Artesans of Albia: 02 - King's Champion

by Cas Peace

  * * * * *

  Watching from the sidelines, Robin gripped his hands tightly together. Through the touch on his shoulder he could feel the tremor of Pharikian’s body as the fight began. He glanced up. Pharikian’s eyes were wide as he witnessed the skill and fury that Sullyan’s slight, fragile-looking body produced. Robin guessed he was realizing how deeply even he had underestimated her and finally understood what her General had meant when he recommended the Hierarch use her ‘unique talents.’

  His gaze travelled left to where Marik’s white-knuckled hands clenched the rail of Idrimar’s carriage. Robin heard the Count murmuring encouragement under his breath. Beside him, Idrimar watched with wide, pale eyes, shocked by the intensity of Sullyan’s attack. Vanyr looked totally shaken by Sullyan’s ferocity. Robin heard him mutter “Bloody hell!” two or three times and briefly wondered whether Vanyr was feeling thankful that Sullyan hadn’t released this depth of rage on him. Behind Vanyr, Anjer, Ephan, and Kryp all watched with incredulity, clearly praying this unnatural strength would last.

  * * * * *

  It didn’t last, of course. Sullyan knew it couldn’t. It did last long enough for her to force her opponent into the Firefield. Still trying to find his balance and gain an advantage, Rykan had forgotten how close the barrier was. Sidestepping a powerful thrust from her blade, his left foot moved too far and blundered into the raw element. Fire crackled viciously in response. Rykan snatched his foot away. Burned by the power and furious at the pain, his hoarse scream reverberated round the arena. He twisted, snarling, falling back under her incessant rain of deadly strokes.

  “You’ll suffer for that, witch! Yield now before I kill you.”

  Sullyan didn’t waste her breath.

  Favoring his left foot, Rykan kept the Firefield at his left shoulder and continued to fall back before her. She realized he was drawing her on, hoping she would use up her strength. Instantly, she changed tactics. Switching her sword into her left hand, she attacked his unprotected side, forcing him to parry awkwardly. He was still too close to the Firefield, and the tip of his sword just caught its edge. There was a sharp ‘crack!’ as the metal of his sword flared red-hot. Fire shot up the blade, stinging his hand, and he cried out once more.

  “Curse you!”

  Sullyan immediately came after him, aiming more vicious cuts at his body, forcing him further back. It was a small victory, but she knew he was too good a swordsman not to rally. He had her measure now, and she could see his brain working. Suddenly, he broke away from her attack, giving himself room to breathe. She allowed it, her own first flush of strength nearly spent.

  As they circled each other again, she noted that his hot yellow gaze never left her face. His underestimation of her was now completely reversed, and he was watching her with wary respect as well as anger. She registered this with a flash of unconscious intuition. Her mind was already planning how next to put him off balance, and she still had reserves of donated strength left before she must rely totally on her own.

  Rykan decided to try her own tactics against her and rushed her abruptly, his grip double-handed. She had been waiting for something of the sort and sidestepped his powerful stroke, twisting to come up behind him before he could recover. Her low slash to the leg would have hamstrung him had he not been so agile. As it was, she opened a long, shallow cut on his left thigh, her success bringing a raucous cheer from her supporters. Rykan ignored the wound, pivoting swiftly to catch her before she completed her stroke. She swayed back, sweeping her blade round to meet his. The clash of steel on steel reverberated through the air.

  * * * * *

  Rienne and Bull, his arms locked tight around her waist, her mind enmeshed with his, shared emotions as they watched through Robin’s eyes. Bull had to use all his power to enable Rienne to see, as she couldn’t consciously receive his thoughts. Due to her inability to shield, he was subjected to the full flood of her emotions, and this was uncomfortable for them both. She knew it took all his concentration and control to remain open for her, and her uncontrolled flow of panic, fear, terror, and love confused his senses. His admiration for Sullyan’s skills helped in some measure to calm Rienne’s nerves, but she was all too aware of the strain this was putting on him. His breathing grew ever more ragged and his heart limped in a chest tight with pain.

  She was only vaguely aware of Cal and Taran standing a little way off, both lost in the contest unfolding below them. She imagined them analyzing every sword stroke, every footfall, as they tried to guess Sullyan’s next move. So caught up in the duel was she that she didn’t even wonder whether anyone had recently checked their surroundings.

  * * * * *

  The longer Sullyan fought the Duke, the more familiar each became to the other. She knew he had finally recognized her skill. She could sense his grudging respect, his acknowledgement of the way she used her height and weight to her own advantage. She in turn had learned why he was considered the best swordsman in the land and was beginning to fear she wouldn’t be able to defeat him unless he made a mistake.

  Lithely, he avoided her latest feint, making her grunt with effort as she parried his counter swing.

  Frustration gnawed at her. He was just too tall, too strong, and too good, she thought, whereas she was not at full strength, weeks of illness and abuse behind her. Yet this just made her more determined, and as he came at her again, aiming an overhead strike at her head, she called once more on her fading reserves of donated strength.

  Switching hands yet again to keep him off balance, she got in a few more telling blows, flicking through his defense with the tip of her sword. She drew his blood once more and he gasped in pain. Although the wounds were superficial, psychologically they gave her an advantage. He had only managed to touch her once and she knew it galled him. Gathering her strength she rushed him, driving him relentlessly backward until his left hand once again touched the Firefield.

  “Agghh, you wretched girl!”

  Pain wrung the cry from him. The shame of being forced three times into the barrier ignited a powerful bloodlust in Rykan. He roared his rage, his face turning purple with strain and frustration.

  “You’ve thwarted my plans long enough, you witch! I’m the most powerful lord in this realm and I’m too close to achieving my goal. No one—and certainly not a human witch—is going to stand in my way!”

  Abruptly, heedless of injury or defense, he flung himself against her, trying to use his vastly superior reach and weight to get past her guard. She fell back, letting him rush past her. As he did so, he pivoted, and the edge of his blade just caught her side, opening a long cut down her right flank.

  She gave an agonized gasp.

  The cut wasn’t deep, but it bled freely. Normally she would have closed it with a thought, as Rykan had with his own wounds, but the spellsilver prevented her. Blood soaked her thin chemise and she steeled herself to ignore the pain. The gasp of horror that soughed round the watchers died away as she parried Rykan’s follow-up and came back at him again.

  Furious that his blade had failed to do worse damage, Rykan tried one of his tricks; a sly feinting turn to the left, followed by a thrust partially hidden by his body. Thanks to Vanyr’s expert coaching, Sullyan recognized the move and sidestepped it neatly. She heard Vanyr’s yell of approval as Rykan expended his strength on empty air.

  * * * * *

  On the sidelines, Robin strained unknowingly against the Hierarch’s hands. He was so intent on Sullyan and so inextricably linked to Bull that he barely had a conscious thought left. If Pharikian hadn’t had both hands firmly gripped on his shoulders, he would have run to the Firefield and flung himself against it. He was willing Sullyan on so strongly that he was only vaguely aware of his surroundings. He knew that the Hierarch had passed Anjer a tense message, and that Anjer had come closer, but didn’t give a thought to whether Anjer might be there to help restrain him.

  In the carriage beside him, he could hear Marik fidgeting with worry. Idrimar constant
ly murmured to him, obviously doubting the wisdom of letting him watch, for he refused to keep still. She repeated her fears for his recovery, exhorting him not to rise to his feet. Yet he was totally focused on the duel and Robin knew he couldn’t hear her.

  His attention snapped back to the arena.

  Something had changed.

  * * * * *

  Sullyan was tiring and knew Rykan was too. They had been fighting for the best part of an hour, most of it short, sharp bursts of fury followed by careful circling and well-planned attacks. She was bleeding from innumerable small wounds which sapped her energy. Rykan had closed most of his wounds, but the expenditure of metaforce under such pressure had taken its toll even on him.

  The Duke had tried all but one of his nasty little tricks and found each one countered by Sullyan’s quick reactions. At first he had shown rage and surprise, but soon after her last success she had seen him cast a glance at the sidelines to where Vanyr stood watching the bout. Rykan clearly suspected Vanyr had coached her. She noted the cold, hard fury rising in his eyes and knew that murder would be its consequence.

  Vanyr’s fate could wait, though. Sullyan simply couldn’t disguise the fact that she was coming to the end of her strength, and she was well aware that Rykan knew it. Her evasive moves were slower, her attacks less precise. Despite the fact that Rykan was tiring also, she was sure he would outlast her.

  Despair flooded her heart. It was what she had expected, what she had planned for, but still the panic rose.

  The end was very close now.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  At the base of a small hill, twenty men crouched in the trees. Their leader gestured and three of them followed him as he began a slow, stealthy upward creep. All had knives in their hands.

  On reaching the crest of the hill, they saw a group of four Albians oblivious to their surroundings and totally engrossed in the drama below. The one woman in the group had both hands tightly clenched and pressed to her mouth, the pressure of her huge companion’s arms around her waist unheeded as she stared with blank eyes. Two younger men—one of them the target—stood apart from the other two, closer to the trees. They were far enough away that the man and the woman couldn’t directly see them.

  Silently, the leader indicated the two men. His three followers nodded. The Albians had heard nothing and remained ignorant of the danger behind them.

  * * * * *

  Down in the arena, soaked in sweat, her breath coming in ragged gasps, Sullyan knew things were coming to a climax. She had exhausted her donated strength long ago and was fighting both Rykan and the effects of his poison completely unaided. It sapped her will, weakened her muscles, and slowed her reactions. She was running on instinct, on pure panic, and could afford no mistakes.

  Rykan, unaware of the insidious creep of his poison within her, simply assumed she had come to the end of her endurance. Yet he too was exhausted, she could see it. Despite his superior strength, he was failing. Her lighter mass had enabled her to last as long as she had—that and her desire for revenge—and although none of Rykan’s rage or determination to defeat her had diminished, she knew that he now held more respect for her than at any other time in the past. She had even seen a glimmer of something else in his eyes and wondered whether he was regretting his brutal abuse. Yet things had gone too far for such thoughts now. He was still pressing her hard, beating down on her sword, forcing her to parry, and subtly drawing her ever closer to the Firefield.

  She was powerless to prevent it.

  She didn’t have the strength.

  * * * * *

  Robin, remembering Vanyr’s coaching session, watched intently for the one move Rykan hadn’t yet attempted. Silently, desperately, he urged Sullyan on. He could feel everyone around him doing the same. The air fairly prickled with tension and fear. Although he was fully aware of her skills and her strength, even Robin was astounded by what he had witnessed today. In all his life he had never seen such a consummate display of skill and nerve, and it was all the more incredible when he remembered her physical state. His love for her had never been greater and his respect for her knew no bounds.

  Then he gave a gasp of recognition. Rykan was preparing for his final trademark move.

  * * * * *

  Sweat streamed into Sullyan’s eyes, her breath rasped raw in her throat. She was ready for it all to be over. She had nothing left to give. Fully aware that all her skills and cunning had failed to overcome Rykan, she now accepted that he was her master. Defeat was inevitable. It was only a matter of time and she hoped it would be quick. She would have risked a glance at Robin had her training not kept her eyes locked on her opponent.

  The Duke, breath heaving through lungs starved of air, suddenly lunged at her. She sidestepped as he intended she should, but was unable to complete the move due to the Firefield’s proximity. Forced to veer awkwardly to avoid being burned, she was momentarily wrong-footed. Like a striking snake, Rykan made another lunge—a feint—to her unprotected side. At the last minute, he swerved and charged her, striking her shoulder, then slipped his sword under hers, twisting it violently out of her hand. Following through on the charge, he forced her to the ground.

  As she fell, her hand struck the Firefield. Rykan stamped viciously on her wrist to keep it there.

  The crunch of splintering bones was shockingly loud before her agonized shrieks filled the air.

  Profound silence settled over the crowd. The only sounds were the combatants’ heaving, ragged breaths, Sullyan’s tinged with agony as her hand charred sickeningly in the Firefield. Rykan stood with one foot planted on her shattered wrist, the other against her waist. His sword point rested firmly between her breasts as he stared avidly down into her pain-filled eyes.

  * * * * *

  Apart from one disbelieving gasp, Robin watched in silence. He was trembling violently. Behind him, hands still gripping his shoulders, Pharikian held his breath painfully tight. Even in his shocked state, Robin could sense the Hierarch’s panic. He could also hear the generals muttering frantic denials and Marik openly weeping in the carriage. Idrimar had her arms wrapped around the Count, as much to stop him rising as for comfort.

  Only one voice broke the appalled silence. Vanyr, incredulous and stricken on the sidelines, clearly couldn’t believe what he had seen. His hands balled into fists at his side, he cried out in a great roar of anguish.

  “NO!”

  Vanyr stared back and forth between the tableau in the arena and the Hierarch at its edge. “But I showed her that move!” he cried. “We practiced it! She could do it better than I could! She should have seen it coming! Why didn’t she see it coming?”

  Staring at Robin, his voice harsh, he demanded, “Why didn’t she see it coming?”

  Robin didn’t have any answers.

  * * * * *

  On the hill, Taran heard Rienne’s soul-rending cry as Rykan triumphed over Sullyan. She covered her face with her hands, unable to bear what she was seeing. Bull seemed to be having trouble breathing. His left hand clutched at his chest while his right rubbed his upper left arm. His eyes remained locked on the scene below, but his face had gone grey and his lips were tinged with blue.

  Like Cal beside him, Taran was frozen. They stood locked together in disbelieving horror. Taran had lost contact with Bull’s mind, but his attention remained focused on the arena. His every sense strained toward Sullyan, as if by sheer will he could alter what had just happened. He knew the spellsilver she wore would prevent him from reaching her psyche, but still he tried.

  Until a cold, sharp knife pressed beneath his ear and the rancid smell of bad breath flooded into his nose.

  * * * * *

  Robin was frantic. Sullyan’s breathless shrieks as the Firefield burned her cut to his heart, and he would have fallen to his knees if not for the hands gripping his shoulders.

  “Cut the field!” he cried, desperately struggling against the Hierarch’s hold. “Can’t you see she’s burning? For pity’s s
ake, Majesty, cut the field!”

  Pharikian’s voice was rough with anguish. “I can’t, son, I’m honor bound to maintain it until the victor is declared.”

  “But the bastard’s won, hasn’t he?” yelled Robin. “What more do you want?”

  The Hierarch’s grip tightened. “It might not be over,” he hissed. “She hasn’t yielded yet. Have faith in her, son.”

  Abruptly, Robin stilled. Pharikian’s words echoed Sullyan’s earlier plea and he rounded angrily on the elderly ruler. “You know something, don’t you? Something she didn’t tell me. What is it, what’s going on? Tell me!”

  Pharikian gazed into Robin’s eyes, reading his pain and helplessness. He shook his head. “It’s a gamble, son, nothing more. Just trust her and watch.”

  Anjer and the generals had also heard Pharikian’s words and stared incredulously into the arena. Even Vanyr moved closer to the barrier.

  * * * * *

  Sullyan whimpered as Rykan removed his boot from her shattered wrist. Slowly, she found the strength to move her badly charred hand from the Fire. The agony was overwhelming and the stench of burned flesh took her breath away, making her feel sick and disoriented. Loss of blood and the poison weakened her still further until it was as much as she could do to meet her tormentor’s eyes.

  Rykan towered over her, straddling her body, the tip of his sword still resting between her breasts. The fabric of her chemise, red and wet with blood, was torn from the sharp steel point. An evil smile twisted his lips as he gazed down on her.