The Curse in the Gift (The Last Whisper of the Gods Book 2) (35 page)

Watching from the royal box, elevated above the fray with the best view, were the highest ranked members of Vantok and Obis not involved in the duel. Queen Myselene presided. She was accompanied by the wizard Sorial and his bride, Alicia. Chancellor Toranim was present as were several nobles, including Alicia’s father, Duke Carannan. Obis was represented by Vice Chancellor Sangaska and a host of other important members of the traveling party, including the head of Rangarak’s personal guard, Captain Greeg.

The sweat slickening Azarak’s palms was the only outward evidence of his nervousness as he waited in the cool, dim confines of a peasant’s dwelling on the edge of the square. The family who lived there had donated the single room hovel to their king for the day as a place where he could prepare himself for the duel. Similar accommodations had been offered to Grushik, but he had refused them. Even now, as Azarak waited for the appropriate time to make his entrance, his opponent was already in place, taking practice swings with his well-oiled sword at an invisible enemy.

There was a discreet knock at the door. A soldier entered to inform Azarak that the appointed hour had arrived. The king nodded then, moments later, emerged into the already warm air of the new morning.
Possibly my last morning
. It was strange to think that the entirety of his future might not stretch beyond a few minutes spent contending with another man on a muddy field. Azarak didn’t fear death, one of the few immutable constants of life, but he had never envisioned that it might come to him like this. He reminded himself that, if this was to be his last stand, it was doing what a king should do: sacrifice for his people.

The adulation of the crowd rained down upon him - the men and women of his city, cheering for him. They were mostly soldiers and members of the Watch, but there were numerous peasants and more than a few nobles. Gone, at least for the moment, were the divisions that had fractured Vantok’s social order and made civil war a concern. Today, they gathered to support their ruler. Tomorrow would be another matter, perhaps with a different head wearing the crown.

Azarak was dressed simply - a leather tunic and leggings - with a long sword scabbarded at his waist. It was the costume of a pit fighter not a sovereign, worn for comfort and mobility. Armor was disallowed in The Contest. Few in the crowd had seen the king in anything but the ostentatious robes of state and he appeared almost naked without them.

Azarak identified his opponent immediately, facing him across the large square, dressed identically. Grushik was a bear of a man, at least a head taller than Azarak and boasting a much greater girth. He was his father’s son and, if he survived the day, no doubt he would lay claim to Rangarak’s honorary title as the Iron King. Azarak guessed he had a slim advantage when it came to quickness but that might ultimately count for little. Contests like this were rarely about ducking and dodging and dashing in for a quick slash. Grushik was more skilled, more experienced, and much stronger. Even if Azarak was able to hold his own, Grushik’s power would eventually wear him down. Without Sorial’s intervention, he was dead.

A glance at the royal box reassured Azarak that the wizard was in place, his gaze already directed unwaveringly at the new king of Obis. Myselene gave her husband a tight smile. Not far from her, her sister’s husband displayed an attitude of arrogant carelessness, as if the result was a formality.

Azarak and Grushik met in the center of the wide clearing not far from where all this had started when Rangarak’s horse stumbled. A hush fell over the crowd as ears strained to hear the formal words that would be spoken before battle was joined. Few here, even among those visiting from Obis, had seen a live Challenge; they were issued rarely. Toranim, who would officially signal the start of the duel, already had the mouthpiece of a great horn pressed to his lips, ready to blow.

Azarak gazed into Grushik’s eyes. There was a strange impassivity there - no anger, no arrogance, no hatred, and certainly no fear. The king wondered if his features were as icily calm. He wished it might be so, but doubted that to be the case. Grushik was a professional soldier, used to the battlefield. He frequently led troops of men against roving groups of outlaws plaguing the villages nominally under Obis’ protection. Azarak, on the other hand, had never held a sword in earnest until now. His proficiency came from practice sessions and his diligence had waned since assuming the throne. The only person he had ever killed was his first wife and that had been by poison. He had been bred as a peacetime leader not a warrior. Grushik, on the other hand, was the opposite.

Azarak spoke loudly and theatrically. Even so, his voice reached only the closest of those gathered to view the spectacle. “The Challenge is issued. The King of Vantok disputes the claim of the King of Obis regarding complicity in the death of Rangarak, the Iron King.”

Grushik nodded his head almost cordially. His voice was louder, thunder in the silence. “The Challenge is accepted. The King of Obis refutes the King of Vantok’s refusal of fault and blame. The truth of the matter shall be determined through blood. Let the victor and those who succeed the defeated abide by the terms. With this contest, the matter shall be decided.”

No more needed to be said. The formula was straightforward. Azarak and Grushik took measured steps backward, each with one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his weapon. One step...two...three...four...five. When perhaps twenty-five feet separated them, the horn sounded and The Challenge was underway.

Azarak spared a final, quick glance at the royal box. Sorial was still there, standing stock still, observing and waiting. Azarak needed not only to fend off Grushik’s attacks but be prepared for the moment when Sorial entered the fray, stealthy as a thief and decisive as a god. Only then would he change his approach from one of pure defense to offense.

Sword now in hand, Grushik advanced purposefully toward Azarak, eating up the distance with long strides. Azarak drew his blade, a slimmer and more delicate weapon than the one favored by Grushik, and adopted a ready stance. He stood his ground, waiting to parry the initial blow. The ground beneath his feet was rock solid.

The first attack by the king of Obis was not as aggressive as Azarak had expected. It was a tentative probe - a conservative attempt meant to assess his opponent’s capabilities. Azarak parried the downward slash easily, turning the blade aside, then danced away from a follow-up slice. He realized only a poor swordsman would fall victim to either of those attacks but he wondered how much he had revealed by the technique he used to avoid them.

The next attack was in earnest, a flurry of blows that seemed to be coming from all directions with lightning speed, almost as if Grushik was wielding more than one weapon. Azarak blocked them but not as cleanly as he might have wished and gave ground in the process. He came away from the exchange breathing heavily with sweat dripping from his face. He was out of shape; this was the result of spending too many hours sitting and too few exercising and practicing. If he survived, that would change. Incongruously, he realized that if the morning was this warm, the day was going to be damnably hot.

Grushik didn’t appear in the least winded by his attack. He remained alert, showing no signs of strain or fatigue. He was completely at ease - the cat playing with the mouse. He closed again. He spoke a few words that only Azarak could hear: “You slew my father in a cowardly way but I’ll grant you the honorable death you don’t deserve.”

This time, the blows came not only rapidly but imbued with considerable power. Azarak had trouble keeping up with them and a slight mis-parry left his right arm nearly numb from the force of the impact, allowing Grushik’s follow-up blow to find purchase. Azarak saw death in the glint of sun on steel as the blade swept toward him in a smooth, unblemished arc. With no hope to avoid it and no capacity to block it, Azarak twisted and dodged, throwing the right side of his body toward the weapon and jerking back his head. The move was successful in that it prevented decapitation, but his right shoulder paid the price. The blade sliced through muscle and tissue and cleft bone. A fountain of hot, sticky blood sprayed into Azarak’s face, momentarily blinding him. His sword slipped from nerveless fingers to clatter noisily to the rutted ground. The pain was staggering and, for an instant, he thought he had lost the arm completely, sheared off dangerously close to his neck. Then his vision cleared and he noticed that it was still attached, although dangling uselessly. But his time was up; Grushik was readying the two-handed killing blow that would take off his head with one strike. Then the ground beneath him lurched, more sudden and violent than an earthquake. Azarak dropped to one knee, using his left hand to brace himself. The violent concussion of Sorial’s attack knocked Grushik onto his back, but he retained his grip on his sword.

In one smooth motion, using only his left hand, Azarak grabbed for his weapon, which lay close by. The ground quaked again, defeating Grushik’s desperate attempt to rise. The shaking continued, making Azarak’s own movements slow and tentative as he concentrated as much on keeping upright as finishing The Challenge. Frustrated and suddenly panicked, Grushik looked like a turtle on his back desperately trying to right himself, and Azarak treated him as such. Despite being primarily right-handed, the king had a degree of proficiency with his off-hand - enough for him to be able to slam the blade home nearly to the hilt in his opponent’s exposed chest.

The ground underneath Azarak still seemed unsteady as he stumbled back from Grushik’s body. His opponent’s limbs were twitching but the glassy look in his eyes confirmed he was dead. Grushik’s features were frozen into a mask of disbelief. Azarak sympathized - he could hardly acknowledge the fact of his own survival.

The king’s right shoulder was on fire. The flow of blood from the wound had slowed, but it still pumped freely through the large rent. He again dropped to one knee, lacking the strength to stand. He could see a group of white-robed healers rushing toward him - many of them probably the same men and women who had attended King Rangarak’s less serious injury. Azarak hoped his eventual fate would be less grisly, although the thought occurred to him that winning The Challenge didn’t necessarily mean surviving it. Perhaps both cities would have new rulers when the sun set. The best he could hope for was live out his life as a cripple, with a useless right arm dangling at his side, but that was better than dying. He could be as effective a king with one arm as with two. Time to become more proficient with his left hand.

As the world started to spin and blackness encroached on Azarak’s field of vision, he glanced once more in the direction of the royal box. What he saw there wasn’t what he had expected. There was chaos - shouting, swords drawn, bloodshed. He couldn’t identify Sorial or Myselene, although he caught a glimpse of Alicia. Apparently, his victory here hadn’t meant an end to the carnage. He only hoped it wasn’t a beginning.

He lost consciousness as the first healer reached him.

* * *

Sorial was disappointed in himself. His efforts to save Azarak had worked but not in as transparent a manner as he had hoped. Perhaps if he had been kneeling on the ground or otherwise touching it rather than insulated from it by the elevation of the royal box, he would have exhibited better control and command over the quaking. He had been unable to isolate the trembling to Grushik; Azarak had felt it as well. And it had not been transparent. Anyone paying even cursory attention would have recognized that some external force was interfering with the life-and-death struggle between the two rulers. When it came to mastering his element, Sorial had lessons to learn.

In the end, Azarak won because he was prepared for the trembling of the ground and able to recover from it more quickly, despite a vicious wound to his right shoulder. The arm wasn’t severed but Sorial wondered how much use the king would get out of it in the future. The fingers of his phantom left hand twitched in sympathetic response. Perhaps Alicia’s healing powers could repair the most significant damage. Grushik was obviously dead - the force with which Azarak had driven home the sword left no room for doubt. But Sorial knew the victory would be considered tainted by attentive onlookers. This became evident even as a roar of approval emerged from the largely partisan crowd.

Sorial was turning to address his wife and the queen when a roundhouse punch to the face snapped back his head, blood spewing from his broken nose. The blow stunned him. Reeling, he stumbled backward and fell, hitting his head hard on something, probably the wooden floor of the box, in the process. His attacker, an enraged Sangaska, drew his sword and advanced quickly on the prone and stunned wizard, bellowing, “Treachery! Black magic!”

Sorial, only dimly aware of what was happening as he struggled not to lose consciousness, was in no position to defend himself but others around him weren’t so disadvantaged. The first one to intercept Sangaska was Chancellor Toranim, who put himself in harm’s way despite only being armed with an ornamental dagger. It was a fatally poor decision. Rather than merely pushing the chancellor aside, Sangaska dealt him a savage blow that cleft through his neck just above the right collarbone and cut toward his heart, meeting little resistance along the way, even from the ribcage.  By the time Sangaska jerked free his weapon, Toranim had been nearly cut in half.

Duke Carannan, a considerably more adept fighting man than the late chancellor, engaged Sangaska before Toranim’s body completed its eerily slow collapse to the floor. The battle between the two was brutal and frenzied with Carannan fighting a defensive struggle but capably blocking Sangaska’s thrusts. The newest king of Obis was hampered by the close quarters in which he was forced to fight. His greater size and strength weren’t substantial advantages in these circumstances.