The Sunset Warrior - 01 (11 page)

Ronin turned. ‘What do you know?’

The Salamander smiled. ‘My dear boy, I know as much of this matter as you have seen fit to tell me. But I know Security. And their methods can be somewhat—ah—debilitating at times. It is all according to what Freidal wants.’

‘But Security has no right to—’

‘Dear boy, wielding power is the only right,’ he said sternly, then softening: ‘It is all very personal, surely you have learned that by now.’

He removed his hand and the window on to the bleak world above winked out. The green glow came up again.

‘In any event, this Magic Man has been known for some while to be most difficult; quite a dissident, at times. But then they all are when time-allotment rolls around.’

The velvet darkness enclosed them snugly. From out of it, Ronin heard the Salamander’s voice, soft and reassuring. ‘I trust, dear boy, that this extraordinary demonstration has eliminated all your doubts.’

‘It is the twenty-ninth Cycle.’

He was wide-shouldered and slightly smaller than average, a fact to which, many believed, he had never quite adjusted. His hair was short and dark, coming low on his forehead, giving him a forbidding countenance which he cultivated and used to full effect. Deep lines scored downward from the corners of his ungenerous mouth even when his face was in repose.

He stood on a small raised platform, dressed in white robes, believing the colour made him appear larger, and addressed his students—Bladesmen who were arrayed before him in precise rows—under the high vault of the Hall of Combat.

‘This Cycle, iron strikes iron,’ the Instructor continued, in the prescribed manner, his head swivelling on his thin neck. ‘For this is the Cycle of the Arm and the Wrist and the Sword. This Cycle we are called by the Horn of Combat.’

His stentorian voice took some time dying away in the vast Hall. In the silence, there was a rustling as the Bladesmen, in perfect cadence, opened a square space in the centre of the Hall. On all four sides they stood rigidly then, facing inward towards the opening, waiting.

There came a note upon the air. Both deep and shrill, it echoed off the walls, seeming to pick up overtones so that it increased in volume before ending. It came again. And a third time.

‘It is the twenty-ninth Cycle,’ repeated the Instructor. ‘The Horn of Combat has been sounded. It is both a reminder and a warning. A reminder of our past, of what we must strive to preserve with our last breath. A warning to all foes present and future that we are ever vigilant in our sacred trust to guard the Freehold from all who would seek her destruction …’

The words of Tradition droned on, as they had, Ronin supposed, for centuries. They were meaningless to him now. And he wondered if that had not always been so. The Salamander was correct in one matter: it
was
indeed all personal. Freidal’s carefully phrased words of sacred Tradition were as much a fraud as his fabrication of the detention of the mad Magic Man. Yet Ronin was well aware that the Security Saardin’s belief in Tradition was unwavering. Personal.

‘… your pledge that we shall ever remember our sacred duty to the perpetuation of the Freehold above all else.’ But for the soft rustle of cloth, the occasional creak of new leather, silence descended on the Hall.

The Instructor’s round eyes narrowed and he thrust out his jaw as he scanned the multitude before him. He relished the power he held over the Bladesmen. This was his domain, and for as long as they were within it, they performed as he bade them. His nostrils flared and he delicately sniffed the air. Cutting through the stench of ten score bodies fresh from half a Spell’s exercise, as separate, as distinct as if it were the perfume of flowers in full bloom, was the peculiar odour of fear. His nostrils dilated again as he drank in the heady smell, almost dizzying in its intensity. His mouth curled up slightly and he gripped the railing before him.

Ronin, who had been trained to observe faces in his years Upshaft, saw the Instructor’s secret smile and felt as if he were spying on something unclean. His mouth curled in distaste and he thought on the complexities of power and how, however much he tried, he could not evade its sphere of influence.

‘Ronin,’ called the Instructor. ‘Step into the Square of Combat.’

Without surprise, Ronin moved from his position within the multitude of Bladesmen into the open Square. He turned and faced the Instructor.

‘Bladesmen, are you prepared to do Combat?’

‘Instructor, I am.’

The Instructor addressed the Class. ‘This Cycle, as a demonstration for you newer Bladesmen as well as the veterans, we are privileged to be allowed a Bladesman from another Class, so that you may observe other techniques and compare them with your own.’ He paused to allow the murmuring of the Bladesmen to subside. Ronin was completely alert now. Students generally fought within their own Classes primarily to forestall the creation of grudges that might involve the honour of Classes as a whole. Among Bladesmen, the resolution of quarrels was encouraged through individual Combat matches.

‘We have a Bladesman from the eighth-Spell Class.’ The Instructor raised an arm. ‘Marcsh, step forward.’

A thick, stolid figure now parted the throng and made its way into the Square. He walked purposefully with just a hint of a swagger, brushing aside Bladesmen too close to him. A smile was tacked on to his square mouth.

Skill at ritualism, thought Ronin, and prepared himself mentally for Combat. One of Nirren’s favourite topics was that of coincidence: he rejected the concept completely. Ronin did not share this belief, although it seemed an inarguable point. Yet here, at this moment, he must side with the Chondrin. The Instructor could not possibly have picked Marcsh by chance; it would certainly be dangerous to think along those lines.

Marcsh’s greedy close-set eyes stared at him with undisguised malice. Then he turned and faced the Instructor.

‘Bladesmen, are you prepared to do Combat?’

‘Instructor, I am.’

Ronin wondered what would happen if he asked the Instructor to tell the Class who Marcsh really was. But he did not consider actually doing it because the adrenalin was already rising within him like a great and powerful animal. He wanted this match.

‘As a Student of the eighth-Spell Class, do you agreed to be bound by my judgement in this Combat?’

Marcsh was staring again at Ronin. ‘I do,’ he said.

The Instructor gestured to a thin pale boy on his right who stood perfectly still beside a small burnished-metal gong. He held a short mallet in his hand. The Instructor addressed both Combatants. ‘You will commence when you hear the Tone. You will cease only when the Tone sounds again. Is this acknowledged?’

The Instructor gestured again and the boy swung the mallet in a shallow arc. The crystal tone hung in the air for seconds, refusing to die.

Combat had begun.

Sight, then sound, repeating. And Ronin began to retreat under the frenzied onslaught, first one step, then another. Several. A predatory grin split Marcsh’s face as he bore down even harder, grunting and panting with tremendous effort, sensing that the end was near.

As soon as the Tone had sounded, Marcsh had withdrawn his sword and, instead of taking the Position, it had continued its blurred arc out and then down, aimed for the triangular juncture of Ronin’s neck and shoulder. But almost simultaneously Ronin was lunging forward, shoulders twisting, and the blade whistled past him so close that he felt its hot wind. Thus extended, he slammed the heavy hilt of his still-sheathed sword into Marcsh’s fists. He regained his ground and his blade flashed out.

The Bladesmen shifted in anticipation and excitement, crowding one another, craning their necks to see more clearly. They felt it in the air now, knew this was not an ordinary Combat.

Marcsh had stood, feet wide apart, knees slightly bent, sword before him. His knuckles were red and slick with blood and he glared at Ronin, hating him even more for the rebuke.

Ronin had faced him with his hip and his shoulder, right foot forward and extended, left behind him. He held his sword out at stomach level, point slightly higher than hilt.

Marcsh had leapt and again the blade flew down and Ronin caught it on the hilt, the heavy shock coursing through them both. They strained against each other, breath hissing through clenched teeth. The veins along Marcsh’s thick biceps and inner forearms stood out, pulsing, from the muscles. His face and neck grew red with the effort.

He was extremely powerful, and he used his brute strength to break the deadlock, moving immediately into a series of horizontal thrusts, slashing and cutting. Ronin had parried it all, neither retreating nor advancing. Marcsh’s close-set eyes blazed and his mouth opened with the heaving of his chest.

He had turned a horizontal slice into a feint, reversing his motion very rapidly but still having to overcome momentum, his weight working now against him, attempting to use his hilt as Ronin had before. The blade of Ronin’s sword glinted and took the force of the attack, and he began a counter but Marcsh retreated. Sweat glistened along Marcsh’s arms and down his sides and his shirt clung to him like a loose second skin.

And he had leapt forward, once more on the attack, and his sword lifted and fell, lifted and fell, his full power behind each stroke. The blade was a white blur obscuring the Combatants so that the Bladesmen were obliged to press closer in order to make out the course of Combat.

Still Ronin retreated under the assault, the shocks reverberating even into the first rows of onlookers, so that they imagined they could feel the terrific force being generated and were happy that they were merely watching. Motion blended as the attack resolved itself into the shape of repetition. The heavy blade lifted and fell, lifted and fell. Blue sparks flew upward and the constant clang of metal against metal was deafening. The air was acrid and leaden. Lifted and fell, lifted and fell, and time unravelled.

It was a form of hypnosis and not at all limited to Combat. That was its strength, because one tends to forget under the narrowed concentration of Combat. Narrower still is the deep concentration of the attack, of bringing Combat to its completion. And now Ronin saw it in Marcsh’s eyes and he timed the counter perfectly, abruptly holding his ground as Marcsh, intent on the retreat as a gauge for his victory, swung again forward and down with all his strength. He came up on Ronin instantly, sword descending in a blur, eyes just beginning to open in surprise, as Ronin, feet planted firmly, bent into his knees, twisting his torso at the last possible instant. He pivoted his left foot away, and Marcsh, his body made ponderous and overbalanced by momentum, rushed past him. Ronin brought both arms around, following the pivot of his own momentum, using it, locking his elbows so that his arms were rigid with force, and smashed the flat of his sword against the daggam’s back.

There came a cracking sound, muffled and thick, as of the rending of a foundation under immense pressure, and Marcsh’s body arched horribly, his arms thrust above his head in reflex, as if in supplication. His sword clattered to the floor. The body hit the floor with great force and was still. It lay there, unnatural and ugly, grotesque in its sudden parody of human form, as a great shout went up from the Bladesmen, and the Square of Combat was suddenly filled with milling people.

Ronin did not see the Instructor gesture but he heard over the tumult the clear Tone of the gong that signalled the end of Combat.

He stood and breathed deeply, the still centre of a raging storm. He wiped sweat from his colourless eyes.

As if from far away he heard a voice cry, ‘Moment! Moment! I will have silence here!’ The din continued. ‘Silence, I said!’ roared the voice. The shouting died to low murmurings and then ceased altogether.

From his platform the Instructor glowered down at his students. ‘Stand silently where you are!’ His face was red and his small eyes flashed. ‘This conduct is outrageous! Unthinkable! Rank Students would behave better. I shall not tolerate such an outburst in
my Class
again!’ he bellowed at them. He pointed to two Bladesmen. ‘See to Marcsh.’ They bent to their task, trying to lift him gently, but a sound came from him so filled with agony that they left him and ran to fetch a litter.

Seeing this, the Instructor’s gathering fury exploded, and he turned upon Ronin. ‘You fool!’ he screamed, barely in control. ‘You have half killed him! How shall I explain that to his Instructor? How shall I explain that to his Saardin!’ His voice had become shrill, rising in pitch. ‘This will reflect on me! On me! Do you understand what you have done! What gives you the idea you can use your weapon in such a manner?’ He shook his fist at Ronin. He was trembling.

‘As of this moment you are barred from this Combat Class, and I can assure you that it will be the same for all Classes, because I shall see to that personally. In addition, a full report of your irresponsible behaviour shall be made to the Saardin of Security!’

There was a great tumult in the Hall now, sounds of voices and movement echoing and reechoing off the walls and ceiling, gaining in volume. Dimly, Ronin was aware of Nirren, somehow miraculously beside him in the crush.

The Instructor’s voice rose to peak volume to be heard. ‘You will pay for this incident, and pay dearly!’

Ronin, adrenalin still pumping within him, crossed the line. He took a step forward and lifted his sword. ‘We will see who shall pay!’ he yelled, but it was borne away on the tide of sound.

Nirren gripped him from behind. ‘Are you mad? What are you doing?’

Still Ronin advanced through the throng towards the elevated figure of the Instructor. Nirren clung to him, trying to gain a purchase to restrain him, as he fought his way through the tightly pressed, jostling bodies. They clung to Ronin like weights impeding his progress and he was only halfway there when he saw the Instructor, fearful now that he had quite lost control of the situation, wheel off the platform and, with his boy trailing in his wake, stride from the Hall.

Nirren got hold of him at last. The noise had increased and the heat was unbearable. He had to turn his head and stare at Nirren’s working mouth before he understood, and even then it took a while. ‘Come on! Come on!’