ELEVEN
THE SILENCE DROVE Ryder from the depths of slumber. For once, his sleep had lacked any mysterious dreams of otherworldly phenomena. He lay listening with his eyes closed and heard not the clamorous hubbub of Ravel he would have expected. There was only the soothing murmur of falling water. Behind it was a thin, unidentifiable sound laying somewhere between a creak and a groan.
He continued to lie in stillness, enjoying the feeling of well-being. The Quietus came easily and swiftly. He knew the past turns had taken their toll, yet he had recovered. The Aether now flowed through and around him like a soothing balm. In the lap of such inner peace, he remembered the purpose he had all but forgotten. He must go to the festival.
He rose and put on his robe, then cleaned and donned his sword. He was on the second floor of the Guild Jain's palace—for a palace it was. It could not rival the castle of the Mondragons in size, but the splendor of its furnishings and the lushness of its décor were its equal.
Arkadies Venn’s residence was replete with an assortment of old relics from Pre-Cloister, and a variety of others from uncountable worlds throughout the Pentarchy. Ryder had time for only casual glances as he searched the rooms. Half of the level contained sleeping quarters for guests, while the remaining half was for the Guild Jain's private use.
Ryder found Mendiko in a chamber dominated by a four-poster bed. The prince remained in deep sleep, his arm wrapped comfortably around Shaleen. The couple presented such a picture of repose Ryder had to smile. The stricture of free companion had not lasted a single night. Ryder decided they too would want to attend the festival and he woke them.
While they attended to their ablutions, he descended the old-fashioned iron stairway, preferring it to the chute the Guild Jain used.
The ground floor was the realm of the culinars. The enticing smells of various exotic dishes swirled in the air, yet he ignored their temptation, moving instead to the anteroom fronting the Hub: the same room they had used for their meeting earlier that morning. Standing in front of the wide window, he gazed out over the Dipsoman’s domain and saw what he had not noticed before.
The Hub was strangely empty, though not so strange if one thought of the festival as being a great vacuum that sucked away people. The alien sound he had heard upon awakening now assaulted his ears, and he identified it at once.
The giant statue of Archduke Owen was actually a fountain, and a tall ship of bronze rested in the circular pool at its base. He recognized it as the Pegasus and knew instinctively that Robert the Piper must also have designed this vessel. The hollow yardarm of the mainmast was opened at one end and set at a perfect angle to catch the water cascading from the rocks piled above. As it slowly filled, it tipped until it released the water from a hidden drain and once more lifted level.
Sharply defined yet musical groans and creaks accompanied the motion, coupled with light-rippled shades of aquamarine and glowing touches of untarnished bronze. They flexed in unearthly cadence, giving the vessel an impression of movement in a gentle swell—as no doubt the artist’s genius had intended.
Mendiko and Shaleen joined him at last, looking refreshed and happy.
“It looks as though we overslept,” Mendiko said, nodding toward the empty Hub. “I cannot remember when such a thing happened, nor have I ever felt so alone in the empire’s playground.”
“Let us hope for no more games like last night’s,” Shaleen observed dryly.
Ryder noticed how she rubbed the injured arm, even though he could see no scratch upon the smooth skin. “You are well?” he asked.
“Yes.” She smiled and raised her arm self-consciously. “The miracle stays in my mind. The wound itself is as though it had never been. The power of the Lady is wondrous.”
“The power is a gift of the Source for the benefit of mankind.”
They turned and beheld Lady Niobe standing in the red-gold halo of the sun’s slanting rays. Beside her was the darker outline of Deemus. The dim glow of their shields touched and blended like waves rippling onto a shore.
“You are sorely missed at the arena,” Niobe chided gently. “You in particular, Mendiko Sid. Being Fourth in House and the favored cousin of Ashara, your tardiness is unforgivable.” The Lady smiled then, and it was a beautiful sight to behold. “Considering what happened last night, I suppose she may forgive you…but only if you now hasten.”
They set off immediately, moving along the Haggle. Like the Hub it was all but deserted, and their progress was swift. They quickly reached Border Road and continued into the morass known as No-man’s-land. The arena loomed in front of them, three klicks away.
Niobe’s long strides matched theirs. She moved unerringly, and her staff tapped out a rhythm as steady as a drumbeat. “It is too long since I have walked the open ways of Brigantia,” she declared. They saw Deemus glance at her, his face transformed by a rare smile.
The salt-tinged breeze had freshened, rushing in from the sea. Their robes chattered merrily about their legs, while their hair flicked across their faces and teased their eyes. The trees creaked in dry song, now almost bare of leaves. The wind lessened as they came to the Little Fork, for by then they had passed into the lee of Eagle’s Head.
There was a footbridge of aged wood across the narrow stream: a single truss encompassing a three-meter span. The water trundled along beneath them, so close they could touch it. As they gazed down, a fish jumped, plopping back with a splash and attendant ripples.
“My brother began constructing the Great Arena in the eightieth cycle of this era, even as the city continued to unfold,” Niobe explained. “I was still young then. It was long before the Korda towered over the Sacred Isle. The arena is the mother from whom a giant son sprang forth.”
As they neared the outskirts, they beheld a large throng of roving onlookers, their single-minded intent to get closer to the pushing and shoving groups surrounding the holos.
The volume of noise alerted the travelers. There was a feeling to the sound, a pulsing sigh of unnatural excitement that spoke to those with the Gift—and the word was obscenity. As they came in sight of a large holo, the firm arm of Deemus pulled Niobe to a stop.
“Bloodsport!” His voice carried not only a warning but disgust.
Niobe straightened and her head lifted as though testing the wind. “On this turn of turns?” Her voice faltered. “What can Victor be thinking?”
They moved among the hawkers selling their wares on the outskirts, then deeper into the milling crowd.
Ryder felt a strange dread rising above his disgust. The holo in front of the entryway drew him. As he neared, he spied two Tsarkins exiting. They caught his eye only because there were immediate cries from the waiting throng who fought eagerly for the privilege of entering the packed arena.
The two were easily identifiable, not only from the familiar simian caste of their faces but also by their dress. He had learned a good deal from Kronus about Tsark, and in particular the Septar of Scribes. From the chained emblem lying on these elders’ chests, they were members of the High Council of Tsark.
He approached them and they stopped to await his arrival, shrugging off the press of people. They carried long staffs of wood, knobbed on top with a band of burnished metal. Such a staff would make a formidable weapon, yet it was more likely a symbol of their office. Before he could introduce himself, the shorter Tsarkin addressed him in the Common tongue.
“Greetings, Ryder Talisman. We have heard your exploits first hand from our Sept-brother, Kronus.” He bowed and introduced himself. “I am Malaki, and this is my younger brother, Landri.”
“We came to offer the rianna our good wishes,” Landri added, “but we have no taste for bloodsport.”
Ryder’s gaze wandered to the holo, and what he saw made him tense.
The Tsarkins nodded grimly, and Malaki could not hide his distaste. “The Vanard are little more than wild beasts themselves. The tharfi is the first I have ever seen, yet how unfortunate it must be under these dread circumstances.”
Ryder barely listened. The sight of the crazed and wildly whirling tharfi had triggered something in his memory.
“What is it?” Mendiko too studied the holo-scene and his face registered shock. “The tharfi of the warren? By the Rim! It can be none other!”
Warren?
The flash of insight was so vivid Ryder groaned and staggered forward, holding his head in pain as wave after wave of re-lived memories surged into his mind. The campfire of the warren; the brief but intense battle and the renewed bond of kinship…Wulf!
The roiling waves subsided and his vision once more steadied. His choices were limited but certain.
“They use the Stent,” Mendiko intoned grimly. “Not even the tharfi can stand against five Vanard so armed.”
“I must go to his aid,” Ryder stated quietly but firmly, already moving toward the gate. He found his way blocked by Deemus and Lady Niobe. Deemus’ eyes sparkled with anger, yet also with determination.
“This is ill chance, Sword Thane, yet you cannot enter the arena pit during a contest of blood…not while you bear sword and shield.”
“Think!” Niobe cautioned. “This act you contemplate, though brave, is also foolhardy. Consider what you risk!”
“I have no choice,” Ryder asserted as he disrobed. Behind him, Mendiko did likewise. He hesitated for a moment longer before handing his sword to the astonished Deemus. His shields dropped into the dust. “I swore an oath.”
He hurried to the Tsarkin known as Malaki. “Brother Malaki, I must borrow your staff for a short while.”
Without a further word, Ryder grabbed the staff from the startled elder and rushed toward the gate. At the loud command of Deemus, the wide-eyed myrmidon stepped aside. Those waiting to enter scattered before the giant who stormed past, long hair flying about his face: a man who looked wilder than the Vanard.
Mendiko was only a pace behind, and he carried the spear of Landri. With an added effort, he drew abreast as they flew out onto the pit floor.
Neither man had noticed the slim form of Shaleen racing close behind.
The arena had gone silent, yet the sight of the three new combatants rekindled the crowd’s madness. Their sudden roar of approval after the hush was deafening.
Ryder saw Wulf collapsed on the blood-soaked sand, theVanard still prodding him with their Stents. The sight filled him with rage, and a low animal growl erupted from his throat.
Instinct alone alerted the Vanard to their approach. No ears could have heard their pounding steps over the screams of the crowd. They turned away from the tharfi and advanced in line, flushed with their recent victory and ready to meet this unknown threat.
“Beware the Stent!” Mendiko cautioned, shouting his words between gritted teeth. “One touch at high power can immobilize a limb!”
Ryder grunted in answer, though he had no need of the warning. The bloody, crumpled figure of Wulf was enough evidence of the Stent’s capabilities. At first glance it looked like a spear, though the upper portion appeared like a whip, flexing with each motion of the Vanard.
They were large, ugly creatures whose movements appeared ungainly, but Ryder was not fooled.
When they were within a dozen paces, he and Mendiko drew apart, forcing the Vanard to do likewise. He had not noticed the heaviness of his staff until then. It was an unfamiliar wood, hard as iron, and the tip glinted with the unknown metal. There was no more time to think or plan. Only the long moons of training and the fine-tuning of his reflexes saved him in the first encounter.
As the first Vanard drew near, Ryder held the staff like a spear and jerked his arm forward as though he intended to throw it. The Vanard flinched, yet he was too animal swift. Even as Ryder reversed his grip and jabbed for the exposed midriff, the Vanard parried and the spring tip touched the staff directly on the embossed metal.
For a horrifying instant, there was a bright glow like a lightning flash and long, jagged sparks flew in every direction. The wooden haft of the staff insulated him, though the metal tip glowed white-hot and the underlying wood smoked.
The first Vanard recovered and the second moved in on Ryder’s right. He planted the staff and vaulted high between them. The move was so unexpected they could only crane their necks upward and gape at the figure flying over their heads.
Ryder landed running and raced toward the downed tharfi. The animal’s eyelids fluttered open, the eyes dazed and unfocused. With urgency spurring his thoughts, he sought the creature’s mind.
‘Rise, Brother, if you can! We need your strength!’
There was no time to see the result of his plea. He pivoted to face his attackers, who had been slower in following. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mendiko strike with his spear at another Vanard. The blow had little effect as it slid off the metal helmet, then glanced off the chain mail on the upper body.
Further to his right, he was amazed to see Shaleen clinging to the back of another, her bare forearm in a chokehold around his neck. The Vanard ignored his Stent, twisting and leaping in a raging but vain effort to dislodge her. With her free hand, she struck down with her slim blade. Her wild aim was true, and a gout of blood suddenly jetted like a fountain. Somehow her dagger had slipped between the metal faceplate and body armor to find the jugular.
Ryder turned his head just in time to save himself from being decapitated. The razor-thin tip of the Stent flashed so near to his face he heard the whoosh and felt the whispered breath of its passing. The Vanard’s momentum carried him past.
Twisting, Ryder struck the exposed neck and shoulder joint with all his strength. The blow landed solidly, but Malaki’s thick staff shattered in his hand, leaving him with nothing but a jagged shard.
The huge Vanard, though stunned and staggering, had not fallen. Ryder drove the tip straight for the chest plate, knowing even as he did it would not penetrate.
His own mistake aided his aim. Slipping on a blood-wetted patch of sand, he missed his intended target and struck instead near the creature’s armpit. Like Shaleen before him, luck guided his blow. It struck a nerve center and the Vanard’s Stent dropped from useless fingers.
Ryder’s long moons of training with the Metals now hindered more than helped. He had become so reliant upon them he was too conscious of their absence. He sensed the remaining Vanard a moment too late. Even as he twisted desperately away, an agonizing jolt of pain sent him reeling to the sand. He rolled and reached his knees, but a host of black dots fluttered like tiny flies in his vision.
The Vanard stood above him, waving his stent in a teasing manner as he grinned in victory.
With a bloodcurdling scream, the giant head of the tharfi rose behind him. The massive forepaw seemed to sweep in slow motion and the Vanard’s head parted cleanly. A bright jet of blood covered both Ryder and the headless torso as it shivered and wobbled obscenely before falling to rest in front of Ryder’s face.
He swung around, still dizzy and half expecting another blow, but saw to his amazement that only a single enemy remained. Shaleen and Mendiko now bore stents taken from their fallen foes, and forced him to retreat. As the Vanard looked around in confused desperation and saw he was alone, he dropped his weapon and knelt in the universal sign of surrender.
Ryder struggled painfully to his feet only to confront the tharfi. Blood and torn flesh matted the massive beast’s mane, yet somehow it dragged its crippled hind legs over the sand toward him. There was a purpose to its movement that spoke of a mind driven by pain and hate over the bounds of sanity and into madness.
Ryder looked into the yellowed eyes but saw no sign of recognition. He realized the tharfi meant to attack him. Rather than retreat, he moved forward, thrusting his mind outward with all his remaining strength.
'Hold, Brother!'
The tharfi paused, shaking his head as though trying to drive off a bothersome gnat.
Ryder struggled to intensify his focus, yet he stumbled from the lack of Metals.
‘Do you not recognize me, Wulf?’
He waited, trembling with the pain in his back. How could the tharfi even move after such devastating torture? Yet now the yellowed eyes focused on him, and he knew he had reached the inner mind.
‘Maaaan?’
The Great Arena once more became hushed as a half-million onlookers held their breath, awaiting the outcome.
Ryder rushed forward as the tharfi crumpled, just as a thunderous roar followed the loud blaring of a horn. He lifted his head to see a score of Gardai Adepts rushing across the sand, the Lord Marshal in the lead. Argus’ face was flushed with satisfaction.
“Once again you have strayed beyond the boundaries, Code-breaker. This time you will not escape!”
“And once again you are wrong, Lord Marshal!”
The voice of the Pat’Riark was more distinctive than any fanfare. With him were the Tsarkin elders, as well as Deemus and Lady Niobe. As she dropped her cowl, a murmur rose from the crowd like a whispering wind.
“What law has he broken, Lord Marshal?” she demanded loudly. “He has fought without sword or shield in open battle against superior odds and emerged victorious.”
Argus’ jaw worked in frustrated rage. “My lady, this contest was by order of Odrim Sid and Archduke Victor. This man had no right to interfere.”
“Ah….” Niobe nodded her head as though gifted with sudden understanding. She moved unerringly toward the royal box, now hovering directly above the pit. “What say you, Odrim? And you, Victor? Guilty or not guilty?”
The eyes of the primus narrowed as they passed over Fortunatus yet softened at the sight of his sister. “You pick strange circumstances to leave your home, Niobe.”
“These are strange times,” Niobe agreed. Her sightless gaze fastened on Zel, standing at his father’s side wearing a mocking smile.
Ryder also studied him. He had to admit the man’s features—much like his father’s— possessed a certain rugged attraction, though something distorted them. It resembled a shadow, flickering on and off so fast he was uncertain which face was real and which was false.
He was aware too of a return scrutiny, not only from Zel but the two D’ia Mor standing near him. Yet the rianna captured his attention as though she had summoned him with her voice. Her eyes were red-rimmed with tears, yet her beauty was undimmed. Ryder understood it would be unwise to attempt a mind link, yet his eyes betrayed the depth of his feeling.
Zel’s smile hardened as he leaned toward the archduke. “Surely the verdict is obvious, Father? Whatever their motive, such interference cannot be allowed…”
“There is another matter not so obvious,” Shaan interrupted, “yet it is even more relevant. The tharfi is sentient. By the First Law of the Codex, he should not have been forced into bloodsport without his prior consent.”
“What mockery is this?” Zel spat derisively. “You take us for fools?”
Shaan’s silence was more effective than any reply.
“It is true, Your Grace,” Ryder said, stepping forward. His eyes flicked to Ashara once again, imploring her to remain silent. “The tharfi is the same one I encountered in Shaka’s warren. His name is Wulf. He is not only sentient but possesses intelligence of a much higher order than these Vanard.”
Everyone had forgotten the tharfi until then. Niobe stepped away from the gathering and headed to where the animal lay in obvious agony and near death. Her intention was plain to all.
“Have a care,” Deemus warned. “It may be as they say, yet…”
Niobe waved away her consort’s worry and knelt before the still form. Reaching out, she laid her palm upon the tharfi’s head. An immediate whining note caused Deemus to draw his sword.
“He is sentient,” Niobe avowed. “We must take him to the Retreat at once.”
Ashara used the opportunity to whisper in her father’s ear, pleading with him to honor his vow. Though it was unlikely he understood what was happening, Odrim’s voice rose thin and wailing. “Yes…yes, we must release the tharfi.”
Yet it was Deemus who finally swayed the archduke. “You may decide the matter of the tharfi later, Victor. Yet regardless of whether the actions of these three were right or wrong, the courage they have shown this turn does not merit punishment.”
Though Zel’s face darkened, and that of Argus appeared ready to explode into flame, the primus nodded. “I agree.”
As he raised his arm, the horns blared once more. The festival was over.