TWENTY-NINE
THE MORNING OF the fifth turn came, as it must: the last of the Great Moot. Zel would either bear the Kryll, or there would be a new Riark of Swords.
The sun rose high and headed swiftly for the horizon. Yet the challenger did not appear. Those who had witnessed the Great Moot’s varied spectacles in previous cycles raised their eyes in bewilderment. Never had they seen such a happening. Night came and receded until the dawn was but an hour away. It looked as though Zel would win by forfeit. Once the Great Horn rang out, there could be no further challenge.
Khan had readied himself, nestled in the nourishing cocoon of the Quietus. He believed himself prepared to face the coming challenge. Yet where was Speer? A challenger could easily withdraw, yet he must state such a decision openly for all to hear. The rules of engagement now bound them all. It was the challenger’s right to appear only when he considered himself ready.
Shaan stood in the wings surrounded by his friends. Fortunatus had not yet appeared, nor had Thorgrim. The pentarch showed his apprehension, unknowing of the course he should take. None there could advise him, for no one had ever before witnessed such unparalleled circumstance.
They waited until the last hour was half spent and dawn’s first pallid touch lit the eastern rim. As though it were a signal, Speer entered the pit.
The crowd surged to its feet and a ringing cheer filled the Korda. The Commander of the Rim Fleet offered no words to explain his lateness. He looked neither right nor left but came directly to Khan, halting six paces away. He had already drawn his sword, and it flickered with the bright glow of power.
Khan too wasted no time. The lengthy delay had put him in a mood of acute anxiety. He offered only a brief salute before he summoned the Flame and advanced.
Speer held himself easily. He appeared almost unprepared for the contest. His attack stunned the watchers by its speed and ferocity. He ran forward and leapt to the level of Khan’s shoulder. With unbelievable grace and agility, he used his momentum to drive the point of his sword straight at his opponent’s shield.
It was a blow imbued with crushing force, and its delivery was faster than the eye could follow. The wenlord was taken by surprise. He staggered backward, yet somehow remained standing. There was a shocked silence as all those watching beheld Khan’s right arm hanging limply. His sword now lay at his feet.
Speer faced him and waited, motionless.
The silence lengthened as Khan slowly dropped to one knee. He picked up his sword with his left hand and drove the blade into the earth in the sign of capitulation.
Pandemonium reigned throughout the Korda. Never had the crowd witnessed such an awesome display of skill and raw power. Never had a contest between those of the First Rank ended so swiftly and decisively.
Speer bowed to his defeated comrade and headed toward the Rigan of Faerwyn-Joss. Before he could reach his destination, he found his way blocked. Thorgrim and the Pat’Riark had come at last to witness the final moments of the Moot.
Speer slowed his advance, looking first at the giant form of Halfinger. He then cast a swift glance at the Pat’Riark before averting his eyes. His sword dipped until the point touched the sand. With both hands on the hilt, he leaned his weight forward and waited.
It was Thorgrim, grim and gruff, who spoke first. “You know what we shall ask.”
Speer regarded his mentor and nodded his head.
“You must withdraw,” Fortunatus demanded. There was a cold, unrelenting harshness to his voice. “There is no time for any further contest. You are too evenly matched. You will achieve nothing except to drain one another, even as the last seconds fly away.”
Speer’s head swiveled toward the Pat’Riark. For an instant, their eyes locked. When he spoke, his voice was low of timbre, his words clear and precise.
“You ask much for one who has given so little.”
The Pat’Riark’s face drained of blood. His brows lowered and his staff glowed eerily. Thorgrim stepped between them, his vast bulk forcing them to give way. Though he towered over the Commander of the Rim Fleet, there was a softness in his eyes as he spoke.
“You have been a son to me, so I ask you to heed with a son’s ears. Though you might dispute the words of the Pat’Riark, you cannot gainsay their logic. It is irrefutable. You will manage no such trickery as we have just witnessed…not with Shaan Sid. The contest will be long and bitterly fought, and whoever is victorious will be the loser nonetheless. Therefore, I ask you to withdraw. I swear there will be no smear on your name or honor.”
Speer appeared to deliberate for a moment before he sighed. There was a wry smile on his face as Shaan joined them. He had not come in time to overhear the beginning of the argument, yet he understood what was happening. Before he could speak out in protest, Speer astonished them all.
“It was never my intention to contest with you, my lord Pentarch. I merely afford you the best opportunity for success. Thus have I waited so long. This is my gift to you. Though our blood tie is thin, we are kin. I am of the House Brynn-Jago. Go now and make your challenge.”
Speer turned without further comment, walking only a few paces before he stopped. In a loud and clear voice, he addressed the entire Korda, electrifying them with a single phrase of but two words.
“I withdraw!”
The avowal trilled through the massive amphitheater, echoing in repetition. The entire populace lay in shocked silence.
It appeared then as though Shaan had turned to stone. “By the Rim,” he murmured, “there goes a man.”
“There is no time to delay,” Fortunatus urged. “Issue your challenge!”
Shaan walked back across the sand, traversing the thick ranks of Adepts. Zel stood waiting at the furthest end of the pit. With him, as always, were the D’ia Mor.
“I am Shaan Sid, Rigan of Faerwyn-Joss and Pentarch of Solarian. I challenge you, Zel, Heir-Apparent of House Mondragon and Riark of Swords. Do you accept?”
“I do, most noble Pentarch!”
Zel’s attack was without preamble. In one fluid motion he drew his sword and simultaneously summoned the Flame, launching himself at his opponent more like a maddened animal than a human being. From his lips came a whining cry without syllable or meaning. Echoing it in an identical tone and volume was the steady drone of the D’ia Mor.
***
Shaan was prepared and met the attack. Their swords clashed and a brilliant mushroom of light surged up, a flickering violet of the purest essence. Power for power, they matched. They drew away, circling like great cats, muscles straining.
Shaan heard the roar of the crowd, the guttural tearing of a million tightened throats, yet it was subliminal. His mind was so focused it neared a state of religious ecstasy. Sword and shield. Shield and sword. Breath and the endless flux of the Aether. He was nothing and everything, the product of countless hours of training that had flowed into moons, then into cycles and beyond.
The moments passed with each attack met and countered, each one’s skill tested and found true. A look of frustration marred Zel’s face, twisting his lips into a grimace. The look slowly turned to rage. Each of his attacks, no matter how swift and powerful, was beaten back and then returned with another in kind.
With each passing second, Shaan’s belief strengthened. He could win.
The first touch on his mind was a feather’s carress, yet so acutely did he feel it in his heightened state it seared him like a fiery blade. It disappeared just as swiftly, but there was a physical reaction, a stiffening of horror causing him to be a fraction late in his defense. This was more than enough at the high level of their contest. Zel seemed aware of this as he switched his attack at the precise moment, thrusting his sword with every ounce of power at Shaan’s center.
Shaan diverted enough power to his shields to block the blow but staggered backward. Zel pushed forward, unrelenting, reigning blow after blow.
A wave of terrible anger flooded Shaan, born of a sudden and inescapable knowledge of what had happened. He leapt backward, regaining his stance and easily parrying Zel’s next wild thrust. It was then Shaan’s turn to drive forward, and Zel had no choice but to retreat. His eyes glittered malignant yet soulless, reflecting nothing but a dark and cold emptiness. A sneer contorted his features into ugliness.
The second touch on Shaan’s mind was a white-hot needle of agony, shocking his senses into numbness. He realized it was not one mind but three, for he saw the shadowed forms of the D’ia Mor outlined through the pain. Awareness was wild and full. They were Zel’s pole of power!
He staggered back, trying desperately to distance himself. He understood now why Zel had removed himself so far from the others. Too far.
The blow came as he sought to regain his balance, still dizzy and with eyes not quite focused. Coldness settled over his chest and he tasted blood. He realized he had bitten through his tongue, yet even this was unimportant. The world slowed. There was a roaring in his ears now that was not of the crowd.
‘There is a problem, Pentarch?’
Zel watched him, his sword held level and steady. His lips had not moved. The question had come from his mind.
Could no one see? Could no one hear the Code-breaker?
Shaan knew the truth then. All his training had not prepared him for this. The Code was now working against him. The Code…
Laughter filled his mind, a peal of horrifying laughter imbued with madness. And lurking within was a dark and roiling shadow that crept hungrily toward him.
The first touch of fear caressed him like an icy blade. And then another presence entered his mind, powerful and benign. The command rang out, even as he saw the pillar of flame rise. The sign of the Magi! Yet it looked so far away…too far…
‘Move! Move closer to us!’
Hope surged. Yet even as he tried to make his limbs move, Zel cut him off, making it appear as easy as though he were but a snail and Zel the swift rabbit.
Another blow took him and the coldness settled deeper. He realized he had fallen to his knees, but only after he raised his head and saw Zel standing over him, a horrible smile twisting his lips.
‘Such a pity you did not train your mind for anything but the sword!’
Shaan saw the blade lift, slow and deliberately teasing. He reached inside himself, searching for a last reserve of strength. He struggled to rise, struggled even to raise his shield…
But the Ryl was gone. Sucked away from him. Stolen…
The final blow crushed him. His mind cried out, a feeble wailing as his spirit slipped away. Then a blanket of darkness settled over him, blotting out all light.
***
The Magi moved forward like an unstoppable juggernaut. Their power rose and surrounded them, billowing outward, a molten river of energy that threatened to devour all in its path.
It sundered the ring of Adepts, even though the voice of Argus rose, commanding them to hold fast. His voice was a whisper, sucked away by a howling wind.
At the head strode Fortunatus, Pat’Riark of Swords and Chieftain of the Magi, his visage twisted by rage. The power flickered from his staff like a living entity, rising high above all others. Straight for Zel he aimed.
The vast mass of people watched in mute fascination as the son of the primus strove to halt the approaching fury. He did not move away but instead stood stubbornly above the body of the fallen pentarch as a hunter stands guard over his kill.
Their fascination turned to wonder as the D’ia Mor flanking him summoned the Flame: the first and only time since their arrival so many long cycles ago.
Yet even this amazing display was as nothing, for the terrible fire of Fortunatus’ fury would not be quenched so easily. He came onward, and the Ten drove back the Three. They quickly formed a cordon around the body of Shaan Sid. Yet still the Pat’Riark advanced. At his side now strode the Lady Niobe and Deemus.
A jagged bolt of energy burst from the tip of Fortunatus’ staff and Zel staggered, unable to withstand its terrible force even though he strove with all his might.
The unmistakable blast of the Great Horn rang out then, a cry all must heed; a command all must obey.
The voice of the primus thundered at them, rising above the last dying echo of the Horn. “The Great Moot has ended! Anyone who now raises a sword in anger is Code-breaker!”
The sudden hush remained unbroken. Even the appalling rage of the Pat’Riark could not overpower this loud and terrible decree.
A wailing sob of grief pierced the silence. They beheld Ashara Sid kneeling on the ground, hunched forward as though stricken. Her voice rose even wilder as she cradled the head of her brother to her breast. It now hung limp and lifeless.
The Lady leaned down beside her to touch the still-warm body. Her head shook solemnly as she pronounced the death knell.
“He has gone.”
Fortunatus raised his arm and his finger pointed like a spear straight at Zel. His voice was thick with rage, amplified so all within the arena could hear and understand.
“I denounce you, Zel Mondragon! You are Code-breaker!”