s armor of padded silk studded with steel rings. Not as heavy as the Hrum’s, but not as strong, either; the deghans had relied on their horses’ agility to carry them out of harm’s way—an advantage Fasal wouldn’t have today. But surely all that steel would slow a man on foot, as well?

  Since Jiaan wasn’t there to ask, Soraya looked to the peddler, hoping to read something about Fasal’s chances in his face. But he was still gaping at “Sorahb” in astonishment. Had he ever even seen Fasal before? Soraya thought not. When they had first encountered the peddler, Fasal had been left behind with her father’s command, and after the battle at the Sendar Wall, Fasal had been with the new Farsalan army—which the peddler had done his best to avoid, because he was avoiding Jiaan. He might have met Fasal when he was spying on her fathers army for the Hrum, but only in passing—one of the high commander’s many young aides. Judging by the expression on his bruised face, if he’d ever seen Fasal in his life, he didn’t remember it. To him it must have seemed as if a ghost had suddenly come to life: a legend taken on flesh and breath, and come to save him.

  Listening to the excited babble of the crowd around her, Soraya knew that it didn’t hurt that Fasal was young and handsome—the picture of a true deghan as he sprang down from the saddle and went to stand outside the circle, facing Garren.

  One of the senators was speaking, probably explaining the rules, though no one in the audience could hear him. When he finished, Fasal drew his sword, saluted his opponent, and stepped into the circle. Garren, his expression cool and controlled, did the same. For the first time, Soraya wondered if the governor was any good with a sword.

  He was. He stalked Fasal around the circle with the catlike stride of a swordsman. His blade flirted with Fasal’s, the ringing taps barely audible over the murmur of voices.

  Then Garren saw an opening—Soraya never knew what it was—and leaped forward, his sword flashing in. Fasal’s sword clashed against it; then he disengaged in a slithering rasp of steel on steel. He sprang back, balanced and ready, and Garren stalked after him once more. Soraya found she’d pressed one hand over her breast—a girlish, poetical gesture she had always considered ridiculous, until her heart tried to beat its way out of her chest.

  The massed voice of the crowd took on a tinge of disappointment—why did Sorahb keep backing away? Was he afraid to exchange blows with the governor?

  But Soraya, growing up in her father’s household, had seen many practice combats—fights very like the duel she watched now, except that they used wooden practice swords. Her father’s voice, coaching countless young swordsmen, echoed in her memory.

  If your opponent is older than you, he’s probably more experienced—so forget about heroics! He’s better than you are! Don’t rush in swinging like a fool. Let him spend his strength attacking while you just parry. Use some of that cursed energy of yours to outlast him. Then, when he’s exhausted, you might stand a chance.

  For a moment it was as if her father stood beside the circle, prompting his young protégé. Soraya’s throat tightened and her vision blurred. And in that moment, thick, cold drops began to fall. She was influencing the storm, curse it! She hadn’t time for this!

  She wiped her eyes impatiently, but another scatter of raindrops pelted down. Her tears might have prompted the rain to start, but once started it wasn’t going to stop. And a Hrum strategus, who must have fought in many campaigns, would have far more experience fighting on foot in the mud than Fasal would.

  Garren leaped forward again, and swords clashed. It looked as if Fasal barely disengaged his blade in time, but when he stepped back he was still poised, still on guard.

  Never taking her eyes from the fight—no full trance today—Soraya let her shilshadu drift into the storm until she sensed the swirling movements of the high clouds as clearly as she felt the cold wind in her hair. Lightning cracked nearby—too near, and Soraya flinched, but the fighters didn’t. She drew courage from that, easing her will into the currents of the wind, twisting them aside, creating an open space in the tumult of the storm.

  With the part of her spirit that was the storm, she felt the great release of rain pouring over the rest of the city, darkening the stones in the empty streets. But here, over the flags-and-lances field, only a few drops fell.

  Garren must have understood Fasal’s strategy, for he pressed the youth harder, their swords ringing and ringing again. Once his attack pushed Fasal out of the circle, and the guards descended on both of them, knocking up their blades, pulling them apart.

  So one of the rules was that the fight wasn’t allowed to leave the circle. When it did, Soraya saw now, the guards escorted both combatants to the opposite sides of the ring and allowed them to begin again. That was to Garren’s advantage, for it let him catch his breath as they returned to their places—and although it was hard to tell at this distance, he seemed to be tiring. Even the audience had realized that despite the fury of Garren’s attack, he had yet to break through Fasal’s guard. This surprised them, for watching them both it was clear that Garren was the better swordsman.

  Of course they didn’t know, as Soraya did, that Fasal had spent most of the last year teaching men to fight with swords. He might not have gained much skill on the attack, but he could clearly parry with the best of them, and his stamina had to be phenomenal.

  Garren had spent the last year sitting in meetings and behind a desk.

  For the first time, hope that Fasal might win surged in Soraya’s heart—and as it did, the lightning crashed. It struck in the palace gardens, just the other side of the stands, and people in the nearby sections jumped to their feet and hurried down, seeking lower seats or standing behind the guarded barrier.

  Lightning blazed through Soraya’s nerves—not the fire she’d expected, but as if the burning light of the sun had been made sol
id.

  The old terror, the desire to release the storm, to hide from the lightning, seized her—but if she let go, the rain would fall here, too, and Fasal was beginning to maneuver against his experienced opponent.

  He too realized that Garren had left the circle deliberately, to gain a chance to breathe. Now Fasal danced around the Hrum officer, still defending, but keeping both of them inside the circle, giving Garren no chance to break out and gain another respite. This was trickier than parrying as Garren pushed him, and the audience cheered.

  Soraya could almost hear her father’s steady voice: Wait. Wait for it. She wondered if Fasal could hear it too, but that hardly mattered. What mattered was the arc of her will, holding the pouring rain off the field, refusing Garren that advantage.

  He was tiring now, his stride not as graceful, as cat-certain, as before. But when he came to his decision, he showed no sign of it, suddenly leaping to a full attack, his sword surging forward again and again.

  Fasal met the attack with parry after parry. His face gleamed with sweat, but it wore an odd, exalted peace, as if he too felt his commander’s presence.

  This, Soraya realized, was the duel that should have been fought at the Sendar Wall—only this time Farsala would win!

  Another lightning bolt was born of her triumph, and this time it crashed within the flags-and-lances ground. People fled the nearby stands, but Soraya didn’t care. The clouds pressed in on her will, trying to complete the part of their pattern that her will denied them—and Fasal was launching his attack.

  He wasn’t as good a swordsman, but he was young, and Garren was visibly tiring. Now it was Garren who pulled back, parrying Fasal’s strokes. He tried to break out of the circle, but Fasal kept turning him back toward the center. Then Garren shouted something and lowered his sword.

  Soraya couldn’t hear what he said, but Fasal stepped back, his blade still lifted—his gaze flying to the platform where Kavi no longer stood but crouched on his hands and knees. One of Garren’s guards had placed a foot on the rope that bound his ankles, and Soraya saw another step forward onto the rope between his wrists, pinning him down. Yet another guard drew his sword.

  “No!” Soraya’s cry was lost in the great shout that rose from the stands. Lightning crashed in half a dozen places at once.

  The thunder swallowed all sound, almost drowning thought as well. But in that instant, when the storm’s violence held everyone frozen, Soraya suddenly realized that Kavi didn’t deserve a traitor’s death, not from anyone. Yes, he’d betrayed the deghans, and the Hrum in turn, but he’d been true to Farsala from beginning to end. Garren was cheat—

  Her gaze flew back to the governor just in time. Everyone else was watching the threatened execution, the ruse, up on the dais. Soraya thought she was the only one who saw Garren reach down, grab a handful of sand, and cast it into Fasal’s face.

  Fasal had started toward the dais, shouting a protest, even as the senators and the Hrum officers surged to their feet.

  He jerked back when the sand struck him, brushing frantically at his eyes, blocking wildly with his sword. It was sheer luck his blade met Garren’s.

  The clash of steel drew all eyes back to the circle, and those on the dais—including, Soraya was relieved to see, the executioner—turned to watch the fight once more.

  She had lost all control of the storm. Rain was falling, faster and faster, but the storm had already spent most of its strength, and the rain wasn’t thick enough to conceal the two fighters as Fasal leaped back again, still wiping furiously at his eyes.

  Garren’s sword swung in, under his guard, slicing through the flesh above one knee, and Fasal cried out and fell.

  Soraya watched in numb horror as Garren stepped forward and raised his sword, sweeping it down in a killing strike. But this was no subtle thrust that blurred, streaming eyes might miss. Fasal’s sword swung up to block the stroke—and Garren’s blade shattered.

  Somehow, even through the roar of the crowd, she heard the peddler’s shout of triumph. This was the first time a Hrum sword had broken, as so many Farsalan blades had broken at the Sendar Wall, where her father …

  Garren will cheat, Jiaan’s voice whispered in her mind.

  Fasal staggered to his feet. Some fragment of Garren’s blade must have nicked him as it flew past; blood streamed from a cut on his jaw, and still more blood darkened the knee of his britches and ran down his boot. Soraya was amazed he could stand, that he could walk at all, as he limped forward.

  Garren didn’t back away. He stood, head high, the image of a governor, an officer.

  “He’s going to die well,” a woman murmured.

  Then Garren lifted one hand and brought it slashing down, and a dozen arrows leaped from the bows of his guards and buried themselves in Fasal’s body.

  Garren will cheat. Just as he cheated the last time.

  The rest of the crowd screamed. Soraya stood frozen, as Fasal stumbled to his knees, then fell and died. As her father had died.

  It wasn’t the Hrum who killed my father.

  Some of the townsfolk ran, fleeing the stadium, fleeing the deaths. But after the first moment of shock, most of the crowd surged down from the stands, tumbling onto the field like a human avalanche. Garren had murdered their champion—they would make him pay. They rushed forward, pushing over the barriers, overwhelming the shocked Hrum guards—who in truth weren’t fighting very hard. A flight of arrows arced from the stands, riding the wind, but the storm was all but spent, and they fell short.

  It wasn’t Kavi’s betrayal that killed my father.

  The senators, the Hrum officers, had drawn their weapons. Some of the senators’ guards were fighting with the governor’s, trying to break into the circle where Garren stood, sword raised, beside Fasal’s body. But most of them, seeing the mob streaming toward the dais, were already forming a perimeter around the senators. Soon all of them would be swept up in that defense, and Garren would escape. Garren …

  That bastard killed my father!

  Soraya opened her shilshadu and launched her spirit into the storm. Most of its power was spent, its rain fallen, its twisting winds unraveled, but she found one spinning knot of energy and seized it with her mind and will. It wasn’t strong enough on its own, so she fed it her anger, her hatred, her grief—not only for her father, but for Fasal, for all the damage this Arzhang-possessed man had done. And in the spinning vortex of her fury, lightning was born.

  She felt it, distantly, streaming through the nerves of her body, but Soraya was now almost wholly the storm, and she no longer cared if it destroyed her, as long as it destroyed her enemy, as well. She hurtled power earthward, straight at the man whose actions had given so much strength to the energy that formed it. She felt it strike the earth, the blow ringing through her body. When the lightning dissipated, it took her consciousness with it.

  SORAYA WAS LYING on the ground, wet sand and grass under her face and hands, rain striking her body. When she opened her eyes, still not thinking, she saw nothing but a pair of muddy boots, and more boots beyond them, running.

  “You all right, lass?” a man’s voice asked. A warm hand tightened on her shoulder. “I saw you go down, and that’s no good thing in a mob like this.”

  Soraya lifted her head. She was no longer in the stands, but lying on the flags-and-lances field, almost halfway to the dais. She had no idea how she’d gotten there.

  “I don’t … I …”

  Her whole body tingled and throbbed, as if it held an echo of the lightning. She also felt bruised, as if she’d been stepped on. She couldn’t see the dais from where she lay.

  “What’s happening? Is Garren …? the governor …?”

  “Oh, he’s dead.” The savage satisfaction in the man’s voice contrasted with the gentle hands that helped her sit upright. “That lightning bolt near blew him apart. Some are saying Azura himself did it, but some say it was Sorahb Storm-bringer’s last act on his way to greet the god. Either way, we’ve just seen a
true miracle—not like the ones the temple used to fake. More than half the crowd took off like rabbits. Can’t say I blame them—it’s a terrifying thing, lightning. Still, that’s no excuse to be knocking a girl down and trampling on her. You want me to take you out of this, lass?”

  “No,” said Soraya, pulling herself to her feet. “Get me closer.”

  The man looked askance at her, but he wanted to get closer too. At first he almost had to carry her along, but by the time they reached the edge of the crowd around the dais she was walking on her own, strongly enough that he released her shoulder and made no protest when she left him and squirmed into the seething mass of bodies.

  Garren’s guards had seized Kavi. He was no longer on the platform but down in the circle, pinned once more on his hands and knees. He was talking to the guards around him, intense, persuasive. But they were looking at the mob that surrounded them, surrounded both the circle and the platform where the Hrum officers stood with swords drawn to protect the senate committee.

  Not that swords would do much good against the bows that were now visible scattered throughout the crowd. The lightning strike had thinned the mob considerably, and the people who remained were the ones who meant to fight. All of Jiaan’s archers were now within range. If the Hrum made one wrong move, Fasal’s death would be avenged in the blood of every Hrum present today. But that thought, which once would have pleased her, only made Soraya shudder. She wiggled between two stocky men and caught a glimpse of Garren’s charred, ruptured body. Revenge enough.

  Her searching gaze found Jiaans hard, white face, and she understood why he’d withheld the order to fire. But what now? The attitude of the Hrum guards and officers made it clear that if Hrum blood washed away Sorahb’s, plenty of Farsalan blood would join it—but the crowd, equally clearly, wanted revenge on everyone involved in Garren’s treachery.

  One of Garren’s guardsmen looked at the mob’s determined faces and reached the same conclusion she had. “The governor’s last orders!” he cried defiantly. The words would have been meaningless if he hadn’t stepped toward Kavi and drawn his sword.