Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3)

by Richard Crawford

  Ignoring the need to conserve energy, Edouard attacked calling on every bit of skill. He would show Allesarion the true mettle of the knights of Valderon. The lone Athari crumbled before this assault, and Edouard took the next victory quickly. He relished it, and the crowd's stunned silence. Whatever it had cost him, he was proud and determined that he would fight in the same manner against the remaining Athari. Perhaps victory was not the only thing that mattered; pride required he display who and what he was, just as Angelo had demanded.

  From the shade of the tunnel, three Athari emerged and jogged towards him.

  Though they were three against one, the Athari were cautious now. The odds were so heavily in their favor; perversely it meant the Athari had more to lose. He saw it in their eyes and it made him grin. It was a grin Angelo and the knights of Chamfort would have recognized and feared. He wished then for a second blade instead of the shield. His skill with a blade set him apart. His lack of experience with a shield hampered him. An idea formed and grew. Lex would not like it, but this was his fight and he would take the risks.

  It took time to find an opening against three opponents so cautious their only tactic seemed to be to pound him into submission. The blows rained down, but he had learned how to move on the sand, drifting away, avoiding some of the force of the blows.

  He took what hits he must and worked for the position he needed. When one of the Athari miss-stepped he was ready. At last he found a good use for the shield, it spun from his hand and flew, sharp as an arrow. It struck a vicious blow to the shoulder of the Athari's sword arm. The man did not have time to react; he grunted in shock and dropped his blade. Before he could recover, Edouard lunged forward to take the killing touch. As he did so he scooped the fallen blade from the sand.

  It felt good to have a sword in each hand. He did not know if it was against the rules. Nor did he stop to discover. The defeated Athari started back towards the tunnel. Another man would replace him as soon as he reached it. Edouard did not pause. He went after the two Athari. If he must fight against unfair odds he must make the most of such moments.

  The Athari had lost their rhythm and composure; they had come into this expecting it to be easy and they could not adjust to the new situation. Edouard used his two blades, attacking ferociously, as if he intended to take Athari heads off. He drove them away from their advancing colleague. It was a risk: he had no way of knowing how close the new man was. But his berserker tactics paid off. Driven into the deeper sand at the arena's edge, one of the men stumbled.

  Edouard took the touch and, warned by some instinct, spun to face an attack from the newly arrived Athari. He used both blades to catch the man's sword; before the Athari could recover Edouard disarmed him. The crowd had been quiet, now they roared; it was no longer a roar for the Athari, now it was a roar of pleasure and excitement, appreciation of what they were witnessing.

  Edouard had no time to savor his victories. He pursued the sword less Athari hard, eager for the touch that might turn the tide in his favor. If he defeated this man before the replacement Athari arrived he would have a chance to take out the lone man. But, even as he attacked, his blade beating against the man's raised shield, the defeated Athari ran forward. His sword spun through the air, and the swordless man was armed again.

  The crowd moaned. The adjudicators ordered the defeated man away, but made no comment about his sword. Again faced by two armed men, Edouard retreated towards the center of the arena. His breath came in gasps, his shoulders and arms ached from the pounding he had taken. The next Athari had left the tunnel and in moments he would face three men again.

  The two Athari did not allow him any further respite. Pride, or fear of the shame defeat would bring, drove them to attack with new vigor. By the time the third man reached them Edouard was already hard pressed. The new man seemed to bring a new strategy. Against the three Athari, Edouard was herded, driven back, pushed into the deeper sand which sapped his strength and speed. Without the shield, defense was harder to maintain. He took blows to his arms and one deeper slash across his leg. But he fought them for every step.

  The crowd had grown silent; however partisan, he hoped they understood what they were seeing. That they understood something of what it meant to be a knight of Valderon. If they did, he had achieved as much as he could have desired against such odds, in a fight he could never win.

  He had wanted to defeat six Athari, proving it would take every one of their superior numbers to best him. He needed one more victory to bring the final Athari into play. One more victory would satisfy honor, and keep Angelo off his back.

  It was hard to see how he could manage it.

  The thought annoyed him; he had been trained to fight beyond pain and exhaustion. To think only of victory. He was better than these clumsy, arrogant Athari. An idea came to him. A move he and Angelo had practiced at Chamfort. A dangerous, impractical move; or so Sieur Gerald had ruled when he forbade them to attempt it anymore. Of course they had continued to practice the move, at first Michel threatened to knock their heads together and report them to the Prince. Then he had helped them perfect the move. It was insanely risky, but the memory of Michel, and all he owed him, decided Edouard. Michel would approve. Death or glory.

  Having taken back control of the contest, the Athari had grown confident. Three against one: they knew he must be near exhausted, and now they could keep him in retreat against their combined assault. But in their confidence, they were eager for the victory. Pressing hard they drifted slightly out of formation. It was the perfect moment.

  With a quick shift of grip, Edouard reversed the blades so they angled backward. He brought his arms to his sides and dropped to roll. It must be precise and fast. He threw himself forward: too fast with too much impetus. The blades were dangerously close to his body as he hit the ground, but the sand was forgiving and the blades blunt enough that they did not cut him to ribbons. Already he was surging up from the sand. The positioning had to be exact too.

  Luck was with him again, he came to his feet between two startled Athari. Without pause he reversed the blades and stabbed out, right and left. Two touches. The Athari stood as if turned to stone. Edouard roared a Chamfort battle cry and heard an answering cry from among the gladiators. It had all happened so fast, he could hardly believe that a move that had worked once in twenty times in practice had succeeded. Perhaps Michel was watching over him.

  Everything came to a halt. The defeated Athari stood dumbstruck. The other man hesitated and looked to the tunnel where the final Athari was waiting. Even the adjudicators seemed nonplussed. The crowd bayed like animals. Edouard raised his swords, and the crowd cheered him. He grinned, wishing he could see Micia's face.

  The moment's celebration cost him dear.

  It was the change in the crowd's roar that warned him. He spun in time to block a vicious cut from the newly arrived Athari. Caught off guard, he used both blades. A moment later the man's shield struck him hard in the head, and left his helm ringing and him half dazed. He staggered back a pace, recognizing the new challenger as Vayne, the Athari's Captain. Then the other Athari was coming at him. Too late Edouard realized the man's cut was aimed low. The vicious, chopping strike took him at the knees, hard enough to bring him down. Before he could recover, the captain leaped forward to take the touch.

  Edouard lay on his back in the sand, half stunned. He fought an insane urge to laugh as he heard Sieur Gerald's voice in his head, the master at arms berating him, as he had so often, for arrogance and over confidence. Then the past was drowned out as the crowd roared, a sound so loud the arena seemed to shake under the rippling waves of noise.

  Edouard had never heard anything like it. He supposed, in the end, the crowd was bound to be for the Athari, their allegiance would not be easily won by a foreign knight. The captain was standing over him. Unable to see his face behind the helm, Edouard did not move, unsure if he should expect some further retribution. After a long wordless stare, Vayne reached out his han
d. Edouard let one sword fall and accepted the offered grip. Vayne pulled him to his feet and the crowd roared again.

  The second Athari came to stand by his captain. They offered Edouard a perfect salute, clenched fist over their hearts, and held position for a long moment. It was a gesture of respect. Edouard bowed and saluted them, raising his sword, Valderon style. The noise in the arena was immense. When Vayne stepped forward, Edouard allowed him to draw close, whatever insult the man made it did not matter now.

  "Well fought." Vayne's soft words held no hint of antagonism. "And well played."

  Edouard did not understand this, but he could guess. He wondered if the man truly believed he had allowed them the victory. The Athari turned towards the southern tunnel. Edouard made his way slowly towards the cheering gladiators. They grew quiet as he reached them, though the crowd's roar still echoed around the arena.

  Lex was at the front of the gladiators, their leader and spokesman as always. He stood to his full height, legs apart, fists braced on his hips. As if facing a battle. There was a strange look on his face. Edouard wondered if he was angry that he had abandoned his advice and tactics. He thought that would be a little harsh given what he had achieved. What he had almost achieved.

  "You nearly had them," Lex said, clearly amazed. He grinned and caught Edouard by the shoulders. "By the gods, that was superb! To defeat seven Athari…"

  "He should have beaten them all," said Angelo, arriving to thump him hard on the arm.

  Edouard winced and exchanged a long stare with his best friend. He did not say anything, but they both knew. Angelo had been right to call him out. Beyond the elation of the contest he could feel a change within himself. A regaining of confidence; perhaps he had been afraid. Afraid to make more mistakes. That fear was gone now. "I had to leave them some pride," he said, and punched Angelo back, just as hard. The gladiators roared with laughter, pleased by the defeat of their rivals.

  It was an unfortunate moment for the Athari to arrive. Not the men he had faced in the arena, but six armed and stone faced men of Micia's Athari. They demanded he attend them, but offered no explanation. Around him the gladiators turned, most were unarmed, but the scent of danger was in the air. He stepped forward, ignoring Lex's restraining hand.

  "I'll come," he said, reaching for the dignity his rank should accord him. A dignity he had forsaken during his time in Allesarion. "If you will tell me the purpose of this summons?"

  The lead Athari hesitated for a moment. Then he spoke grudgingly. "You are to attend the Queen."

  "Of course," said Edouard, as if it were the most straightforward of requests. As if his one and only meeting with Micia had been a dignified exchange of pleasantries. He had no idea what Micia intended, but to hesitate now, to show any doubt, would do him no credit and might trigger a brawl between gladiators and Athari. If that happened there was no predicting what Angelo would do. Or worse, what Micia would do.

  He stepped between the formation of Athari as if they were an honor guard, and perhaps they were. At least he would learn something of Micia from this encounter. The Athari escorted him in silence. They led him through tunnels beneath the arena to the royal stands. Vayne was waiting as Edouard emerged into the sunlight. An official brought them to the Queen. Catching sight of them the crowd roared.

  Vayne was presented first. He knelt and received a jeweled dagger and a heavy purse from Micia's hands. Edouard did not hear what she said to her captain, and her face was hidden beneath a veil. He wondered idly what reception he would receive. He stepped forward and made a bow, as he would in Ferdinand's court. Only then did he kneel. It was a small statement and she could make of it what she would.

  It was a risk. Shamet was seated to the right of the queen. Edouard saw the tightness around his mouth. Micia's eyes were wide and impossibly beautiful, her voice honey and warmth. Very different from their last meeting. "You fought well, my lord." There was approval in her voice, and in her eyes.

  "Thank you, majesty."

  She held out a scabbard. It was made of plain leather and old by the feel of it, embroidered with strange patterns and meant for a long, curved blade. A strange gift. "Thank you, majesty," he said, accepting it from her hands. "I will treasure it."

  She laughed. "The blade will be yours in time," she said. "But this is not the place." On that cryptic note, she offered her hand and he kissed it. She had not done that for Vayne. "Now salute the crowd and take your reward." Her approval was seductive.

  He left her reluctantly and went with Vayne to the arena's edge. They stood together as the crowd cheered and stamped. The noise went on for some while. He looked to Vayne and the captain gave a thin smile.

  "This is for you," he said. "Enjoy it, they do not choose favorites easily." With that he stepped back.

  Edouard was about to follow when he heard Shamet's voice. "Stay, salute them," the Chancellor urged.

  He raised a hand, clenched fist as the gladiators did, and the crowd's cheers redoubled. Then the noise changed. At first he could not make out what the crowd was chanting. Then he realized it was his name that echoed round and round the stone stands. It brought an urge to hysterical laughter; after all his failures, what would his father say, or Ferdinand, to see him cheered in an arena that honored gladiators.

  He finally had achieved some sort of success in Allesarion. It had come from a fight and from a defeat; he wondered what that said about him. His father and Charles could impress men; his father could lead on or off a battlefield; Charles had been set to tame the court, no easy feat. It seemed he was nothing unless he fought. Perhaps he should be a gladiator.

  He thought of Michel and wondered what he would say to all this. He guessed Michel would be angry at the suggestion he should give up his place in the world. But that place was already lost. It was harder to work out why he thought this, and too difficult; he pushed the thought aside.

  The cheers seemed out of proportion to his achievement. He tried twice to step back, but the crowd demanded more. At last he retreated, though they were still roaring his name. He realized how little he understood Allesarion, and the arena. How could a crowd that watched condemned men fight to the death, and enjoyed the sometimes showmanship of the gladiators, value what he had given them in defeat? But that was arrogant and unfair, the gladiators were brave and skilled, showmanship was rare and, as Lex had proved, it demanded a high level of skill. There was not that great a difference between them, however much he might wish to believe otherwise.

  Shamet was waiting in the hallway behind the stands. He did not smile or offer congratulations. Instead he placed a hand on Edouard's shoulder and urged him to walk. It was cool in the hallways, and shaded after the glare of the arena. Shamet's dour presence was sobering. As the elation faded, Edouard realized how thirsty he was, how tired.

  "Such acclaim for a defeat," he said, wincing a little as his body chilled and he began to feel strained muscles, the cuts and bruises that marked his legs and arms. "I do not understand your people." It was a risk; he was also speaking of Micia and Shamet would know that.

  "There are different types of victory; it's past time you learned that," the Chancellor spoke with a hint of impatience. "She was impressed. She has noticed you. That's a victory in itself." His tone suggested it was a double edged victory.

  He nodded. Shamet was saying he had taken the first step to being something more to Micia than a means to annoy Ferdinand. That did not mean she was a friend, or that he could count on her protection if things became difficult. He glanced at the empty scabbard.

  Shamet followed his gaze. "It is no empty gift," he said. "But the sword it holds is not made for glory."

  He felt a criticism and warning in the words. "What does that mean?" He was tired and the words were too sharp.

  They had reached one of the gated entrances. Edouard saw Shamet's guards waiting. The Chancellor had not answered his question. Edouard lost the feeling of elation the fight and acclaim had brought. It came to him that this
was another lesson. Shamet, and perhaps Micia, were trying to tell him something. Could no one be plain?

  "Some answers can only be found within." It was as if Shamet had read his mind. "Enjoy the celebrations." The Chancellor turned away.

  It was an abrupt farewell. Edouard was left standing alone in the dark tunnel beneath the coliseum. Another match had started, and he could hear the roar of the crowd. The sound unsettled him. He did not know what they were cheering for; it could be a death or a victory. He started back towards the gladiators' precinct, realizing he was in no mood to celebrate. The empty scabbard and its hidden message seemed to mock his victory.

  The long, dark walk beneath the coliseum took the last of his good mood and left him feeling empty and foolish. Set against everything else, it was hard to remember why this fight had seemed so important. In the circumstances, it was unfortunate that the first person he met on his return was Angelo.

  "Well done! At least you didn't embarrass yourself or Chamfort." As always Angelo's congratulations had an edge of malice and were accompanied by a thump, hard enough to make him wince. "You could have taken them all with a bit more effort and a bit less celebration."

  He was saved from answering by Lex's arrival. "It was a smart move, letting Vayne take the victory," said Lex. "Good to let the Athari keep some pride."

  Edouard managed a smile. "I owe it to you, without your help…" he trailed off as Lex shook his head.

  "I gave you a few pointers on how to work the arena, that's all. You've made a name for yourself and won hearts today." He handed Edouard a beaker brimming with wine. "Enjoy." He headed off, leaving them alone.

  Edouard eyed the beaker of wine doubtfully. He really was not in the mood and wine was not going to help. Angelo laughed and slapped him on the back, causing him to spill the wine.

  "Cheer up," said Angelo. "You're problems are solved. You have found your calling, a life of glory as a gladiator awaits you."