He ran his tongue along the inside of his sore mouth, stroking the lone, lopsided tooth in the raw vacancy of his lower gums, exploring the desolated hollows where once teeth thrived. His face felt like a foreign thing, like a fatty slab of meat nailed to his skull. To touch it was agony, but he could not keep his fingers away from the lumpy and malformed flesh. He knew he must look hideous and dreaded his reflection, but he feared Pía’s reaction to his ghastly appearance even more.
“Congratulations, Von Hammerhead–san,” the king of Raimei-Yama said, dropping a gold okan into his hands.
Fox realized the silver-haired monarch was waiting to be acknowledged. Fox dipped his head respectfully and thanked the king in his native tongue. “Arigato, Heika.”
The king smiled and moved on to the next youngling paladín, the girl from Winterewiger.
The kings and queens of the Thirteen rotated around the champion paladíns, paying them homage. Each ruler awarded Fox—as the Black Spear—one gold coin. When they stood before the winners from their own kingdoms, they would award them a purse of thirteen gold coins. Every ruler came to Torneo prepared to pay a total of eighty crowns, forty for the youngling trials and forty for the adult Torneo games set to begin on the morrow. If one kingdom produced warriors of exceptional skill, it could prove very costly.
Though Fox had adopted Prosperidad as his homeland, he was born in the Nordländer, and his two and a half victories would cost the king of Eisesland a total of thirty-three and a half pieces of gold. The kingdoms shared the cost of the Black Spear purse, each donating a single gold coin to the champion.
King Egon the Gallant of House Hammerfaust stood before him. As miserable as Fox was, the king’s strength of presence demanded his attention. King Gallant’s iron-gray eyes shone with approval. “Glückwünsche, Ungläubige,” King Gallant said. “Congratulations.”
Fox caught a glimpse of his refection in the king’s eyes and winced. He had only been ugly before the pagan had destroyed his face. Now he was hideous.
King Gallant counted out his winnings. “Thirteen krones as paladín of Eisesland, and one krone for the Black Spear.”
It was a lot of money. Combined with his other winnings, it was a fortune. Even after he paid off Urbano, he would have enough money to do almost anything he wanted. He could purchase papers that would make him a Patriarch. His would be a minor House, but it would be noble nonetheless. He could start nearly any business he could imagine or buy land and set himself up as a don. Yet he would have traded every bit of his new wealth for his old face. As ugly as it had been, at least it had not been too repugnant for Pía to love. How could she love him now? He was a grotesque. If he was lucky, he would be killed in the War of Judgment. He would rather be taken by the Death Raven than rejected by Pía.
An image flashed in his brain and soared through his thoughts. It was a great, white-winged creature with flaming hair. A bane? Before Fox could question why such an image would appear to him, the Prophet’s voice reverberated through his mind: “Congratulations, young Black Spear.”
Pía had prepared him for this kind of communication. Sending, she had called it. And they had practiced it several times. She would Send the image of a white eagle into his mind, followed by her thoughts, images, and feelings. Still, it was a startling, invasive use of the Celestial Gift. Especially when someone as powerful as the Prophet did the Sending. “Stand ready. The time in nearly upon us.”
And then, as suddenly as he had entered, the Prophet’s presence fled Fox’s mind. The abrupt departure made Fox gasp out loud.
King Gallant squinted at him. “Is all well, Ungläubige?”
Fox stood up straight. He could feel his face heating with anger and knew the king would see it as well. “My name is Von Hammerhead, Eure Majestät. Fox Von Hammerhead of Großemänner’s Line.”
The king chuckled. It was a mocking sound. “Be not offended that I name you Ungläubige, for truth is truth. I do not fault you for finding a way to fight that suits your smallness. In fact, I applaud your efforts. You are too puny to be of any worth to Schöpfer. You are welcome to employ the gifts of the Shimabito’s lesser goddess.”
Fox wanted to slap him. Perhaps he would, and worse, when the war began.
“Bring forth the spears and let him choose,” the Caller said to the clerics bearing Black Spears.
A hush fell over the crowd, a moment of still anticipation Fox felt as much with his soul as he saw with his eyes or heard with his ears. There were Santosians in the crowd. Thousands of them. All of them ready to bring Judgment upon their fellows. Fox went forth to choose his spear.
Paladin watched—through a salty haze of misery—the Runt make the choice that had been his only minutes before. His longing for one of the Black Spears was almost lewd. They were so beautiful. To hold such a weapon was to hold an honor unlike any other in the world, to be part of an extraordinarily elite fellowship, its members bearing their Black Spears with more majesty than a monarch’s crown of gold. And, for true, the common folk usually showed more deference to Black Spears than they did their own kings and queens.
The Runt strode forward to face the clerics, and the arena patrons roared in adulation. Even the Runt’s fellow Nords, who had spurned him as an Ungläubige, now lauded him. He was the world’s hero, for he had defeated the “híbrido blasphemer,” and the crowd loved him. The Runt raised his arms high, basking in the acclaim, his wrists rotating in a two-handed wave, his silk scarf flapping in the wind. He pointed to Sensei Quicksteel and the naginata.
It was a beautiful weapon, sleek and black. Envy, profound and debilitating, squeezed Paladin’s heart like a heavy fist wringing juice from an orange. He nearly choked on the sob trying to break free of his throat.
“The Youngling Black Spear chooses Seisakusha,” the Caller announced. “Let the blessing begin.”
Sensei Quicksteel hesitantly bowed to the Runt, and then handed him the naginata. The monk said the first few words of a Seisakushan prayer, but the Runt silenced him with an upraised hand.
“I fight in the fashion of the Shimabito,” the Runt announced. “But I am no Seisakushan! If my spear is to be blessed, let it be by a proper servant of divinity! I follow the teachings of Vicente Santos! My Black Spear may only be blessed by one who serves The One God! Ayv galvquodi-adanvdo udotsali Adelohosgi! My soul belongs to the Prophet!”
There was a moment of shocked silence amongst the spectators. Sensei Quicksteel looked nauseated. He turned his back on the Runt and walked away. Then the folk in the stadium erupted. Even the Red Cloaks screamed at each other. Most, including Magier Jürgen and Maga Cabróna, thought the Runt should have his spear blessed by whomever he chose, while the Caller and the rest argued that having a Vile priest perform a blessing would be a desecration of the Torneo games far more egregious than Paladin’s blended martial dance. As for the spectators, Paladin had thought they had thrown all their garbage at him, but a new deluge of filth fell to the arena floor.
The Runt unfurled his white scarf and waved it for all to see. It was more than a simple scarf. It was a banner, embroidered with the Vile holy symbol, an Ira de Dios with a bane’s eye at its center. In every quadrant of the arena, white and scarlet banners appeared. Their owners shouted, “Give your soul to the Prophet!”
It was no surprise that the Runt had gone Vile, but the number of Viles cheering in the stands was shocking. An instant later, there was pandemonium in the arena. It seemed every spectator fought every other. Viles, Schöpferites, Muumbans, Creadorians, Seisakushans, and those who endorsed Paladin’s blended philosophy all brawled.
The fickle folk who had cheered the Runt only seconds ago now excoriated him. The people were disgusted with themselves for having adopted a Vile as their hero. Paladin indulged a moment of bitter satisfaction. The fools had denounced him because he embraced each of their gods, then they chose instead a champion who utterly rejected Them, denied those gods even existed. Had he not felt so cheated, and had the spectators not
been lost in a frenzy of madness, he might have laughed at the twisted reward their fickleness had brought them.
Instead he watched riots erupt beneath a blizzard of swirling filth thrown from the stands. It seemed the world had turned upon itself. Grandfather Sun flew west, but there was still enough light for Paladin to clearly see the carnage. Everywhere, there was fighting. Even Rebelde, Walküre, Suki, and Jambiax engaged in the epic brawl, the four of them against a large group of Viles. That fight was a short one. The rioting grew to such a pitch that Prince Veraz left the arena under armed escort. Madness ran rampant.
“Blood and Thunder.” For days now there had seemed to be a palpable malignity sweeping through Santuario del Guerrero. It had affected everyone, and still did, from the rabid Viles to the brawling spectators to himself and the Runt. Poison despoiled the very air they all breathed, infecting them like a disease. It was as if the contagion of evil was blowing on the wind.
It reeked of brimstone.
Chapter Thirty-six
The Beginning
Riots, Paladin observed, had a transformative effect on people. Peaceful folk metamorphosed into brutes, brutes into murderers, and murderers into corpses, bludgeoned to death by the same pious folk they had once considered prey. The deafening screams of rioters demanded blood, begged mercy, and called down curses from the gods. A burst of otherworldly scarlet light splashed across the arena, bathing the raging mobs in a mantle of cardinal dread, swallowing the meager light of evenfall.
Like phantoms, Zacarías the Bard and his bardlings appeared in the lake of blood-light. They wore long white robes and hooded cloaks. A cadre of Viles led by Fox the Runt surrounded the bard in a protective ring. Paladin was sickened to learn that the bard was a Vile—and apparently a high-ranking one—but not surprised. Paladin had sensed an indefinable wrongness about Zacarías the Bard from the first, and now the Vile bard’s manced voice rang out above all others, “Give your soul to the Prophet! Give your soul to the Prophet!”
The words pounded against Paladin’s skull, demanding access to his brain. He gasped in agony and clutched his head. The pain would end if he just surrendered to the Vile credo, but he lacked the ability to do so. He knew of no way to shut the door to his brain and ignore the truths housed within. There were others like him, those incapable of surrendering their rational minds to irrational dogma no matter how much it pained them. They defied the Viles all throughout the arena. Even as most others surrendered and the chanting grew louder, there were those who fought the Viles and killed or died holding to their individual truths.
Mbarika winged out of the stands and flew at him, her great white wings beating against his face. “Why in Creador’s name are you standing there gawking, foolish boy? Estás esperando Golanv? Why?”
The raven flew back the way she had come, circling above Paladin’s family in the stands. An image of Jambiax’s black spider totem crawled through Paladin’s mind, followed by his Sending, “Come, Mjukuu! We must fly this place! There is great wickedness at work!”
The riots spilled onto the game field. Paladin dodged past caballeros and warriors locked in battle, unsure of who was Vile and who was not. He saw his family at the edge of the arena stands, just next to the dragón’s den. Rebelde hung over the lip of the field wall, hoisting Drud up into the stands.
“Take your seats!” the bard bellowed. “Take your seats and no harm will come to you! Give your soul to the Prophet!”
Paladin made it to the wall as Drud reached his parents, Alwin and Hisa. Rebelde extended his massive hand to Paladín. “Hurry, boy! Hurry!”
Paladin leapt for his father’s outstretched hand just as a group of Viles attacked. Rebelde vanished beneath a pile of white cloaks and armor, and Paladin bounced off the wall and fell back into the dirt.
“Niño!” Walküre screamed, but an instant later, she too fought for her life alongside Rebelde and the others. Beneath the bard’s manced light, her katana and wakizashi swords, Mercy and Compassion, flashed like crimson streaks of lightning, sending Vile after Vile to meet their “One God.”
Paladin looked for a way to scale the wall, that he might help his family, but the violence on the field behind him demanded his attention. Two big Nord women, locked in a grappling hold, nearly rolled over him. He skipped out of their path just as the trapdoors in the arena floor burst into splinters and the stuff of legend and nightmare surged into fiery life. Thirteen creatures streaked out and up into the ether. Banes. The Bastard Sons of Creador had returned to the world.
This time, they were not manced illusions, and Paladin recognized that they had never been. The banes flaunted by Zacarías the Bard during that inaugural performance of Torneo had seemed so real and alive because they had been. The Vile bard had been conspiring to set Creador’s Bastards on the arena folk all along.
Paladin found himself helpless to do anything but gape at the horrific beauty of the Bastards while the stink of burning brimstone filled the ether. Their hoz weapons dripped orange and blue mance-fire, and the same intense flames burned atop their heads where hair should have been.
One of them flew straight at him.
He threw himself to the ground and rolled, but the bane paid him no heed. It flew high above his head and angled toward the stands. He wasn’t its target.
His family was.
He jumped to his feet as the thing began its descent, screaming a warning. All the while the bard led the Viles in their mind-numbing chant, “Give your soul to the Prophet!”
The bane never touched down. Jambiax blasted it from the sky with a burst of mance-wind. It crashed into a tangle of fighting caballeros. But Paladin’s family was still besieged by throngs of slavering Viles.
“Niño!” Walküre called, risking her life as she turned from the fight to toss him his sword belt.
Storm, secure in her scabbard, sailed through the ether and crashed at his feet. Walküre took another second to toss Beauty at him, and Suki hefted a quiver of arrows, but then they both turned away to fight. Steel rang against steel and manced wind blasted flesh. Even as the bane on the game field righted itself, Paladin grabbed his weapons and belted them on. His family was more than holding their own, but the fight was taking them away from him. He watched helplessly as they retreated farther back into the stands toward the exits. The arched passages would provide better cover, especially from the banes, but Paladin would not be able to reach them.
“Subdue the patriarchs of Kamau!” the bard bellowed. “Take the Darkdragón and the Phantom alive!”
All the banes flying throughout the arena turned their attention on Paladin’s family. Rebelde and Jambiax were formidable mancers, but even they could not defeat an entire covey of Creador’s Bastards.
Jambiax’s pneumatic totem scuttled into Paladin’s mind and Sent, “Flee this place, Mjukuu! Run!”
But there was nowhere to run. The rioting and killing was everywhere. Even the Red Cloaks were blasting each other with elements as the bard led the spectators in chant.
In the stands, Paladin’s family ran for the exits. He shot twice at the descending banes, but missed. One of the Bastards broke away from its covey brothers and winged straight at him.
“Blood and Thunder!” He took off, running in a blind panic. He too was a patriarch of Kamau, and therefore a target. Pure survival instinct propelled his legs through the sand, his rational mind descending into hysterics. But if he was to have any hope of surviving, he needed a plan. He made himself focus.
He scanned the game field looking for escape or shelter. Visibility was poor. It was dark, and mance-fires burned all throughout the arena, vomiting thick black smoke into the air. Still, his eyes were sharp and he spied the splintered ruins of one of the trapdoors that led to the tunnels. At the center of the scattered debris was a rectangular-shaped patch of blackness, the shaft that led below. It was the closest thing he would find to shelter. It was only a few feet away, but the distance seemed like miles.
He sprinted, his arms
and legs pumping, kicking up sand behind him. The bane dove at him and sweat broke out on the back of his neck, heated from the manced flames dripping from the creature’s hoz blade. It shrieked at him—a pitiless inhuman sound, like shattering glass and the screaming of tortured cats—as its shadow fell over him. A sob of despair burst from his throat. Desperate, he hurled himself at the rectangular pit. At the same moment he was smashed in the face by stinking, leathery feathers. It felt like the lash from a bullwhip, and the blow knocked him into the jagged-edged hole. The bane screamed its frustration as it swooped back up into the ether and Paladin tumbled down the shaft, bouncing off the walls. He landed in a jumble on the floor of a mechanical lift. The crash knocked the air from his lungs and bruised his flesh but broke nothing.
He was quick to his feet. The passage beyond the lift was one of the bestiary tunnels, and he was not alone in it. A cadre of Vile guards stood just beyond the lift. They had been in the middle of praying, or perhaps they had been chanting like their fellows above, but Paladin’s entrance had taken them by surprise. He pressed that momentary advantage and reached for the manced sword at his hip. He slid Storm free of her wood and leather housing and she burst into voltaic life, spewing streamers of silver energy. The Viles paled before the thunder and steel. They screamed in terror, some even dropping their weapons to shield their face and cower.
Paladin charged at them. One of the Viles thrust a poleaxe at him, but he parried the strike, blasting the haft of the weapon to splinters. The Viles recoiled just enough for him to bull his way through. They were about to give chase when that inhuman, feline shriek filled the cavern. Paladin glanced over his shoulder and cursed as the bane dropped into the shaft.
Full-Blood Half-Breed Page 24
