DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (137 page)

Aydrian felt exactly the same way.

Abbot Olin rambled on, speaking of the various philosophical differences between the cultures concerning war and training, concerning the role of the warrior
and of the Church in society. Had he been paying closer attention, Aydrian might have garnered some valuable understanding of the old abbot’s frustrations with the Abellican Church, some better hint of the vision that Olin wanted to see brought to reality. For in Behren, unlike Honce-the-Bear, the yatol priests were the god-chosen leaders of every aspect of the lives of their subjects, the only shepherds of an obedient flock, while the Abellicans had to share their power with the King.

Aydrian wasn’t considering any of that now, though, wasn’t even hearing Olin’s words, and neither, obviously, was the Chezhou-Lei warrior. The muscled man bowed his head in respect to his young opponent—and when he did, Aydrian noted a scar creasing his mat of woolly black hair.

Battle hardened, no doubt.

Aydrian assumed a similar pose and nodded deferentially. He was waiting for some signal—from Olin, he figured—that the fight should begin, but his nod, apparently, was all that his opponent needed to see.

On charged the Chezhou-Lei fiercely, his magnificent sword whipping in circular cuts and going from hand to hand so quickly that it seemed to be drawing a figure eight in the air before him.

The viciousness of that initial assault, a sudden and brutal attempt to end the fight before it ever truly began, did catch Aydrian off his guard and nearly cost him his pride and a sizeable chunk of his flesh! He had expected some sort of introductory dance, a measured attack followed by a measured response, so that each could better understand the abilities of the other.

Chezhou-Lei doctrine, foreign to Aydrian, demanded that a fight be finished in seconds, not minutes.

And so it almost was, and only the young warrior’s quick reflexes—ducking and dodging side to side ahead of the blade’s progress, then suddenly under it, combined with two wild parries of Tempest that somehow connected enough to slow the assault—kept Aydrian fighting.

He came out of his next ducking maneuver with his feet finally positioned in a proper
bi’nelle dasada
stance, and he wasted no time but skittered back, his upper body not moving at all, but set in a perfectly balanced defensive position.

The Chezhou-Lei’s sword continued its dazzling work, then he passed it behind his back, flipping it to his other hand. He came out of the move with a straightforward, stabbing charge, that could have worked only if Aydrian had remained mesmerized by the behind-the-back movement.

He was not. The elves had taught Aydrian to dismiss the distractions, to focus on only the movements that counted; and so as the burly warrior rushed forward, sword extended, Tempest stabbed out and slapped the side of the blade.

Again, only Aydrian’s superior reflexes saved him, for then he learned the value of a curving blade, a blade that could, with a subtle twist, defeat a parry by sliding along it.

Aydrian brought Tempest across his body immediately, then slapped it out much harder than normal, forcing the curved blade far away from his vulnerable
flesh.

The Chezhou-Lei seemed to anticipate the movement, and he immediately began a down-and-around twirl that neatly disengaged his blade, executing it with such speed that his sword came around in time to block Aydrian’s sudden thrust.

Hardly discouraged, and thinking that he had stolen the advantage, Aydrian retracted and stabbed high, retracted and stabbed low, then skittered forward while delivering a series of three thrusts aimed at the Chezhou-Lei’s chest.

None of the five hit home, but he had the southerner furiously backing, his curved sword furiously spinning.

Recognizing that he had played out his momentum, and recognizing the outrage and surprise on the Chezhou-Lei’s face, Aydrian didn’t pursue further, but shifted backward, preparing a retreat, or at least something that would look like a retreat.

On came the fierce warrior, his blade again a blurring spin; and back went Aydrian, measuring and adjusting for the charge stride for stride. The pursuit continued, as did Aydrian’s retreat, the young ranger deftly sliding close to one pole supporting a trellis in the courtyard, thinking that the pole would prevent the Chezhou-Lei from working his curved sword out too far to his right.

The warrior reacted perfectly, though, sidestepping quickly to the left.

Exactly as Aydrian had hoped. For now the muscled man was not directly before him; now the man’s whirling sword would not force him to flash Tempest very far side to side should he need to parry. Not far to his left, anyway, and so Aydrian quickly flipped his blade to that hand, reversing his footing, and as the Chezhou-Lei’s blade spun down, leaving his chest exposed, Aydrian struck.

The beauty of the Chezhou-Lei fighting style was its speed, movements too quick to counter even when they forced the warrior into vulnerable positions.

The beauty of
bi’nelle dasada
was that it was faster.

Tempest stabbed through the loose sleeve and through the Chezhou-Lei’s right arm, halfway between the elbow and the armpit, the sudden move stopping the whirling blade. Aydrian drove on, pinning the arm to the pole.

The young ranger shrugged, almost apologetically, for what he considered a victory.

To the side, Olin gasped, apparently agreeing.

The Chezhou-Lei had another interpretation. He flipped his sword to his left hand and started a swing, and Aydrian had to quickly pull Tempest from the now-bleeding arm and quickly retreat several steps.

On came the outraged Chezhou-Lei, but Aydrian had the man’s full measure now. And Aydrian had measured the speed of
bi’nelle dasada
against the Chezhou-Lei technique. While the Chezhou-Lei technique appeared flashier and more impressive, the actual speed of attack surely favored
bi’nelle dasada
.

Aydrian’s knowing smile seemed only to spur on the angry Chezhou-Lei even more ferociously, and Aydrian wondered what he would have to do to force a concession from this magnificent warrior.

He gave a slight shrug, a clear appeal to the man to desist, to admit defeat. The Chezhou-Lei saw it, too—Aydrian knew that he did from the grimace that was his reply. Was it honor that now drove him, some desperation against reality that demanded he not concede?

Aydrian continued to dodge and to parry, and to back away when necessary, but then he gave another shrug, this one resigned, and accepted that he had to prove his style beyond any doubts. Now he focused more clearly on the spinning blade.

Back it went, and Aydrian came forward with a long thrust.

Back again, and ahead came Tempest.

Back again—more from sheer momentum than any conscious desire, Aydrian figured—and, for a third time, the ranger lunged.

The Chezhou-Lei continued, but Aydrian now skittered far back, put up Tempest, and announced, “You are beaten.”

To the side, Olin wore a puzzled expression, for Aydrian’s attacks had moved too quickly for him to actually follow their conclusion. To him, they had seemed like futile attempts to move forward by a helplessly retreating fighter.

The Chezhou-Lei warrior wore a puzzled expression as well, though he understood the truth of Aydrian’s attacks obviously, even before the blood began spurting from three neat holes that had been stabbed in his chest.

He looked over at Olin apologetically, and then he sank to his knees.

Olin shrieked and rushed over, calling for a soul stone, but Aydrian merely pushed him out of the way and moved to his defeated opponent.

“You are a most worthy foe,” he said to the man, who stared at him with nothing but respect.

“T
hat was foolishness,” Sadye scolded when Aydrian left the courtyard to find her nearby, obviously well aware of all that had just occurred. He walked past her with a nod, but of course she fell into step beside him.

Aydrian grinned at her.

“Do you deny it?” she asked, moving around in front of him and stopping his progress. “You could have been killed, and then where would all our plans be?”

“If I was killed, then I would hardly care, I suppose,” Aydrian answered, holding fast his grin.

Sadye shook her head and sighed. “The Chezhou-Lei …” she started.

“Is alive and wounded, but more in pride than in body,” Aydrian assured her, holding up the soul stone he had just used on the man.

“Abbot Olin doubted me as much as he doubted Tempest,” Aydrian went on.

“And you cannot bear criticism?” Sadye asked sarcastically.

“Do you doubt Olin’s importance in all this?” Aydrian asked incredulously. “He, more than we three, will raise the army. He supplied the ships for Pimaninicuit and the fleet we will need to control the southern coast. His weight in the Church cannot be underestimated nor ignored—it is Olin’s presence that gives us a foothold there, as much as my own gives us an opportunity for the Crown.
Certainly the word of Marcalo De’Unnero would not be given any credence at all in the Abellican Church.”

“He is back in Entel,” Sadye remarked, and the way she said it, and her expression, told Aydrian that, perhaps, De’Unnero’s unexpected return might not be welcome. Again, Aydrian was reminded of his suspicions that the sensuous and lustful young woman might be thinking of him in ways beyond the possible gains his bloodline afforded them.

“He was not to return for another month,” Aydrian replied.

“The weretiger,” said Sadye. “The beast demands to be released. He cannot be away from you for any length of time without the potential for disaster. It is yet another responsibility that you must shoulder and another reason why your accepting the challenge of Olin’s Chezhou-Lei warrior was foolish.”

“It was enjoyable,” Aydrian corrected, and Sadye looked at him hard.

“You err in thinking that I care for De’Unnero, for anyone or anything, beyond what it brings to me,” Aydrian said coldly. He studied Sadye closely as he spoke and did indeed note her slight, and revealing, grimace.

Aydrian broke the tension with one of his innocent chuckles. “Abbot Olin doubted me,” he said again. “And we could not have that if we are to achieve that which we all desire. Now I have the man’s confidence, and that is no small thing. And, yes, it was worth the risk, because, in truth, there was no risk.”

“The Chezhou-Lei cannot be underestimated,” Sadye said grimly.

“If he had beaten me with the sword—which he could not—I would have destroyed him with the gemstones before he ever completed the winning move,” Aydrian assured her. “You think I underestimated the Chezhou-Lei, but it is Sadye, and not Aydrian, who is doing that. For you underestimate me, my desire to reach the heights that you and De’Unnero have been holding teasingly before me since soon after we met. And I assure you that your plans are nothing I did not aspire to before ever we met. I will get there.”

“Where?”

“To the highest point you can imagine.”

“And where does Sadye fit into your grand schemes?” she asked.

Aydrian smiled coyly, the only answer she was going to get now.

Chapter 27
 

E
VERY HEAD TURNED THEIR WAY AS THEY WALKED THE LONG
,
FLOWER-BORDERED
path toward the back gates of Castle Ursal.

It didn’t bother Roger Lockless much to see their sour expressions on the occasions when he walked here alone. He was used to having people stare at him with expressions ranging from disgusted to curious to awestricken. Roger had been very ill as a child, had nearly died; and, indeed, all who cared for him had thought him lost on more than one occasion. The affliction had stunted his growth so much that he was now barely five feet tall and was very skinny; because of that, his features—eyes, ears, nose, and mouth—seemed somehow too large for his face. All his life, Roger had been the proverbial square peg, and as such had suffered the stares.

There was more to those churlish expressions than curiosity on this occasion, he knew; and most of the onlookers, particularly the women, were not even looking at him.

Dainsey walked beside him with her head held high, but Roger understood the pain she was undoubtedly feeling. She had been a peasant, living on the tough streets of Palmaris, surviving by her wits and any other means available. Dainsey could deal with a bare-knuckled brawl in an alley and had hidden from soldiers and the monks loyal to Markwart for weeks in terrible conditions. Dainsey could suffer the rosy plague with dignity and with courage, never complaining.

But this kind of subtle injury was far more devastating.

The nobles were looking at them the way they might at a wet, dirty dog that had leaped up on a dinner table. Their eyes screamed “peasant,” if their lips didn’t have the courage to follow.

And it was true, Roger knew. He and Dainsey
were
peasants, despite their elevated status because of the circumstances following the war and the plague. Oh, Jilseponie had given them finery to wear, but in truth neither of them knew how to wear such garments. In the fancy clothing, the pair just looked uncomfortable and perhaps even more out of place.