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The inner cell door squealed as Abdeel
and Dumah hurried in with their charges' swords, withheld as always until
combat was about to begin. They strapped on the harnesses for both longsword
and dagger, gave them grins that were anything but friendly, and hurried out
again. A moment later, the arena doors swung
open, and Abramm gasped to see what they revealed. The sand had vanished,
replaced by a gleaming gold-and-lapis court from which a long, marbled stair
rose to a railed platform. White partitions, some appearing solid, others
clearly illusion, rose up here and there around the set. High overhead a
massive chandelier depended from a vaulted ceiling that looked for all the
world like it must block the view of the spectators at the higher levels, and
yet, he knew it did not. It was an illusion, like all the rest. Double-sided,
appearing solid from one vantage and as the sheerest veil of gauze from the
other. But he was ready for that, having seen
glimpses of the phenomenon in the parade last night. What astonished him was
that this set was a near-perfect replica of the king's court at Whitehill The courtiers had hurried out when the
doors opened, were busy taking up their positions, while Abramm stood
entranced. Now he heard his own name blare across the arena, fractured
miserably by the Tahg, and the crowd fell silent. With a glance at Trap
beside him, he drew a deep breath, straightened his shoulders and stepped
into the light. It was only a moment before the laughter
began, and once begun, it escalated quickly. People pointed and slapped each
other's backs; they screamed and squealed and howled, doubling over and
falling on top of each other in their mirth. Abramm walked with his head
high, his back straight, his eyes ahead, as he'd been taught as a child,
ignoring them. Taunts flew out of the general melee. "Yelaki
Kiriatha! Hashta kermaad!" He slid into that place of calm
detachment, as on the beach at Qarkeshan, thinking what a curious thing it
was to be mocked and disdained by people who knew nothing about him. Even
more curious that they should do it with such vehemence. The strains of a popular waltz started
up around them. At once the courtiers began to drink and prance and primp,
apparently having been coached, or maybe just making it up, for no one Abramm
had ever seen at court acted like this. The girl in yellow met them at the
court's "entrance". Her tears had dried, and she avoided their eyes
as she guided them up the stairs to the platform where Abramm was to sit on
the throne. Another ran up the stair with empty silver goblets, wagged her
finger at them, as if they were naughty boys, and hurried away. The stentorian Taleteller--Abramm could
not imagine how he made his voice so loud--launched into his introduction.
The Fall of the King of Kiriath, this act was called. With somebody or other
as Beltha'adi and somebody else as Beltha'adi's second--not that he would
find anything to do today. The joke was received with a surge of laughter and
applause, Abramm was then introduced as playing
the role of the King of Kiriath, courtesy of Katahn ul Manus himself.
"And in the role of His Majesty's retainer we have the Heathen Shield
Trap Meridon, formerly of the Kiriathan Royal Guard. Or so Lord ul Manus
claims Wrathful, contemptuous screaming greeted
this announcement. Pieces of rotten fruit splattered the outer edges of tile,
and sailed through the ghost wall that stood between Abramm and the audience
on the court's far side. The courtiers postured and bowed and
fluttered, the men directed here and there by the women, tripping and reeling
exaggeratedly as they slopped wine down the fronts of their doublets. The
crowd laughed contemptuously. "Drunken and dissipated..."
said the Taleteller, as the men grabbed at the women and tore at their gowns.
"Indecent and immoral..." The women welcomed the advances with
embarrassing writhings. "They are unable to control their lusts, unable
to make themselves worthy of any real god's attention. Only the Dying God
will have them. Serving such a god, they know not how to fight or die like
men, nor will Eidon be able to defend them. They are fit only to be conquered
and ruled by their betters!" The Taleteller's voice rang stridently,
igniting the crowd. The roaring, screaming voices filled the arena like a
living thing that pulsed and quivered, tearing at ear and heart and belly. Light bloomed on the far side,
illuminating a door in the arena's wall, now trundling open to admit a troop
of black-and-gray-garbed soldiers. Amidst them strode one clad and cloaked in
gold, a black crescent moon standing atop the crown of his helmet. Impossibly,
the crowd's passion rose another notch, screaming Beltha'adi's name. With a wail the courtiers scurried to a
corner of the set, crowding together like frightened hens. As the newcomers
reached the main court most of the soldiers stopped near the courtiers and
only the substitute Beltha'adi and one other drew their swords. Advancing
casually toward the foot of the stair atop which Abramm sat on his throne,
they waved to the audience, exchanged jokes with their followers, and barely
glanced at their opponents. Abramm stood up, feeling a strangely
familiar rage. The crowd began to chant. "Yelaki!
Yelaki! Dormod anahdi!" From Abramm's side came the hissing rasp
of Meridon's blade as he drew it free of its scabbard. Abramm's hand closed
upon the hilt of his own sword, hesitated. I will touch no weapon of warfare. Violence feeds the Shadow. He swallowed. Could he really kill
another man? And if he did, was he any better than his opponent? He watched the men laughing up at him,
listened to the crowd, calling for his blood, remembered the Dorsaddi just
before him, heart blasted out of his chest. And knew the answers to both
questions. Yes. And Yes. As he pulled his blades free, something
changed within him--his pent-up frustration finally found release. Suddenly
he was no longer helpless. Alloying with all he had endured and seen this
day, his anger forged a fierce determination to deflate their self-righteous
assumptions of superiority. He glanced at Trap, received a barely
perceptible nod, and together they leapt down to meet the two who would
challenge them, closing with them in a burst of aggressive parries. The two
fell back, made awkward and desperate by surprise. Abramm's opponent overparried one time
too many. Before Abramm even realized what he had done, his own blade had
slid under the southlander's weapon and up through the man's ribs. Blood
blossomed on the golden tunic as Abramm pulled the blade free. He glimpsed a
dark, surprised face as the Esurhite fell to his knees. Meridon's man sagged to the marble floor
an instant afterward, the battle over almost before it had begun. But even as Abramm drew a shaky breath,
hardly daring to believe it was over, a flash of metal caught his eye
and he turned, lifting his weapon instinctively, deflecting the blow of one
of the soldiers who had spontaneously assumed the role of backups for the
first two. Another was closing from the side, and
he felt Meridon step around behind him back to back, as they battled the four
who had taken up arms at the fall of their comrades. Blood pounded in Abramm's ears as he
parried, lunged, and ran his opponent through the forearm, drawing a howl of
pain as the man's weapon clanged to the marble floor. The disarmed Esurhite
flung himself at Abramm with bare hands and Abramm's dagger slipped between
the side slits in his armor, just as he had practiced a thousand times. The
soldier fell forward, and Abramm jumped back, jerking his weapon free and
slamming into Meridon. He twisted left, blocked an incoming thrust with the
dagger, and whipped his longblade around, slashing his opponent's arm. A reddish haze had sprung up around him,
blotting out all but the new antagonist in front of him, whom he saw with
exquisite clarity--the hate-filled eyes, the clenched teeth, the rivulets of
sweat streaming down the dark face. He could hear the Esurhite's breathless
muttered curses and could see that the man was caught in the grip of a
self-righteous fury that did not allow him to acknowledge that he faced a
superior opponent. Abramm was surprised at the man's
sluggishness, at the way he seemed to telegraph his every move and struggled
to keep his blade in time with Abramm's. It was a simple matter to parry his
slow thrusts, to ignore his awkward feints and pay him for the failure with a
stab to the leg, the arm, the waist. The man grew angrier by the moment, and
before long he fell for a double feint that left him open to Abramm's killing
stroke, in and out in an instant. The wild eyes widened, then rolled back as
he toppled to the floor. It was over. Six southlanders lay dead
or wounded on the tile, surrounded by a rapidly dissipating haze. The distant
roaring had stopped, replaced by the pitiful cries of the injured. Blood
streaked and spattered the tile, and there was far more of it than he'd
expected. He felt suddenly cold and weak, a great shudder staggering him. Then Trap was at his side, gripping his
arm, pulling him up and around. When he tried to resist, tried to look back
over his shoulder, his friend shook his arm. "You did what you had to
do, my lord." Abramm swallowed, and stared at him,
heartsick and bitter. "Is that how you deal with it? Just ignore
it?" "Be thankful it's not you lying on
that floor. Because it easily could have been." His brown eyes bored into Abramm's,
bearing the truth deep into his soul. Yes. It was supposed to have
been his blood that stained the tiles. The haze was gone now, and finally he
noticed the crowd. Its shocked silence filled the arena with palpable force.
He realized then that the man in the golden tunic, the one with the black
crescent moon helmet lay among the dead. The portents in that event--coming
on the heels of the Dorsaddi's prophesying--struck even him, raising the
hairs up the back up his spine. He stepped back, his gaze falling at
last upon his courtiers. To a person, they gaped at him with wonder and
outright worship in their eyes. He looked back at them, wiping the sweat
from his upper lip on his sleeve, smearing red paint on the fabric. He was
surprised to find himself panting. Suddenly, to his utter astonishment,
each of the courtiers went down on one knee. "Hail Eidon!" they
cried. "Hail Abramm, King of Kiriath!" A rumble arose from the spectators as,
in the Broho's box across the ring, a man stood and stretched wide his arms.
As the Kiriathan courtiers screamed and cowered, the king's court
disappeared, and Abramm found himself standing on packed sand. The man's chest swelled as he drew
breath, then opened his mouth in a bellow that flung forth a gout of violet fire.
Abramm toppled backward as it slammed into his sword, sending it sailing
through the air to land with Trap's in a twisted, smoking heap on the sand
some ten yards away. At Beltha'adi's side, Katahn had leaped
up, jabbering and gesticulating furiously. Already Zamath and the others were
rushing in, interposing their bodies between their charges and the box and
hurrying them out of the ring. Katahn met them in the corridor not long
afterward, bursting with excitement. "Wonderful!" he crowed.
"And that bit with the courtiers at the end? They'll be falling all over
themselves to get at you next time." Shettai, who had trailed in his wake,
looked at Abramm as if she'd never seen him before, while Abdeel and Dumah
swirled out cloaks with which to enfold them. The chamber throbbed with
excited babble as news of the Kiriathans' victory spread.... Until a familiar high-pitched voice cut
through it all, producing an instant shocked silence. Katahn's priest, Master Peig, stood in
the aisle, shaven dome gleaming, dark eyes glaring, Regar at his elbow in
silent support. "You must kill them both, Lord
Katahn!" the man said again, his voice hard and condemning. It echoed
away to silence, every eye in the packed chamber suddenly fixed upon the two
men. Katahn laughed. "Do you have any
idea how much money these men will make me in a single season?" "Greed brought down the Dorsaddi,
Katahn." Peig paused, narrowed his eyes. "I told you not to make a
warrior of him. I told you this would happen. But you paid no heed, and so
your task is harder. I tell you these two carry the mark of destruction. If
you do not destroy them, Katahn ul Manus, you will lose everything. Everything." The silence could not have been more
absolute. Even Katahn seemed momentarily taken aback by the intensity of the
holy man's warning. For a long horrible moment Abramm feared all his grasping
after survival, all he had sacrificed and endured, would come to nothing after
all. Then Katahn smiled. "How many of
your prophecies have come true in the last year, Master Peig? Half of them?
That's probably too generous. A quarter, then? And if we consider the last
handful of years, how many times, then?" The priest jerked up his chin.
"They have all come true, sir, it is only the interpretation--" "A prophecy is useless if not
properly interpreted before its execution, sir. And considering your record,
why should I believe that this time you've done it correctly?" Master Peig ignited in a flaming rage,
loosing a volley of words Abramm had no hope of following. When Katahn
clearly still resisted, his son Regar jumped in, but he too argued in vain.
Finally Peig surrendered with a bitter epithet and strode away. A moment
longer the son regarded the father, tight-lipped, clearly distraught. Then he
too took his leave. Katahn watched them go, smirking openly.
He made some irreverent comments to his men, then gave orders concerning his
slaves' treatment and rewards and departed. Shettai lingered, her gaze once more on
Abramm. Their eyes met for a long fierce moment, as if she searched for
something of vital importance, and he thought again of the slain Dorsaddi's
earlier prophecy to Beltha'adi. "Even now the Deliverer is coming to
slay you." She turned away, finally, and it seemed
to him there was something very like a secret smile upon her lips. Excerpted from: The
Light of Eidon (Legends of the Guardian-King, Book 1) by Karen Hancock Copyright © 2003, Karen Hancock ISBN 0764227947 Published by Bethany
House Publishers Used by permission.
Unauthorized duplication prohibited |
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