Into a Dark Realm (10 page)

T
he sword slashed downward.

Fifty armored Riders of the Sadharin shouted and beat steel gauntlets on their breast plates. The roar echoed off the vaulted ceiling of the ancient stone Hall of Testing, and the wooden seats surrounding the sandy floor shook from the demonstration.

Lord Aruke’s only surviving son looked down at the man he had just killed, and for an instant was visited by an alien thought,
What a waste
. He closed his eyes for a moment to clear his thoughts, then turned slowly to acknowledge the cheers.

Valko of the Camareen, nursing three serious cuts and an uncountable number of bruises and minor scrapes, nodded four times, once to each group of the gathered riders
seated above him along each of the four walls. Then he looked down at the fighter he had killed and nodded again; a ritual recognition of a fierce struggle. It had been a close thing.

Valko spared a quick glance at the father of the slain warrior, and saw that he was cheering, but without conviction. Lord Kesko’s second son lay at Valko’s feet: had the boy prevailed, two living sons would have earned Kesko great honor and a higher place in the Langradin. Kesko’s only acknowledged son stood next to his father, and his celebration was sincere; Valko had eradicated a possible claimant to his father’s favor. Then Valko turned to see two lackeys putting down his varnin, a neutered male he had named Kodesko, after the great crashing surf at the Point of Sandos in the westernmost holdings of his father, where Sandos jutted into the Heplan Sea. His opponent’s varnin had died during the fight, when Valko had cut deep and severed its neck artery. That blow had given Valko the match, for the faltering varnin had distracted the rider’s attention for the brief moment it had taken for Valko to inflict the wound that had finally proved the difference.

A healer from the Hall of Attenders—a First Rank Master—hurried over with his assistants, and began to treat Valko’s wounds. Valko knew he’d lose consciousness soon from blood loss if they didn’t stanch the flow, but rather than show weakness before his father and the assembled Riders of the Sadharin, he pushed aside the Attender, and turned to his father. Removing the massive black steel helm, he took a deep breath and shouted, “I am Valko, son of Aruke of the House of Camareen!” It took all his strength to raise his sword above his head with his right arm, cut as it was below the shoulder, but he managed to produce an acceptable salute before he let the blade fall to his side.

His father, Lord of the Camareen, stood and pointed at his son, then slammed his gloved fist against his own armored chest. “This is my son!” he cried loud enough for the assembly to hear it.

Again the Riders shouted their approval, a short, deep “ha!” and then as one they turned and bowed to their host. Valko knew that a
few of the most trusted among them would stay to dine with Aruke and his household, but the others would be on their way back to their own strongholds, rather than risk being caught on the road by rivals or outlaws.

As his mind began to wander, Valko focused long enough to shout, “Lord Kesko. This
thing
could be no son of yours!”

Lord Kesko bowed to the compliment paid him by the victor. He would be the first to leave Castle Camareen, for while there was no shame in having a would-be son killed in combat, it was also nothing to cause rejoicing.

The Master Attender whispered, “Bravely done, young lord, but should we not strip away your armor, you’ll soon lie next to the one you killed on the rendering table.” Without waiting for permission, he instructed his assistants and the leather straps and buckles were quickly unfastened and the armor removed.

It didn’t escape Valko’s notice that while doing so, the Attenders were providing him subtle support, so that he could remain on his feet as his father slowly made his way through the riders who lingered to offer further congratulations. The young warrior was tall by the measure of his race—a full half-head taller than his father, who stood a full four inches taller than six feet. His young body was powerfully muscled and his arms were long, providing him with a deadly reach with a sword, one he had put to good use against the smaller opponent. He was by the standard of his race a fair-looking man, for his long nose was straight and not too wide, and his lips were full without looking feminine.

Aruke stopped before him and said, “Sixteen times before you claimants to my house’s name have come. You are only the third to survive the blade challenge. The first was Jastmon, who died at the battle of Trikamaga; the second was Dusta, who died defending this very keep eleven years ago. I am pleased to name you their brother.”

Valko looked directly into the eyes of his father, a man he had never laid eyes on until one week ago this day. “I honor their memory,” said Valko.

Aruke said, “We will have quarters prepared for you, near my own. As from tomorrow you will begin your training as my heir. Until then rest…my son.”

“Thank you, Father.” Valko studied the man’s face and could see nothing in it that reminded him of his own. While Valko’s face was long and unlined, noble by the standards of his people, his father’s face was round and creased with age lines and a strange mottling of spots on the left of his brow. Could his mother have lied to him?

As if reading his thoughts, Aruke said, “What was your mother’s name?”

“Narueen, a Cisteen Effector assigned to Lord Bekar’s demesne.”

Aruke was silent for a moment, then he nodded. “I remember her. I took her for a week while guesting at Bekar’s keep.” He glanced down at Valko, who was clothed only in a loincloth while the Attenders cleaned and dressed his wounds. “She had a thin, but pleasing body. Your height must have come from her family. Does she still live?”

“No, she died in a purging four years ago.”

Aruke nodded once. Both men knew that anyone who was foolish enough to be outdoors at the first hint of a purging was weak and foolish, and no loss. Yet Aruke said, “Unfortunate. She was not unpleasing, and this house could use a female’s touch. Still, now that you’re acknowledged, some ambitious father will seek to throw his daughters at you soon enough. We shall see what fortune provides.” Turning away, he added, “Go and rest now. I will have you at my table tonight.”

Valko managed a slight bow as his father departed. To the Master Attender, he said, “Quickly, now. Get me to my room. I’ll not faint before the servants.”

“Yes, young lord,” answered the Master Attender, and he signaled for his helpers to assist the new young lord of the Camareen to his quarters.

Valko awoke when a servant gently shook his bedcover, not daring to actually touch the young scion of Camareen. “What?”

The servant bowed. “Master, your father requests you join him at once.” He motioned to a chair upon which clothing had been draped. “He bids you wear these garments, fitting of your new rank.”

Valko got out of bed, barely hiding a wince. He glanced to see if the servant had noticed his hint of weakness, and saw a blank expression. The man was young, perhaps a little older than Valko’s seventeen years, but clearly he was very practiced in his role as servant in a great house. “What is your name?”

“Nolun, master.”

“I will need a body servant. You will do.”

Nolun almost groveled when he bowed. “I thank the young master for the honor, but the Reeve will assign a body servant to you soon, master.”

“He already has,” said Valko. “You will do.”

Again Nolun bowed. “Honor you do me, master.”

“Lead me to my father’s hall.”

The servant bowed, opened the door, let Valko move through it, then hurried ahead to guide him to the central hall of his father’s keep. As a claimant to paternity, Valko had been taken straight to the “poors,” the quarters reserved for the powerless and those of low enough rank that offending them was unimportant: useful merchants, Attenders, entertainers, and very minor relatives. Those rooms were little more than cold cells containing mattresses stuffed with straw and a single lantern.

Valko already missed his new bed, the softest upon which he had ever rested. In the years of Hiding, he had rarely slept on anything better than what he had found waiting for him in the poors.

As they rounded a corner, Valko hesitated, then said, “Nolun, wait.”

The servant turned to see his new young master gazing out of a large window overlooking the Heplan Sea. Beyond the city of Camareen and its docks the water sparkled in the night, the energy of the motion giving rise to a play of colors across its surface the boy had never seen before. His mother had taken him into the mountains for
the Hiding, and he had only glimpsed the ocean on his way to the city during the day. The size of this body of water had been impressive when seen from the peaks and passes of the Snow Wardens, as the mountains were called, but nothing had prepared him for the sheer beauty of the sea at night.

“What are those small bursts of color, there, and there?” he asked, pointing.

Nolun replied, “A fish called shagra, young lord. It leaps from the depths…for no reason anyone can ascertain, perhaps simply for the joy of it, and the leap disturbs the pattern of the ocean.”

“It is…impressive.” Valko had almost said “beautiful,” but it would have been unmanly to use such a word. He realized Nolun was regarding him. Shorter than Valko by more than a foot, he was a youth with a burly build: with a barrel chest, thick neck, and short, heavy fingers on huge hands. “Do you fight?”

“When needed, young lord.”

“Are you good?”

For an instant something flashed behind the servant’s eyes, then he lowered his head and said quietly, “I still live.”

“Yes,” said Valko with a chuckle. “You do. Now, to my father’s hall.”

As they reached the great hall, two armored guards saluted the new heir to the mantle of Camareen. Valko ignored the pain in his arm, shoulder, and left thigh and strode across the hall to stand before his father. Aruke sat at the center of a long table which was placed before a huge fireplace. “I am here, Father.”

Aruke motioned to an empty chair. “This is your place, my son.”

Valko walked around the table, taking note of those already seated. Most were, by dress and badge, functionaries. To his father’s left hand sat a beautiful woman, no doubt his current favorite. Gossip he had overheard the day before led Valko to believe his father’s most recent companion before this one had vanished, almost certainly a Hiding.

Two other men Valko recognized, though he had no name for
them; they were Riders of the Sadharin, Deathknights of the Order like his father. These would be trusted allies, bound by mutually beneficial alliances and trust, or they would have been gone from this hall long before the sun had set in the west.

Aruke said, “Bid welcome to our guests, Lord Valin and Lord Sand.”

Valko said, “Welcome to my father’s guests,” and passed behind them to reach his seat. That neither man turned to watch his passing was an acknowledgment of trust. A servant pulled out the large wooden chair to the right of Lord Aruke and Valko sat down.

The Lord of the Camareen said, “Sand and Valin are my closest allies. They are two of the three legs of power upon which rests the Sadharin.”

Valko nodded to acknowledge this.

Aruke waved a hand and servants hurried forward to load the table with their lord’s bounty. A whole kapek, head and hooves intact, was carried in on a spit, sizzling fat cracking through the tough hide, and the two burly servants who bore its weight looked barely up to the task. As it was deposited on a large wooden platter in front of him Aruke said, “Tonight is a good night. A weakling died and a strong man survived.”

The others at the table nodded and muttered words of agreement, but Valko said nothing. He breathed slowly and tried to keep his mind focused. His body ached, the wounds throbbed, and his head pounded. He would just as soon have slept the night through, but he knew that his actions over this night and the few days that followed would be critical. Any misstep and he might just as easily find himself tossed off the battlements as being escorted to the Heir’s Ceremony.

As the meal wore on, Valko found some of his strength returning. He partook of only a little of the fine Tribian wine, wishing to keep his wits and not fall asleep at the table. From the course of conversation it could be a long night of storytelling.

He knew little about the company of warriors. Like most young males he had endured the first seventeen years of his life in the Hid
ing. His mother had prepared well, so he had no doubt she had planned on bearing the son of a powerful noble. His education had also shown her to be a woman of ambition, for Valko could read, do arithmetic, and understand things most warriors left to Effectors, Attenders, Mediators, Mongers, Facilitators, and the other, lesser castes. She had made sure he was practiced in all manner of study: history, language, and even the arts. She had driven home one thing above all: beyond the power of the sword arm lay the power of the mind, and more was needed to succeed than merely obeying the instincts of the race. His nature told him to be merciless with the weak, but his mother taught him there were uses even for the weak, and that by cultivating the weakest rather than destroying them, some measure of benefit could be discovered. She had said more than once that the TeKarana was supreme ruler of the Twelve Worlds for one reason alone: his ancestors had been smarter than everyone else’s.

His mother had told him many stories of the great feats held in the great hall of Lord Bekar where she had been selected by his father to warm his bed. She had obeyed the strictures of the law, and had made clear to the visiting noble she was able to bear young, and in a cycle to conceive. She had ensured that her name was clearly given to at least three witnesses and had then joined him in his bedchamber.

Suddenly, the meal was over, and Valko realized he had fallen into a reverie. A quick glance at his father reassured him that he had not been detected. Drifting off in thought was dangerous; he might not hear something critical, and he might be thought inattentive.