by Cas Peace
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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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 sake, 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.
“Well, my dear,” he said, breathing heavily, “here we are again. You really didn’t have to go through all that to gain my attention, you know. I’m quite willing to renew our acquaintance, and I can assure you that I, at least, will enjoy the experience.”
His words froze her heart. She wouldn’t wager against him raping her again, even now, in full public view. In fact, she thought, it would probably heighten his arousal, especially with Robin looking on. The Firefield, which she herself had proposed and which Pharikian could not, in honor, remove until she formally yielded, would prevent any interference.
Centering her fury, she let it strengthen her resolve. Anger was all she had left. She stared up at him, putting all her scorn and disgust into her eyes, hoping to infuriate him with her defiance as she had once before. He frowned and she felt momentary satisfaction. But then he leaned a little harder on his blade and it slipped beneath her skin, causing her to gasp with pain.
“You’ll not escape me now,” he warned her, his yellow eyes frigid. “You’ve been defeated and must abide by the terms of our agreement. Your powers are forfeit and I claim my right.”
He shifted his feet, planting one on each of her wrists to pin her down. She shrieked again, unable to bear the pain as the shattered bones of her left wrist shot needles of agony up her arm. A ripple of anger ran round the arena at this unnecessary brutality, but Rykan ignored it. Once she was securely pinned, he removed and sheathed his blade.
Looking down on her, he said, “Well, witch? Are you ready to surrender? Are you ready to give up your power?”
Cold despair flooded her and she closed her eyes. Rykan’s next words would seal her fate, and she was totally helpless, too exhausted even for panic. This was her worst nightmare come true, and she had sought it out all by herself. She felt great sorrow for the grief of her friends—especially Robin—and wished she could speak with them now. She desperately needed a friendly voice to help her through this.
Suddenly, almost as if he had heard her, Marik’s furious voice rang clearly across the arena.
“Don’t give in, Brynne! Don’t give the bastard what he wants! Remember how you held out before? You can do it again, I know you can! We trust you, Brynne. We love you! Don’t forget it!”
Rykan’s face darkened in fury. His head came up and he screamed at Marik, his foot grinding on Sullyan’s wrist, wrenching another agonized cry from her throat.
“Silence, traitor! I’m the victor here and I claim what’s mine by right! I’ll deal with you later, and when I do, you’ll wish Sonten’s blade had done its work properly that night!”
Sullyan barely registered his face as he glanced back down at her. The agony of her shattered wrist drowned her in nausea and she felt herself slipping away. Rykan’s face blotted out the light as he leaned down, his voice a savage snarl.
“Don’t you die on me before I get what I want, girl!”
His weight shifted from her wrists and he reached closer, his fingers circling the spellsilver collar, arm tensing as he prepared to wrench her to her knees. The collar blocked his power as well as hers, and despite his reluctance to touch it, he had to remove it before the transference of power could take place. Limp and spent, Sullyan hung in his grip.
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Taran’s sight faded to black as the spellsilver knife pressed in below his ear, shutting off every sense he possessed. Shocked and frightened, he tried to cry a warning to Cal or Bull, but a hand clamped painfully over his mouth, making speech impossible. Weakened, sickened by the spellsilver’s touch, he felt himself being hustled backward into the trees.
“The General wants a word with you,” growled a threatening voice in his ear.
The words sounded oddly muffled, and all he could see were vague, dark shapes. Coldly fearful, he could do nothing as his captors wrestled him away, leaving his companions oblivious on the hill.
+ + + + +
She knew she had to be quick. As soon as Rykan’s hand tightened on the silver collar, Sullyan gave in to her terror. Fuelled by desperation, determination, anguish, and shame, she made a heart-straining effort. Denied the time to realize that the collar was of his own making, Rykan was unable to stop her as her mind breached the spellsilver, slipping past its effects to fasten on his. At the same time, her right hand shot out and gripped his wrist, preventing him from releasing the collar.
Immediately, his senses flooded her psyche. Rykan’s shock at her impossible use of metaforce nearly overwhelmed her. He roared in pain as her mind clamped down, desperately latching onto his awareness. He still hadn’t realized the spellsilver was his, and so didn’t know how to counter it. Sullyan took advantage of his disarray to shoot needles of force into his brain, making him scream. He struggled furiously, momentarily blinded, fighting the draining of his strength. Sweat beaded his brow and his eyes bulged with horror.
“But this is treachery!” His voice rasped with pain. “I defeated you! You accepted the agreement. You were Witnessed! You cannot break the Code!”
She speared him yet again with hot needles of metaforce. “The Code stands, my Lord, as does the agreement. Do I look defeated? Did I yield to you?”
He groaned as every portion of his mind was overwhelmed by her power. “Might of arms only, those were the terms!”
Pain roughened her voice. “But did you not also agree to the use of a Firefield, within which all would be fair?”
She felt his anger as he suddenly saw the implications of those terms. Slowly, his body gave way under her pressure and he fell to his knees. With her grip on his left wrist unrelenting, his right hand came to rest on the ground by her left arm. His white and sweating face hovered inches above hers.
“But the silver?” he croaked. “How have you breached the spellsilver?”
She held his stare. “I had plenty of time to learn about your spellsilver, my Lord.”
“My …?”
His eyes widened, seeing the trick.
“I had little else to do and so was forced to find new ways to resist you. I am afraid you underestimated me badly.”
Merciless, she gave his captive brain another wrench, drawing a groan of agony from him. She held him immobile, pinned by her power to the spellsilver field. Slowly, painfully, she inched out from beneath him, ignoring the fresh flow of blood this brought from her wounds. Still gripping his wrist, as much for support as restraint, she raised herself to her knees. True to her vow, she would not lie helpless beneath him.
“Yield, my Lord.”
His yellow eyes, screwed up with pain, glared back at her. She saw defiance that echoed her own, and smiled. Inexorably, she tightened her grip on his mind. The muscles and tendons in his n
eck bulged as he fought not to cry out.
“Yield!” she demanded, her gaze boring into his. The whites of his eyes slowly filled with blood at the pressure she was exerting. He wasn’t far from passing out and she didn’t want that. Easing her grip slightly, she sent hot needles into his nerves. This time, he couldn’t bite back the agony which escaped in a raw scream.
Her voice hissed through clenched teeth, her own pain fuelling her fury. “One more time, my Lord. Will ... you … yield?”
Huge tears welled from his eyes as the pain became too much. She felt his spirit crumble. Almost inaudibly, he whispered, “Yes.”
She gave him another wrench. “The Hierarch did not hear you.”
Raising her voice as far as her waning strength allowed, she cried, “Rykan, Duke of Kymer, do you cede the field of combat?”
She stabbed him again and his voice escaped in a hoarse cry.
“Yes, damn you, yes! I yield!”
A vast, triumphant roar erupted from the watchers round the Hierarch’s pavilion. Rykan’s admission was the cue for the heralds to blow a prearranged fanfare declaring the Champion’s victory. The resulting crescendo of sound from the assembled army and the Citadel behind was deafening.
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The instant he heard Rykan’s words, Pharikian cut the Firefield. He ignored Robin’s frantic pleas for release and instead ordered Anjer to restrain him. Robin was forced to watch and listen as Andaryon’s ruler approached the pair on the ground.
His face stern with worry, Pharikian took note of the blood on Sullyan’s body, the blue tinge to her lips, and the tremor of her hand which still gripped Rykan’s wrist. His eyes skated over the ruin of her left hand, but the smell of charred flesh was unavoidable. Robin’s eyes blurred with tears. He would never forget that stench.
Neither combatant registered Pharikian’s approach. He had to touch Sullyan’s shoulder to gain her attention. Without slackening her grip on Rykan’s mind, she glanced up, and even Robin could see the feral hunger in her eyes. Pharikian reacted with shock. Sullyan dampened her fury, but Robin knew she couldn’t release it altogether. It was probably the only thing keeping her from flying apart.
