The Seedbearing Prince: Part I (52 page)

“This is a bigger farce than I thought,”
Prolo muttered.

“You’re right about that,” Milchamah replied.
“But still good experience for the boys. Everyone knows the order?
Dayn, I don’t care what weed you mean to pluck with that boy over
there, you’ll go last. With a little luck, you won't even need to
fight. Prolo is clean up, after me.”

The Montollos officiant took to the platform,
and a speculative murmur rose. Exclamations sounded as Joam rose
from where he was seated.

“He’s tall as a tower!”

“The size of him!”

He took a deep breath and met the officiant
in the platform center. “Start us off right, son,” Milchamah said.
“Remember what I told you about the sheath. Don’t let it distract
you.”

“I will, father!”

One of the Aran Five―Hal Orden, Dayn
remembered―sauntered up to join them. The man looked up at Joam as
though a long-limbed beetle thought to spar with him. Joam gave him
a toothy grin.

Two men rushed up to the side of the
platform, carrying a metal tub between them. The officiant rolled
back his sleeves and dipped his hands, then wiped his palms on
Joam's neck, then Orden’s. The Aran gave the officiant his sword,
which he also dipped into the tub.

“No blood of the Belt shall be spilled on
these grounds,” he intoned loudly. He held his palm open, and
brought the Aran's sword down on it, hard. A flash of light made
Dayn squeeze his eyes shut, and a familiar acrid tinge filled the
air.

“This blade is now sealed to the Binder's
Cycle.” The officiant returned the sword to Orden and stepped back.
A superb fighter.
Dayn remembered the Preceptor's words.

“Begin!”

Orden lunged immediately, a quick stab aimed
at Joam's belly. Joam blocked it easily, but the flash of light
from the Aran's sheath-covered blade surprised him. Orden used that
to his advantage at first, but Joam quickly adapted. More flashes
lit the platform as his darkwood staff blocked Orden's strikes, and
offered counters of his own. The Aran was quickly forced on the
defensive, snarling in frustration.

“That's the way, Joam!” Dayn shouted. Joam
moved with confidence now, twirling his staff into Leaf on the
Wind. A blow cracked down on Orden's wrist, and he dropped his
sword. Joam promptly swept the man's feet from under him, then sent
his grounded sword flying from the platform with a flick of his
staff. A bystander yelped in fear when the sword flashed upon
striking his legs, but the sheath did its work. Just like that, the
match was over.

“Winner, Shard!” The Montollene officiant
proclaimed.

Dayn and the rest of the Shardians thrummed
the platform with their fists. The Aran bowed stiffly before
stalking off the platform. Joam grinned as Milchamah beamed at him,
eyes full of pride for his son. Onlookers crowded all around now,
although they gave the two teams their space.

The next Aran hopped lightly onto the
platform, eying Joam with newfound vigilance.
He should be
worried,
Dayn thought proudly.
My brother barely broke a
sweat!
Dayn searched his memories for the Highest’s words about
Niel Pakalj. “That one’s good against bladebreakers,” he said to
Milchamah, who looked at him sharply. “That’s what they said on
Ara.”

The old farmer nodded, scratching his chin as
the officiant sealed the Aran’s blade. “Joam!” he barked. “Ridgecat
Prowls!”

“Begin!”

Joam used the fighting form well at first,
but Pakalj acted with more caution after Orden's defeat. The Aran
did not attempt a quick finish, and Joam's breathing soon grew
labored as he sought ways to goad the man into a mistake.

Joam jabbed again, looking for an opening.
Instead of knocking the staff away with his sword, Pakalj grabbed
it with his left hand, a sneer twisting the scar on his jaw. Joam
instinctively yanked back, and the Aran fell into him. Joam cried
out in pain as the Aran's blade cut savagely at his knee. He
buckled, and light flashed again as Pakalj slashed at Joam's ribs.
The blow sent him tumbling off the platform near the officiant's
chair.

“Winner, Ara!”

Joam rose to his feet, grimacing when he put
weight on his knee. He hopped onto the platform though, and bowed
to Pakalj as the Arans all whooped loudly.

“Peace,” he wheezed, flopping back to the
ground. “He didn't cut me, but it felt that way. Like fire every
time the sheath flashed.”

“You did well, boy,” Milchamah nodded firmly.
“Kayle, you're up. Put this sand grub on his back!”

Kayle ascended the platform, and the match
soon began. The fisherman was outmatched from the start, clearly
intimidated by Joam's defeat. He lost his staff in moments, and
found himself on
his
back at the point of Pakalj's
sword.

“He’s good,” Prolo muttered. “We need at
least three wins to matter for the rankings, or this trip will be a
waste.” He swung his staff in Serf’s Caper. “Here goes
nothing.”

The fighters regarded each other for a long
moment after the officiant called them to start. Then they moved
together as if in a dance, sword flashing again and again as the
Aran struck.

“Don't worry, brother. Prolo and my father
will finish off the rest,” Joam whispered. He watched Pakalj in awe
as the man tested Prolo's reach, prodding the taller man to
overextend himself.

Dayn recognized some of the Aran's forms from
Nassir’s attempt to teach him the sword. Prolo's quick wrists kept
the swordsman at bay, though his shirt soon grew damp from the
effort. Leaf on the Wind was blocked by Driftwood in the Stream.
When the Aran rolled into The Tiger Swipes, Prolo caught him
squarely with Barkbore Makes His Nest.

The Shardians pounded on the platform. The
onlookers rumbled in approval as Pakalj staggered back, clutching
his chest. “First time we've managed to touch him,” Kayle grumbled
in disbelief.

But Prolo did not press his advantage, and
the Aran fell on him even harder than before. Prolo barely dodged a
swipe to his arm with Antelope Dances the Green. Pakalj stalked
close, looking to push him off the platform.

“Watch the edge!” Milchamah called. From the
other side, the Arans cheered loudly, shouting their own
warnings―all except for the Marshal General. Gorhaj had yet to even
see Dayn, so intent was he upon the match.

Prolo resorted to Flutterbird's Brush, but
the Aran stood too close. He pierced right through the spinning
silverpine and the point of his sword closed on Prolo's throat.

Prolo collapsed in the flash that followed,
lying in a still heap on the wood. The whole arena gasped. The
officiant rushed onto the platform, face suddenly ashen. Milchamah
leaped up as well, livid with fury.

“Preliminary bouts, man!” He roared at the
Aran. “You would take his head clean off? Is the Cycle held on
Dervish?”

“I...I'm alright,” Prolo croaked. He stood
with the officiant's help, looking more embarrassed than anything
else. Scattered applause sounded through the Achen Isee Dome. The
officiant looked ready to faint in relief. Prolo bowed unsteadily
to Pakalj, who bowed simply in return. The Aran retreated to the
far side of the platform to sip water while Milchamah prepared
himself. “Give him one for, weaponmaster,” Prolo rasped.

Joam pounded the platform, although he and
Dayn shared a worried look. The two fighters met in the center,
Milchamah bristling with contained fury, the Aran cold and focused.
The Montollene officiant raised a trembling hand, looking nervously
back and forth between them.

“Begin!” He hurriedly backed off the
platform.

Milchamah surged forward with a grace that
belied his age, his anger fully under control. Pakalj spun into a
short leap, bringing his sword down hard in Osprey Over the
Lake.

Sheath flashed. A
crack
echoed sharply
in the dome. The force of the strike had broken the farmer's
darkwood staff in two. The officiant leapt up immediately. “Halt!
Win goes to Ara!”

“You can't be serious.” The farmer stared
pure murder at the officiant, who shrugged defensively.

“So sorry, Master Ro'Gem. The rules clearly
state―”

Milchamah flung the halves of his broken
staff to the ground in disgust. He stood with his back to the
platform, quivering with anger. The Shardians all turned to look at
Dayn.

***

Bargis no longer even bothered to conceal his
satisfaction as he watched the bout unfold. “One win, with one man
left. That’s what happens when a team leads with their best.”

Nassir took a steadying breath. The crystal
of their perch looked weak enough. As much as he wanted to test it,
throwing Bargis to the arena floor would make this an even worse
embarrassment for the Ring.

Bargis swirled the wine in his cup, relishing
the Ringmen’s silence. “A transport of my very own. The High will
kiss my feet.”

Lurec cleared his throat. The most peculiar
shade of green colored the Preceptor’s face. He uttered his first
words since the bout began. “The last of them is taking the
platform. Defender, look.”

“Not much to look at,” Bargis observed. “As I
said, poor strategy on their part. But what else could we expect
from simple farmers? Favor certainly mocks you today, Ringmen, to
draw such a poor team.”

He clearly arranged for the weakest
opponent he could muster, and throws it in our face?
Nassir
glowered openly at the man. Lurec caught his arm, gesturing to the
arena floor.

“Look,” the Preceptor repeated.

“Peace take my eyes,” Nassir said. He began
to laugh.

***

“Well you're up, lad,” Prolo said. “Don't
fall for his feints, like I did.”

“Good luck, brother,” Joam said, his
encouragement falling just short of genuine.

Dayn hopped up to the platform, nervously
twirling his darkwood staff. He preferred the heavier grain to
silverpine, and was glad for the longer reach, now. It should fare
better against a sword.
Sheathed blades or not, I see the
scorches those swords leave in the grain. He could break bones if
he hit me hard enough.
Dayn took another deep breath to still
his nerves. Still, worry leaked through. Peace
, how am I to beat
him? He's taken the best of Shard already!

The Montollene officiant sized him up.
“Saving the best for last?” he asked doubtfully. The swordsman came
to stand before him, and the match began.

Dayn moved first, spinning recklessly in
Twirlseed's Fall to keep the Aran from going for another quick
finish. His staff spun in dangerous arcs, and Pakalj stepped clear,
awaiting an opening to strike.
I must show him something
different,
Dayn thought.
He's figured us out.

Pakalj slashed forward smoothly with Reaper
in the Wheat. Dayn reacted without thinking. He planted the butt of
his staff into the ground before him, hard. The Aran's sword
rebounded off the darkwood, the sheath flash lighting his features.
Dayn sprang forward and planted a boot firmly in his chest. The
swordsman staggered back, surprised. He came in low, jabbing for
Dayn’s waist.

The crowd gasped at Dayn’s sudden bound.
Pakalj’s blade stabbed nothing but air. As Dayn flipped above the
man, he swung his staff down to strike him squarely in the
shoulders. He missed his landing but rolled away, scrambling to his
feet like Nassir had shown him. The Aran spun around to gawk at him
in utter disbelief.

Peace if I ever do that again in a fight!
But now he won’t know what to expect.
Before he could recover,
Dayn feinted for the man's ankles with Tripweed on the Road,
forcing Pakalj to hop over the sweep of his darkwood. It worked
perfectly.

Just like the Defender in the Crystal Walk,
the Aran hung suspended in the air a breath longer because of the
weak Montollene ground. Dayn followed through on his spin with
Wreathweaver's Strike. The blow smashed Pakalj to the platform so
hard he bounced a foot into the air. Dayn struck the dazed Aran
again before he even finished descending. He sprawled off the
platform’s edge.

Stunned silence filled the Dome before the
officiant gathered himself. “Winner, Shard!”

The Shardians stopped gaping and rattled
their staves on the platform. “Now that's how it’s done!” Joam
shouted.

Peace be praised,
Dayn thought,
heaving a sigh of relief.
I won.
He managed to slow his
panting somewhat as Pakalj stumbled forward to bow before
retrieving his sword. “You broke my collarbone, Shardian.”

“Serves you right!” Someone shouted from the
crowd. The Aran glared out at the onlookers, but Dayn spoke
quickly.

“I wish no blood upon the sand,” he said,
offering his own bow. Impulsively, he reached forward and rested
his hand briefly on the man's injury.
Isn't that how Nassir said
it?
“Peace see you healed before the Cycle.”

“Peace see it so.” The swordsman looked at
Dayn strangely as the next Aran ascended the platform. Pakalj moved
to stand beside the First Sword. Gorhaj had finally recognized
Dayn, his flaring nostrils were visible from where Dayn stood.
Unfortunately, he would not fight next. The officiant had already
sealed the blade of Sten Mattes.

Dayn peered closer, suddenly frowning. “Dust
and smoke.
Two
swords?” The Aran’s blades fit together at
some groove along the hilt, separated now to offer two lighter
weapons. Sparring with Nassir had never covered this!

The officiant shrugged. “The prolix sword is
allowed here, as they are in the Cycle proper.”

Dayn waved back toward where Milchamah stood.
“But he’s eliminated for two pieces of staff? How is that
fair?”

Mattes sneered. “Are you afraid,
Shardian?”

The Montollene man shook his head. “It is
allowed.”