The Shadow of Dread: The Bladeborn Saga, Book Six, page 44
“They were my orders!”
Mallister Monsort burst forward in Rushform, covering the ground at pace and swinging with powerful strikes. He was no master of the form, Elyon knew, proficient enough, but easily dealt with all the same. Elyon shifted backward, tapping Mallister’s strikes away with graceful fends, wrist swishing, the crowd booing loudly. The vitriol was most unexpected, though somehow it fuelled him. Curse you all, he thought. When Drulgar the Dread casts the city in his shadow, you can expect no help from me…
“Fight back, you bastard!” Monsort bellowed at him. He rushed again, swinging, panting, Elyon dancing backward, refusing to engage. The booing grew louder. “Fight! Fight me!” Mallister was puffing now, his footing starting to falter, his early composure gone. He wants to be doing more, Elyon realised. Oh, that sweetness between Amilia’s legs is one thing, but glory another. And he wants it, no matter what he says.
Elyon saw an opening and thrust forward, to prick a hole in Monsort’s thigh, but his aim was off, and the blade slipped past. When he looked up he saw a glint of silver, Monsort’s blade coming down to slice into his shoulder. Elyon twisted at the waist, leaning back, the edge of the steel all but grazing the tip of his nose as it cut straight past. Monsort’s fist followed in behind it, gauntlet bunched, striking for Elyon’s face, but he turned his head, taking the blow to the back of his helm. The impact jarred, and he staggered forward. The crowd roared, surging to their feet. Elyon regained his footing and spun back around.
“Blades only!” he yelled at him. “It’s blades only, Monsort. No fists!”
“Who said so?”
“Those are the rules. First blood by the blade. They’re the rules, damnit. Everyone knows.”
“Vandarian rules. In Tukor it’s different. Anything goes.” And Monsort rushed in again.
Elyon swung in a sidecut as Mallister tried to tackle him to the ground, his blade clanging against the flank of the knight’s breastplate. The crowd were in great voice now, cheering and jeering at every move. It was not what Elyon had anticipated, not the chivalric duel it had started as.
This’ll become a brawl soon enough, he thought. That’s how they’d first met, brawling over Melany’s honour what felt like a lifetime ago. It was after the feast at the warcamp north of Tukor’s Pass, when Elyon’s father had come to treat with King Janilah, ask him to end hostilities with Rasalan. The same night I found out Amilia and Aleron were to be betrothed. Elyon had wanted to bed the princess himself before then, though ended up - drunk, of course - in the arms of Melany Monsort instead. Mallister had found them, canoodling in some corner, and knowing Elyon’s reputation, had not been best pleased. And now here we are again. Fighting for her honour. The gods sure do have a sick sense of humour…
“I’m going to mangle that pretty face of yours, Daecar,” Mallister Monsort said through ragged breaths, prowling before him.
Elyon had to laugh. “Pretty? Look in the mirror, Monsort. You’re prettier than Melany was.”
“Don’t say her name! Never say her name!”
“I’ll say it all I please. Melany. Melany. Melany. Mel…”
His fourth repeat was cut off as the dead girl’s brother launched forward again, swinging wildly. Elyon was ready for it, knocking the blade aside, lowering his body to slam into Mallister Monsort’s breastplate with his shoulder…
He knew at once it was a mistake.
There was a popping sound, a crunch of bone, and pain shot through his arm. Elyon gave out a roar of agony, arm falling limp, as he stumbled back.
Dislocated, he knew by instinct. He’d suffered a dislocation before and knew exactly how it felt.
It was his sword arm too.
That was not good at all.
With an agonised grimace he reached across, took the blade from his limp right arm with his left hand, raising it to fend off his opponent as Mallister came again.
I yield, he felt like calling, to protect himself from further damage, but the fury was in him now, and he would not give in so easily. Instead he thought, I’ll beat him with my left, as he parried Mallister’s sidecut, protecting his upper leg, parried again when he swung for his injured shoulder, and again when he went for his arm. Somehow he managed to defend himself, though clumsily, before backtracking and giving himself room.
Mallister stopped for a moment to observe him. “Your arm…” he said, seeing it. “Elyon, you’re done. Just let me cut you and get it over with.”
Elyon Daecar shook his head. He could see that Lord Morwood had arrived as well now, to sit with the princess in her royal box. He looks like he slept even less than I did. Morwood had been summoned by Amilia the previous evening so that Elyon might brief him on the latest tidings across Vandar - the fate of King’s Point and Varinar and the news of Drulgar the Dread, foremost among them. None of that had been confirmed here before Elyon spoke of it, though of the giant dragon, rumours had begun to circulate. Morwood had gone bone pale when Elyon had told him that those rumours were true, and it appeared his skin had not returned to its usually rosy hue.
It centred Elyon’s mind again on his task, his importance. His arm, his sword arm, was all but hanging out of its socket. It took weeks to recover last time, he remembered, in sudden alarm. For days I could barely even raise it…
And the things I have to do…
He thought of the list, the great long list that was growing every day. Thalan, and Prince Sevrin and the Eye of Rasalan. These new tidings he’d heard of Ilith and his refuge and his bastard brother, who was out there now, looking for the blades. Elyon wanted to find him first. Needed to find him first. I have to look him in the eye and know that his heart is true. Amilia had said they should be working together, that they were both after the same thing, driven by the same need, but Elyon wasn’t sure. Over Jonik doubts would always circle like vultures over a kill. Until I see him for myself, I’ll never trust him. And even then…
He grimaced, as another shot of pain rippled up his arm. There’s more, he thought. So much more. Ven’s army outside Rustbridge. The threat of invasion in the west. Lillia. Amara. Janilah Lukar, who he hadn’t managed to find the previous day, the skies so swamped in thick grey cloud that a proper search had proven impossible. Jonik was looking for him too, Amilia had said. I can’t let him get to the Mistblade before I do. That’s my quest, not his. Mine…mine…
The crowd had turned ugly now, the din of their voices ringing in his ears. He looked around, shocked to see that their numbers had doubled, tripled, without him even knowing it. Hundreds. There are hundreds, he saw. Many of the common soldiers were on their feet, shouting abuse, and a few had even started to throw fruit, peppering the edges of the duelling grounds as they landed in a motley of colours.
“Give it up, Elyon, for Tukor’s sake,” Mallister called, over all of that. “I can see your shoulder’s dislocated. There’s no way you can fight with that arm now.”
“I have another,” Elyon came back, belligerent. The agony was intense. He felt like screaming, but held himself together. “And since when did you care? To the death, you said. You wanted me dead.”
“I was angry. I am angry. When I think of my sister, and what happened that night…”
“I didn’t kill her!” Elyon roared. “How many times do I have to say it! I didn’t kill your damned sister!”
Mallister reached up, lifting his faceplate, jaw clenched tight. “Do you swear it by the gods? By Vandar himself? By the life of your father, your sister?”
“Yes, by them and everyone else! I swear it!”
“Then what happened? What happened, Elyon? I cannot believe she cut her own neck. Suicide…” He shook his head. “I just can’t believe she would do that.”
And curse herself, Elyon realised. To many, suicide was an insult to the gods that made them, a sin punishable by eternal damnation in the afterlife…an unending tumble down the Long Abyss. Mallister Monsort could not believe his sister was suffering that unspeakable fate. He will deny it to his dying breath. How to make him see?
“She did it for you,” he said, over the shouting in the crowd, the bellowing of Lord Morwood as he tried to restore some calm. “Janilah told her he would have her whole family murdered if she didn’t die by my hand that night. You. Your father. She took her own life to save yours, Mallister.”
A grimace rippled across the man’s face. “No…no, I can’t…”
“She did it for a true cause,” Elyon shouted, trying to get through to him. “It was not suicide, but sacrifice. There’s a difference. There’s some honour in that.”
“Honour?” Mallister repeated. He frowned at the notion, shaking his head. “You call it honour, after what she did. What you say she did. To Aleron…”
Elyon had said all he was going to say. He could barely even think straight for the pain blazing in his shoulder and arm. “I’ve told you everything, Mallister. Everything. The whole truth. Do with it what you will.” He raised his blade. “Now let’s finish this.”
The Emerald Guard shook his head, hesitating. “You can’t fight on without your sword arm. You’re important, Elyon. You need attention.”
Elyon Daecar scoffed. “So now I’m important? What about the hundred others who could bear the Windblade as well as me?” He didn’t care to hear what Mallister said to that, and wasn’t about to let this cursed crowd get the better of him either. He bull-rushed the man, charging, swinging wildly, as Mallister Monsort reared backward, swatting Elyon’s strikes aside. A hack at the lower legs missed, and a swing for his left arm as well, but all that put Mallister off balance and Elyon saw his chance, driving forward for his knees to tackle him to the floor.
The men tumbled onto the sand in a knot of limbs, plate scraping against plate, all grunts and curses. Laughter stormed through the crowd like a gale. Elyon didn’t care. If this is how they like to duel here, so be it. The men were evenly matched in size, though Elyon had the momentum and managed to get himself on top of his opponent. First blood, he thought, as he threw a fist into Monsort’s face, trying to split a lip or bust his nose. The Emerald Guard twisted his neck in time. Elyon’s fist hit the side of his helm, glancing, punching right into the ground.
The thrust threw him off balance, and Monsort heaved at the hips, throwing him off him, then scrambled back up to his feet. Both of them had lost their blades during the tussle. Monsort saw his lying nearby, and ran for it. Elyon leapt up and gave chase, pain throbbing through his right arm. Monsort reached his blade in time, picked it up, turned and slashed at once. Elyon juddered to a halt, pulling away, the tip of the steel swishing past. He roared and rushed again, lungs burning, swinging for Monsort’s face. Another glancing blow, as the man shifted sideways, and forward Elyon Daecar went, his momentum taking him to the ground.
He landed with a puff of dust and grit, the wind punched out of him. The crowd were roaring, laughing at him. Laughing! He gasped for air, pushing himself up to his knees, but his right arm gave way and he collapsed right back down. More laughter. Horrid, humiliating laughter. Then a huge great triumphant roar rang out, louder than everything that had come before, and the sound of men shouting out, “’Monsort! Monsort! Monsort!”
Elyon rolled over, wheezing. The skies above were a hard blue, the air chill and crisp in his lungs, the sun rising in the east. He crunched at the waist, sitting up, then laboured to stand, and saw Sir Mallister Monsort standing before him. “It’s over, Elyon,” the Emerald Guard said.
Elyon plodded forward, shaking his head. “No…not yet. I’m not done with you yet, Monsort.”
“It’s over,” the knight repeated. He gestured to Elyon’s left leg. “Look for yourself.”
Elyon didn’t look. I can’t lose to him. He kept on coming, step by painful step. The crowd were in uproar, rotting fruit spattering on the ground. He felt them pelting the sand behind him, and one hit him in the back, bursting.
“Look, damn you! You’re cut. It’s done.”
Elyon glanced down, saw the blood trickling down his leg from a shallow cut on his thigh. He must have inflicted it while he was down. I never even felt it, he thought.
“You were lying, then,” Mallister said.
Elyon looked up at him, mouth twisting in disbelief. “Lying?”
“About Mel.” The man pointed at the blood. “Let the gods decide, we agreed. And there it is. The red truth.”
The red truth, Elyon thought. A fury was rising in him, red as well. “You’re hopeless, Monsort, truly. Even now, you can’t let it lie.” He had held his tongue before, but no longer. “The bard has bedded Amilia, a dozen times I’ve heard,” he spat. “He was there last night, when I left. I could hear them through the walls. Gods, you really think she could ever love you? You?” And he laughed. “No, it was Aleron she loved, Aleron who your sister killed. She’s mocking you, you fool. She and Gold-Tongue laugh about you every night. Mallister Monsort, the pretty blond bedwarmer. The craven who shies away from battle, and bawls over his dead sister every night…”
Those were the last words that escaped the lips of Elyon Daecar. Monsort’s fist came swinging, striking Elyon in the side of the helm, crashing into his jaw. The impact was powerful and sent him reeling, the sound of steel ringing out across the yard.
The last thing Elyon remembered was the mob, the roar of that loud baying mob, laughing…
…and the agony in his shoulder, throbbing.
22
The heat was unbearable.
We should have stayed on the Capital Road, she thought.
To either side, rugged rocky cliffs rose up a dozen metres high, creating a canyon through which they rode. Half of the Matian Way was like this, she had found. A hundred mile ride down a windless red ravine with nary a breath of air to cool them.
“I’m going to die,” Leshie moaned. She was leaning forward in the saddle of her rouncey, head swaying from side to side as the poor horse laboured on. Their pace had reached that of a slug. They had to stop often, so the horses could rest, and they hadn’t passed a stream in two days. The sunwolves and starcats were not faring any better. Even the camels were starting to struggle, and that said it all.
“You’re not going to die, Leshie. We’ll be out of this canyon soon.”
“How soon? How do you know? It’s gone on forever. It feels like it’ll never end.” She slumped forward, almost falling from the saddle. Saska had to reach out and pull her back up.
“Stop being so dramatic. We’re all suffering the same as you are.”
“No. You’re half Aramatian. It’s in your blood to handle heat like this, same as the others. Only Squire and Coldheart have it as bad as me, but even them…” She shook her head. “I grew up in North Tukor, Saska. North Tukor. The coldest, most miserable place in all the world. I’m not born for this.”
“I grew up in North Tukor as well. Me and Del…”
“You grew up in Broadway, and then Ethior. They’re both south of the Clearwater, same as Willow’s Rise. Proper North Tukor is north of the Clearwater.” She gave her a look. “Everyone knows that.”
Saska sighed. She had no energy for this fight. “Fine. You win. You have it worse than anyone, Leshie. Are you satisfied?”
“I’ll be satisfied when we get out of this cursed canyon. How much longer can it go on for?”
At this pace, days, Saska thought. To call it a gentle trot would be an insult to trotting, though she had been assured by Sunrider Alym Tantario that the cliffs would shallow soon enough and the plains would open out. They might get some wind, then, or at least a bit of breeze. And water, she thought. If we don’t find a working well or water source soon…
She had barely any mental energy to take that thought to conclusion, and had reached her limits with Leshie’s whining too. She gave her chestnut courser a kick, spurring the mare up the lines. The Wall was lumbering along at the front atop Bedrock, his enormous, indefatigable warhorse. Beside him, Sunrider Tantario rode his sunwolf Santarinio, a noble beast of calm disposition, gold-maned with silver streaks. Saska had half expected Bedrock to have collapsed by now beneath Sir Ralston’s great weight, but the old warhorse seemed better equipped than others to handle the heat. He just keeps on going, that one. Much like the giant on his back.
“Leshie says she’s going to die,” Saska said to the two men.
Tantario raised a mild smile. “She will live, my lady. We will be free of this canyon soon, and there is a river ahead where we can bathe. When night comes, we may even feel a little cold. It is always much cooler beyond this canyon.”
The Wall was watching the top of the cliffs, wary, eyes moving left and right. Given the heat, Saska and the others had seen no option but to shed their armour, stashing it in their saddle bags, if it would fit, or tying it in rope and laying it over their horse’s back, to clatter and rattle as they went. They had some packhorses with them too who toiled with the rest of their gear.
Half these poor horses will die of exhaustion by the time we’re done, Saska thought. Given the pace they were setting, she had chosen to walk often so as not to overburden her steed, and many of the others had done the same. The Wall had not been happy about any of that, though. Not the slow pace. Not the walking. And certainly not the fact that they had removed most of their armour. In order to keep him at least somewhat appeased, Saska still wore the fine breastplate that Prince Robbert had given her, but the rest…no. I’d walk along naked if I could.
“What exactly are you looking for?” she asked the giant, as he continued to watch the top of the cliffs. “Dragons? Patriots? Is there a tribe of dangerous desert people out here that I’m not aware of?”
He gave her an irritated look. “Do not play the fool, my lady. There are a thousand perils out here. We must remain vigilant at all times.” He alone wore his godsteel armour, removing not a bit of it. It reminded Saska of those days on the Steel Sister, when Captain Rikki Bowen and his crew would go about barefoot and dressed in breezy linens, while the Wall stayed in his full plate armour, and his heavy hooded cloak, watching over her night and day. He shook his head angrily. “You should not have taken off your plate. A creature could come upon us at any moment, and you’d be entirely unprotected.”
