Reign of Madness (Revised Edition) (64 page)

After a short delay, the next round began with only eight
competitors. The Eastern Mountains chieftain returned looking a bit wan after
his healing. Dark Tidings made to return the man’s weapon, but the chieftain
laughed boisterously as he hefted the ax Rezkin had wielded during their bout.

“You are being a worthy opponent, and you did best me in
fair battle with a mountain blade. You did earn the right to claim my position
as chieftain of my tribe until I am defeating you again,” the burly man
rumbled.

Dark Tidings bowed his head as Rezkin did his best to
channel his inner mountain man. “I am honored by the tribe,” the disturbing
voice boomed over the stands, “but I do not seek to claim your title.”

The chieftain grinned broadly and said, “I did not be
thinking you would, although you would be having your choice of women and the
wealth of the tribe. I will be holding the title for you until you are claiming
it or until another claims it from you. If you are ever getting tired of
playing with lowlanders, you are having a place in the Eastern Mountains.” Dark
Tidings bowed acknowledgement and strapped the ax to his back across the black
blade. He was carrying far too many large weapons for efficient movement, but
the ax was not just any weapon. It was a symbol of the seat of authority of the
tribe. Presumably, he was expected to carry the ax until someone claimed it
from him in traditional mountain man style.

Dark Tidings’ second opponent of the round was a petite man
who claimed his home as Ferélle, but he had obviously immigrated from
elsewhere. He looked nothing like the Ferélli with his short stature, lean
muscles, tight cheekbones and upswept eyes. The man kept his hair in a long
black-brown braid that reached past his waist, and he wore a beige, overly long
linen tunic with a wrap about the waist and loose matching trousers. He carried
two weapons Rezkin had not seen before, even in the man’s previous bouts. They
were similar to a flail but in a design like a ball and chain. Each had a thick
metal shaft about the length of the man’s forearm. At the end of each shaft was
a foot-long length of chain connected to a half-foot, sickle-shaped blade. As
the small man approached, he motioned toward the su’carai at Dark Tiding’s
waist. Apparently, the man had decided to step up to Rezkin’s self-imposed
match-your-weapons challenge.

Dark Tidings inclined his head and dropped the black blade,
naginata and battle-ax at his feet. He reached up and unclasped his cloak,
allowing it to fall from his shoulders. Su’carai were a demanding weapon, and
he would need his full range of motion. The Ferélli whipped the chains around
until his blades were spinning rapidly. Dark Tidings drew his own unusual
weapons and began spinning them, as well. The two men circled as they assessed
the natures of the weapons and potential combative techniques. At times, the
weapons were out to the sides, at others crossing in front, but they were always
maintaining momentum.

When the weapons met, the chained blades rebounded in
dangerously unpredictable directions, and both men changed their tactics to
those of avoidance. Within seconds, the combatants were spinning, jumping, and
rolling like circus acrobats. They spun toward, away and around and flipped and
rolled over and under in a deadly dance set to the whirring cadence of the
spinning blades.

If Rezkin had been truly engaged in battle with the man, he
would have abandoned the su’carai in favor of a different weapon, and he was
certain his opponent felt the same. It was a poor match if either combatant
hoped to escape the duel unscathed. The chained blades nearly clipped Dark
Tidings several times, but he was just fast enough to avoid injury. This particular
duel claimed nearly all of Rezkin’s attention.

After several long minutes, the Ferélli’s timing faltered,
and a poorly timed flip ended with him on his back and a slice to his thigh. He
rolled quickly out of the way and regained his footing as Dark Tidings
attempted to take advantage of the slipup. The smaller man fell back into the
rhythm, and this cycle continued for nearly a quarter of a mark before the
Ferélli finally conceded. He had been gradually slowing with blood loss. His
beige tunic and breeches were now shredded and stained red. The man nodded
toward the dark warrior and then stumbled toward the healers’ tent.

The crowd had been fascinated by the acrobatic displays and
use of unusual weapons, but it was obvious from the wave of grumbles that they
were unsatisfied with the anticlimactic ending. Rezkin did not care for the
match in the least. The weapons were poorly matched, the required combat style
was excessively draining, and he felt that gradually slicing a man up was not
an efficient method of defeating an opponent. He decided that if he ever
encountered a man wielding such weapons on a battlefield, he would probably
just put a crossbow bolt through him. Still, it was what the man requested, and
Dark Tidings had not failed to meet the challenge.

From up in the stands where Rezkin’s companions watched, the
display was nothing short of magical. “I didn’t know human beings could move
like that,” Frisha commented.

“I have seen circus performers that were impressive, but
always they performed in a controlled environment with choreographed moves.
This was a battle with deadly consequences for failure,” Brandt commented.

“Perhaps that is why they excel,” Captain Jimson observed.

“The Ferélli is amazing, but Dark Tidings is simply
inhuman,” Palis said excitedly.

The last few matches of the round were more of the same
brutality. Rezkin was becoming restless to be done with this tournament
business. He could tell that something was not right. Seven strikers now
followed his every movement, two of whom were new to Rezkin, and he did not
know if they were part of Caydean’s
select
. He found it ever more taxing
to slip their notice when he left the arena to relieve himself and get some
much-needed sustenance.

Rezkin was returning across a rooftop from one such respite
when something gave him pause. Several rooftops over, a striker stood surveying
the streets below with a small hooded figure beside him. More importantly,
though, Rezkin recognized this striker. The young warrior made his way over to
the rooftop, slipping through the shadows of canopies, clotheslines, and
cisterns. He stopped about fifteen paces from the pair and waited. After a few
moments in which neither noticed his approach, Dark Tidings spoke. “Farson.”

The hooded figure released a feminine squeak as the striker
whipped around baring his blade. A throwing dagger sailed past Rezkin’s head as
he swiftly sidestepped. The small blade was quickly followed by two balls of
fire, which splashed against the warrior harmlessly. The striker froze upon
seeing the mysterious wraith that was Dark Tidings standing directly behind
him, having had no hint of the man’s approach.

“Do I know you?” Farson asked suspiciously. Rezkin reached
up and removed the inhuman black mask. The small mage beside him sucked in a
breath as her eyes widened in recognition.

Farson seemed to relax and tense at the same time. This was
at least an opponent the striker recognized, even while the man knew he could
not survive he encounter. “When Nanessy described the Dark Tidings, I thought
it might be you,” the striker remarked. “It is a little obvious, is it not? I
would never have expected you to make such a public spectacle of yourself. You
would only do so if you were on assignment. What does he have you doing? Will
you kill more of us?”

“Who?” Rezkin asked. “Who gave the orders? Who do you
believe I serve?”

“Do not play games with me, Rez. Remember, I know who you
are. Aside from
him
, I may be the only one left who does,” Farson spat.

“I do not know of whom you speak. I came to Skutton looking
for
you
,” Rezkin replied. “I have questions.”

“How did you know I would be here?” the striker asked in
astonishment. “Never did I give an indication that I had intents on Skutton.”

“No, I did not know you would be here, but I knew the strikers
would. I told you I have questions,” Rezkin replied.

“Questions I am not inclined to answer. The longer we stand
here, the more chance you have to kill me,” the striker retorted.

“You would already be dead if that was my intent. I may yet
let you live,” the dark warrior replied. “That is dependent on the answers to
the questions.”

“Again, you toy with me,” Farson grated. “Never would you
defy an order. I helped train you. You may be the most deadly creature ever
spawned of humanity, but you are only a puppet. Never were you a
Shadow
Knight
. A knight has honor. He lives by a code. No, you were only ever a
shadow – a shadow of the man who pulls your strings.”

Rezkin’s icy blue eyes met the striker’s fiery glare. “I
have no strings, and I serve no master. Never shall I serve another. I seek to
know my place, to understand my existence, and to satisfy my purpose to protect
and honor my
friends
.”

The striker barked a boisterous, humorless laugh and said,
“You? You have no friends. You do not even know the meaning of the word. You
think that since you left the fortress you are free, but you will ever serve
your master. You exist to follow the
Rules
.”

“I told you I have no master. The masters are dead,” Rezkin
replied.

Farson’s blood froze. “You killed them?”

“I had no need or desire to kill the masters. They killed
each other during the battle,” Rezkin replied.

The striker’s eyes widened. “Then you never received your
orders? You never learned the final rules or of your intended position? You never
swore the oaths?”

“Peider told me the final
Rules
on his dying breath.
I know my purpose,” the warrior replied.

“Then, how can you say you have no master?” the striker
asked with genuine confusion.

“They said nothing of any master,” Rezkin replied with
growing concern. This whole conversation made no sense. Farson’s accusations
did not match up with Rezkin’s orders.

Farson narrowed his eyes and asked, “What exactly did Peider
tell you?”

Rezkin cocked his head curiously. “
Rule 2 – Kill
with conscience
and
Rule 1 – Protect and honor your friends
.”

The striker’s eyes widened, and his lips turned up at the
irony. He laughed with genuine mirth and said, “
That
was your final
directive?
That
is what has been driving you?”

With uncertainty, Rezkin asked, “Is it not the truth?”

Farson shook his head and replied, “Those were not the final
Rules
, Rez, but would you believe me if I told you differently? That was
what your Master said, and that is what you will believe.”

Rezkin looked thoughtful for a moment and then replied,
“Perhaps, but I believe it to be a noble cause. It is a cause worthy of my
dedication, and I would pursue it even if Peider returned from the Afterlife
and told me differently.”

The striker’s face fell blank and serious as he looked at
the man before him with new perspective. “Then it is true? The darkness has
been set free?”

The young warrior cocked his head and said, “That is what
Adona said when he died. What does it mean?”

The bitterness returned to Farson’s face at the mention of
his deceased comrade. “Who can ever tell with
you
? You were trained too
well. Any claim you make is wrought with deceit and cunning. You would have me
let down my guard and then stab me in the back. You can tell your master that I
will not be deceived so easily. I will find a way to repay his betrayal.”

Frustrated with his inability to convince Farson of his
independence, Rezkin replied, “I know not your allegiance, Farson, but mine is
to my
friends
and Ashai, and I will destroy anyone who threatens either.
You have heard the rumors. An evil tyrant sits upon the throne – a
usurper. I intend to remove him.”

“You would move against the king? Surely your training went
amiss or your mind has finally broken. It is not surprising considering all you
endured. You were never meant to seek such power. You were meant to serve,” the
striker asserted.

“Then you, too, are ignorant of the truth,” Rezkin replied.
“I care not for power, and neither do I desire the throne. I am the only one
with a rightful claim against Caydean, though. King Bordran bestowed upon me
the authority and autonomy to do so, and I intend to honor his choice. I do
this only because if Caydean remains on the throne, this kingdom will fall.”

“What power did Bordran bestow?” the striker asked
skeptically.

Rezkin reached into a pouch at his side and withdrew the
silver tube that contained his
Certificate of Authority
. He tossed the
tube to the striker, but the man did not move to catch it. Instead, he allowed
the tube to fall to the ground with a
clink
. Rezkin retreated several
steps and held his hands behind his back in a gesture that meant he did not
intend to attack.

The striker noted Rezkin’s stance but remained cautious.
Keeping his eyes on the young warrior, he squatted and, glancing back and
forth, examined the tube where it lay on the ground. He retrieved a
handkerchief from his pocket and carefully picked up the vile while maintaining
a significant amount of attention on his enemy. He used one end of the
handkerchief to open the tube and pull out the document within. The striker
carefully avoided touching the document or the tube as he unrolled the
parchment and read its contents.

Farson’s pent-up breath left in a
whoosh
. He was so
engrossed in his astonishment and multiple perusals of the document that he neglected
to keep Rezkin in his sights. A change in the air and a chirrup from the woman
beside him had him glancing up only to meet cold blue eyes less than two feet
before him. They were the same blue eyes that had peered back at him every day
for fifteen years. The boy had been incapable of feelings and affection, but
Farson had not so easily distanced himself. At times, he had deluded himself
into thinking of the boy as the son he would never have. Many of the strikers
at the fortress had admitted such sentiments. Farson would never have subjected
his own son to the torture and torment suffered by Rezkin, though. In this
moment, however, the only sentiment Farson felt in Rezkin’s presence was
unbridled fear and a slowly dawning acceptance that he was about to die.