The Age of War, page 4
part #2 of Warsworn Series
Standing taller than Solus, the next stepped into the ring with a massive greatsword. Setting it into a spin, he released a roar as he swung—but Solus was already inside his reach. Barehanded, he leapt forward and caught the troll's wrist and neck. Accelerating the troll's momentum, Solus wrenched his hands down. The Felshard slammed into the stone ground. He managed to roll to his feet—and found Solus's sword at his throat. He wisely withdrew, as did several of the other challengers.
The next troll stepped into the ring bearing a sword with a hook toward the end of the blade. As the youngest of the group, he had nevertheless garnered an impressive Sundering. A murmur swept the onlookers as he took his stance.
"Korune killed a reaver," Tryton heard someone whisper. "I wager he will be victorious."
The troll's easy stance prompted Solus to keep his sword in hand. Korune surged into motion the instant Sybrik allowed. Leaping to the side, he darted back and flicked his sword out. Rather than aimed for the blade, the strike was aimed at the hilt of Solus's weapon.
Solus deflected it but retreated, and Tryton noticed his hesitation regarding the tactic. Going on the offensive, he unleashed a barrage of strikes that drove Korune back. Korune defended with deft skill until he could spin away. Reversing his motion, he struck back, driving his sword at the hilt of Solus's weapon. This time the hook caught the crossguard, allowing Korune to yank the blade from Solus's hands.
Solus's blade skittered out of the ring and Korune retreated a step, giving Solus the opportunity to withdraw. Solus refused, and beckoned the challenger for another attack. Korune frowned, but leapt forward.
Solus ducked and spun, evading the hooked blade by inches. His agility drew grunts of praise from the onlookers. Then Korune swept his sword into a rising sweep aimed for Solus's side. He leapt over it and rolled to his feet. As he spun to face Korune he found the hooked blade driving at his face.
Solus jerked to the side and swung his fist into Korune's gut. The air blasted out of Korune's lungs and his strength wavered. Solus reached up with his left hand and caught the wrist holding the blade. With a wrenching twist he threw him into the ground at his feet. Then he stripped the hooked blade and stepped back.
"Your reputation is well earned," Korune said, rising to his feet, and motioned Solus forward.
Solus wiped a streak of blood from his face from where Korune's blade had nicked him. "A reputation is a weapon," he said, quoting Tryton, "but it cuts both ways."
Korune offered a faint smile, and then sprinted forward. Solus flicked the hooked blade out, forcing him to dodge—and then twirled the sword between them in a flurry of lightning strikes. The attack kept Korune on his heels while hiding Solus's true intent. Feinting right, he waited for Korune to spin left.
Solus struck with his free hand, driving his fist into Korune's jaw and once again smashing him to the ground. This time Korune rose slowly and wiped blood from his split lip. Then he grunted.
"I accept defeat, and the lessons."
Solus gave a short bow and returned the hooked sword. "I have no doubt you will be captain soon."
Korune bowed and left, and the last two challengers withdrew. Solus collected his sword and returned to Tryton's side.
"Well done," Tryton said.
"He is one to watch," Solus replied, and his gaze fell to the wound on his shoulder. "And unexpectedly quick."
Sybrik issued a low growl and shook his head. "Are there any that wish to offer a challenge to a high captain?" His eyes flicked to several, who nodded and stepped forward.
"I wish to challenge Fifth High Captain Tryton," one said, and the others echoed the statement.
Tryton accepted and stepped into the ring to greet the first. With over a decade of experience beyond his own, the challenging captain's Sundering revealed a brutal nature. More than half of the tattoos marking his flesh were for weak kills. His gaze narrowed as it settled on Tryton's empty left arm.
"You spare our enemies?"
Tryton drew his sword and reminded himself to maintain his hunch. "I show mercy to those who do not deserve death."
His quiet answer elicited a scowl from several of the onlookers. "Mercy is for the weak," his opponent growled.
He hefted the spiked club in his hand and drifted to the side. Then he burst into a charge that carried him across the circle in four giant steps. Clasping the club with both hands, he brought it down upon Tryton.
Tryton raised his blade and caught the club on his greatsword. Then he spun a full circle that forced the troll to duck. Rotating again, he flipped his sword into a driving lunge aimed for his opponent's chest.
The troll smashed his sword aside and stepped close, whipping his club towards Tryton's skull. Tryton crouched and sidestepped, reaching his sword out. Although the troll attempted to slip out of reach, Tryton's sword drew a line of blood across his stomach.
Grunting in irritation, he attempted to smash his club into Tryton's waist. Tryton reversed his grip on his blade and caught the weapon on his own. Then he stepped in and slammed his fist into the center of the troll's chest. Gasping for air, he retreated.
Tryton pursued with a flurry of sweeping strikes, driving him out of the ring. Trolls parted to allow them through as Tryton decimated the troll's defenses, cutting his flesh in numerous places. Helpless under the assault, the troll struggled to keep the attack at bay. Then Tryton's sword slipped between a pair of the spikes on the club. With a jerk of his hands Tryton yanked the club from the troll's hands and leaned into a kick that send him sprawling.
"To stay one's hand requires more strength than ending a life," Tryton said, his sword on the troll's heaving chest.
Tryton withdrew to the circle, allowing the vanquished and the crowd to consider his words. Abruptly annoyed at the display, he dismantled his remaining foes and left them limping away. Then he turned to Sybrik as his last foe picked himself off the ground.
"Perhaps it’s best we dispense with this ruse," Tryton said.
The edge to his tone caused Sybrik's scowl to deepen, but he ignored him. "Is there any left who wish to offer a challenge?" he snapped, and to his surprise, one answered.
"I wish to challenge Warshard Kaber," Tryton said.
Sybrik's eyes widened with sudden understanding. Sybrik may have called the day of challenges to test Tryton, but that did not preclude Tryton from testing him. As a murmur swept the crowd he gave a slight nod to Kaber, who stepped forward with a smirk on his face.
"We are naifblades no more," he said as he stalked into the ring.
The reference to the last time they had fought caused Tryton to smile. "You were skilled then and your Sundering has only grown."
Confusion swept across Kaber’s features at the praise. Then his features hardened and he drew his double bladed staff weapon.
"Do not think to overcome me this time."
His statement was a growl intended only for Tryton's ears. Tryton merely nodded and swept his free hand in invitation.
"I never assume a victory."
Kaber's lips curled in disgust and he darted in. Twirling his staff weapon, he plunged the blade into Tryton's shadow as Tryton shifted to the side. Then Kaber attacked from both sides in a dizzying display of skill.
Tested to the extreme edge of his speed, Tryton flicked his sword right, deflecting one blade before shifting it to parry the other. Rolling defeated blocks into attacks, Kaber struck low and high, forcing an opening.
Snarling in contempt, he struck high—and then flicked the opposite blade towards Tryton's chest. Tryton rotated out of reach as the upward swinging blade passed close enough to feel the heated metal. Then he darted forward. Before Kaber could pull his blade back, Tryton struck him in the chest with his free hand.
The contact was light, so light it could hardly be called an attack. It nevertheless caused Kaber to retreat, the anger on his face blossoming into fury. The blow had been a reminder of their last duel, where Kaber had goaded Tryton after he'd struck him in the same spot. Tryton had responded by striking it again, and then again. As clear as words spoken, the touch sent a message.
I can still strike you down.
Tryton remained in place, his expression calm, his posture relaxed. Kaber's arms quivered with suppressed rage as he circled him. Then he unleashed his wrath in a blinding combination that drove Tryton back. By sheer ferocity he managed to force Tryton's sword aside and cut a line across his arm. His expression a sneer of triumph, he withdrew.
I can strike you as well, Tryton.
Tryton ignored the sting and set his greatsword into a spin that accentuated the charm Kythira had placed on it. Fighting in his slouched posture prevented certain motions, and Kaber had unwittingly taken advantage of one of them. Then Tryton decided it was for the best. If he defeated a Warshard without a scratch it would reveal his strength just as much as if he stood tall.
For the first time he went on the offensive. Instead of feigning weakness or injury, he feigned anger. His greatsword spun and struck, and then he reversed his grip to block before returning it for another strike. Their duel passed beyond the ring again as Kaber fought to hold his ground. Then Tryton dived into a forward roll.
The stone scraped across his back and he returned to his feet, his sword rising into a thrust aimed for Kaber's knee. The speed of the attack forced Kaber to smash his blade downward—exactly as Tryton intended. Poised for the reverse, Tryton used the additional momentum from the contact to swing his blade into a full overhand strike.
In a blur of steel his sword whipped a full circle and came down. Recognizing his error, Kaber flinched back. The sword struck his cheek as he strained away, and continued down into his chest as he retreated.
The wound was deep enough to scar even with a healer, but not fatal. A thin skinned would have withdrawn, but not a troll. He charged again, flipping his staff into a series of attacks meant to remove Tryton's head—but Tryton stopped the charge cold. Smashing his sword upward, he drove the staff up and away. Kaber's eyes bulged in disbelief as Tryton overpowered him.
Tryton feinted toward the opening, drawing the staff back down. Then he grasped his sword with both hands and spun. His sword whipped around to come from the right. Kaber managed to raise his staffblade but the effort was futile. Tryton's sword smashed into his staff, knocking the rod into Kaber's skull.
Kaber's knees buckled as he lost consciousness, and he slumped to the ground in defeat. As a healer rushed to his side Tryton turned to Sybrik across the way. He inclined his head in respect while his brother rose to his feet. As if he were chewing on poison, Sybrik spit the proclamation.
"Your victory has proven your worth, Warshard Tryton."
Chapter 5: Warshard
As the crowd dispersed, Sybrik stalked to Tryton. "Join me, brother."
Conscious of the rigidity to Sybrik's form, Tryton bobbed his head in assent and turned to follow. Solus and Kythira saw where he was headed and their eyes widened in alarm. Tryton made a subtle motion.
Stand ready.
They obeyed the order, but the worry in their eyes did not abate. Tryton did his best to set it aside and focus on his brother. Waves of tension seemed to roll off his form as he stomped his way back into Astaroth and to the Hall of Kings. The moment they stepped inside he drew his hammer and whirled to Tryton.
"Do you take me for a fool?"
"I have no desire to take your place," Tryton said honestly.
"What other reason could you have?" Sybrik snarled. "Only a Warshard can challenge me."
Tryton strode forward, his anger rising to the fore. "Have you no other desire besides war? Is your heart so filled with a quest for blood that you truly cannot see another purpose?"
Sybrik raised his hammer but Tryton did not draw his sword. Instead he slapped the hammer aside with the palm of his hand.
"You are my family," Tryton growled, causing Sybrik to blink in surprise. "We are the last descendents of our lineage, and you think I wish to kill you?"
Sybrik's hammer wavered, and then dropped to the floor as he stared at Tryton. Tryton had prepared for years to duel his brother, but his words had been truthful. If his brother were to relinquish his quest for war, Tryton would happily leave him on the throne.
"We train for combat," Sybrik said, struggling to understand. "Family is not in our blood."
"It was," Tryton said. "Before the Great Draeken War our kind lived in families, and parents—rather than the Blademaster—raised their children. We still trained for war, but we served a higher purpose than—"
"There is no higher purpose," Sybrik growled.
Tryton released a breath. He'd caught a glimpse of a life with his brother, of Sybrik smiling beside a wife and children. But he could almost see Sybrik's heart hardening once more. In a last desperate effort, Tryton pointed to the throne.
"You are the king, Sybrik, and I am now your Warshard. We may not agree on the purpose of our people, but we both wish to protect them. Can we not serve them as brothers?"
Sybrik stared at him, and then finally inclined his head. "Time will tell if you speak the truth."
"Time will be my ally," Tryton responded. He stepped to the door but Sybrik called out to him.
"Perhaps it's time your exiled were placed in other commands," Sybrik said, his expression impassive. "Today they proved their training has excelled beyond what they received here. Since Kaber knows the army best, he will be your First High Captain, and can help you reorganize the army."
And watch you.
Tryton bowed his head. "As you will," he said.
Over the next week, it took all of Tryton's skill to smooth the tensions between his exiled and the clan. Tryton and the Blademaster had taught them to fight as brothers. Over six years they had gained to a sense of honor that reflected in everything they did. Sybrik had taken the clan the opposite way, fueling their desire for a Sundering. Most had resisted the descent into pride, but Tryton caught glimpses of what they were starting to become.
During training a troll boasted to another regarding his latest kill, while at the morning meal another argued who had the greater Sundering. Alone the incidents could be dismissed, and yet they represented a disturbing trend among the clan. The training had become more brutal and less skilled in their absence, leading Tryton to make his first change.
"You have served well," Tryton said to Biln, the Blademaster who had taken over when Tryton had left, "but Geranaut will be returning to his former duties."
Sullen and prone to hold a grudge, the troll glowered at the order. "The whelps know their place under me."
Tryton's gaze slid over Biln’s left shoulder—which boasted thousands of tattoos—and met the gaze of the whelps behind him. They cowered in fear and retreated, revealing the bruises on their backs. Tryton's hand tightened into a fist.
"You may return to your former position," Tryton said, an edge creeping into his voice.
He locked eyes with Biln and after a moment the troll dropped his gaze. "As you will, Warshard," he said, and stomped from the whelp caverns.
When he was gone Tryton spoke in an undertone. "You know what to do?"
"Of course, Warshard," Geranaut replied, and there was a trace of humor in his tone.
"Be wary of those loyal to Sybrik," Tryton murmured.
The newly reinstated Blademaster surveyed the room of trembling whelps. "I have had faith in you for some time, Tryton. Now is the time you return it."
Tryton met his gaze. "It is not faith in you I lack, but faith in my brother."
"Do not forget who created him," the Blademaster reminded him. "Like all of us he was not born to kill, he was forged into the weapon he is." By me.
The unspoken words caused sadness to fill Tryton. "It is possible he can be remade."
"Only if he chooses it," Geranaut said.
Tryton motioned to the whelps. "Let me know if you need assistance."
Tryton exited the whelp caverns and ascended up into Astaroth. After passing several warsworn, he came to an abrupt halt. When he'd returned from exile, the climate of Astaroth had carried tension and an undercurrent of anger. Since he'd become Warshard, there had been a shift.
Subtle yet powerful, it was visible in the eyes of warsworn and cleric, whelp and naifblade. They seemed to stand taller and carried out their duties with purpose. Even the trolls under Warshard Destrier displayed a marked difference.
He frowned at the realization. As much as he hoped to change his people, it could not happen quickly. The tension would mount and Sybrik would take measures against it. Those like Kaber, Destrier, Biln, would take time to change—if they even could.
Switching direction, he strode to the cleric chambers. Situated at the heart of Astaroth, the hall of clerics was the one place males were forbidden from entering. Even the king could not step beyond the threshold. Tryton strode through the arch into a domed chamber that led to the main entrance.
"I request an audience with Drenuh," Tryton said to the cleric guard.
She smiled at him and nodded. "As you will, Warshard."
Confused by the warmness of her tone, Tryton waited while she retrieved Drenuh. When she returned, Kythira was with her.
"That will be all," Kythira said sharply.
The female ducked her head and departed, but she cast Tryton a lingering look as she left. Kythira's gaze narrowed as she turned to Tryton. Her look made him flush. Fortunately, Drenuh saved him.
"Are you prepared for the promising ceremony?"
In his haste to settle the tensions of his return, Tryton had completely forgotten—but he had no wish to admit that to Kythira or her mother.
"Yes," he managed. "When would be possible?"
"We can perform it now," Drenuh replied with a knowing smile.
Drenuh motioned them to a side alcove that extended off the main entranceway. Unlike the starkness that prevailed across Astaroth, the alcove boasted a host of decorations. Most were earrings that sat in carved niches, while a ceremonial dagger hung against one wall. Sensing the solemnity of the moment, Tryton remained silent as Drenuh positioned them to stand facing each other.
