"Resume? Resume?" At that, Kyrtian's rage sprang to full and insensate life again, and grew until it was beyond anything, he had ever felt before. He went cold, then hot, then cold again, and a strange haze came over his vision. "Haven't you heard a word I've said? This idiocy will not resume, not while I'm standing here!"
"That can be remedied,'' muttered someone, as Gel finally put a calming hand on Kyrtian's arm. Kyrtian had the sense not to throw it off, but he was quite ready at that moment to snatch up a sword himself and take them all on single-handed.
"Don't back down," Gel muttered, "but get hold of yourself. Think fast—if you can't salvage this situation, we're going to have three feuds on our hands, two with them and one with Aelmarkin."
Aelmarkin was so angry he could scarcely think. When he'd invited that fool Kyrtian here, he'd hoped the puppy would make some sort of blunder that would prove he was as foolish as Aelmarkin claimed. Well, he'd blundered all right—but he'd managed to do it in such a way that now Aelmarkin was potentially in as much trouble as he was! How had he managed to stop the combat? Where did he get all that magic power?
To the desert with that! How am I going to save myself?
This was nothing short of a disaster. The amount of status he stood to lose over this debacle was incalculable. This might even cost him his Council seat.
"Please, my lords," he said, entreatingly, to his two furious guests, "my young cousin has never seen one of these exhibitions before and—"
"Exhibitions?" Aelmarkin blinked at the tone of Kyrtian's voice—a moment ago it had nearly cracked with strain, and Kyrtian was clearly a short step from losing control entirely.
Suddenly now—the anger was still there, but it was controlled anger, and overlaid with calculated scorn worthy of an experienced Councilor. He turned to see that Kyrtian's face was now a carefully haughty mask.
Could Kyrtian actually salvage this situation?
"Exhibitions?" Kyrtian repeated. "Is that what you call these senseless slaughters?" His lip curled in what was unmistakably a sneer. "I suppose if your idea of 'sport' is to take tame pets and line them up for targets, then you could call something like this an exhibition, but I certainly wouldn't dignify this idiocy with such a term."
Aelmarkin saw with hope that the two feuding lords had forgotten all about him. Kyrtian's declaration and attitude had caused them to focus all of their insulted rage on him.
"I suppose it's too much to expect you to answer that statement of utter nonsense with anything like a challenge?" asked Lord Marthien, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Yes it is," Kyrtian replied, answering sarcasm with arrogance, "Because your fighters are no match for mine. You would lose before the combat began. That is why I say this is senseless. The least of my fighters has four years of combat experience—the best of yours can't possibly have more than one. No, less than one, since I doubt your men ever survive even that long."
That arrogance took them rather aback; Lord Wyvarna glanced at Aelmarkin as if asking for confirmation of the astonishing statement. Aelmarkin made a slight shrug.
"And are we supposed to accept this bluff at face value, impudent puppy?" Lord Wyvarna demanded.
To their astonishment, Kyrtian laughed, albeit mirthlessly.
"You would be wise to, since it is hardly a bluff," he replied. "Consider what you already know about me and my—hobby. Consider that I have very little to do except train and drill my fighters in every possible style and manner of combat, and that I do not and never have sold any of them for any price. Consider that I have been doing this every day for the past ten years at least, personally overseeing the training and practice in every aspect. Meanwhile, what have you been doing? Entrusting the
training and practice of your gladiators to others, quite without supervision, and slaughtering the best of your men in useless exhibitions. And what stake do those you entrust with this training have in your success or failure? What personal incentive have they to make certain that nothing is left to chance? And how many of your gladiators die or are crippled in training? For that matter, what incentive do your gladiators have to succeed? The best and cleverest of them are surely contriving to get themselves mildly crippled in the first week of your so-called 'training!' It would seem to me that the very smartest ones, the ones who would make the very best fighters, would see to it that they were always crippled in training, in order to avoid being slaughtered in one of your so-called exhibitions!"
Kyrtian cleverly left the questions hanging in the air, and now Aelmarkin saw a certain wariness creep over the expressions of the two feuding lords.
"And I suppose you have a better idea?" boomed a new voice.
Both Aelmarkin and Kyrtian turned to face the new speaker, who stood up from among his son's entourage. Aelmarkin was startled; he hadn't realized that Lord Lyon had come with his son Gildor—
Damn! Has he been there all along, or did he just arrive for the combat? Did I somehow insult him by not noticing him? Can anything else go wrong here today?
Aelmarkin's thoughts scurried after one another, like frantic slaves trying to clean up a terrible spill. V'kel Lyon Lord Kyndreth—Lord Lyon of the Great House of Kyndreth—stood wrapped in a scarlet cloak embroidered with leaping stags, his arms crossed over his chest. Aelmarkin shivered; the man was one of the most powerful lords of the Great Council. A vote from Lord Lyon was worth three from anyone with a lesser Council Seat. The number of allies he had—the number of people he could make or break with a single word—
Aelmarkin held his breath. All his own prayers might be answered in the next few moments. If Kyrtian insulted Lord Lyon badly enough—if he convinced Lord Lyon that he was as insane and unstable as Aelmarkin had been claiming ...
Elvenborn 61
Then before this day was over, Aelmarkjn might be organizing his slaves for the move to his new properties.
Kyrtian looked at Lord Lyon, a veritable icon of power, as if he were no more important than any of the lesser sons and hangers-on.
"Yes," he said, simply, "I have. And I'm quite prepared to demonstrate it, here and now in front of you all."
6
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That's V'kel Lyon Lord Kyndreth," Gel hissed in Kyrt-ian's ear. Kyrtian made the finger-sign for I understand, but did not look away from the tall, powerfully-built noble who had addressed him. That was one name he definitely recognized, and the half-formed plan he had thrown together in an instant of panic-ridden thinking took on a new importance and urgency. If he could persuade Lord Lyon to use his methods, not only in training, but in challenge-matches, how many thousands of lives would be spared? For if Lord Lyon decreed it, all training and matches would be performed Kyrtian's way.
So he turned his half-formed plan into a bluff. "In fact," he continued, as calmly as if he spoke the truth, "I came here hoping to stop this nonsense for all time with such a demonstration."
"Really?" Lord Lyon looked amused, which boded well for Kyrtian. "And how is that? I take it you intend a live demonstration, and not some illusory shadow show."
"Pit one fighter of your choosing against my bodyguard," Kyrtian said, boldly. "They will use my methods of fighting. They will fight to a death-wound, but neither will be harmed by the experience. You can use the best of your men—the one you would least care to lose—without any fear that harm will come to him and you will be without his services."
"Indeed." Lord Lyon looked from one side of the arena to the
other. "Wyvarna, Marthien—if I proposed using my bodyguard in this combat, would you accept the results of such a duel instead of using your gladiators as settling your dispute?"
The lord of the white alicorn looked sullen; the lord of the blue serpent responded first. "How would we decide which fighter represented which of us?"
"Draw lots," Lyon said carelessly. "I know my man takes second-place to very few, and I hardly think Lord Kyrtian's man is less expert." He turned back to Kyrtian. "I agree in principle that this is a waste of fighting-strength. The training is expensive, and it's all gone to waste when a fighter is killed—or runs off to join those damned renegade Wizards. Before the current unpleasantness, there were no Wizards to run off to, of course, and there was no need to field battle-troops, but our present situation does call for some changes in our own customs. In fact, some of the members of the Council have even asked openly if it might be wise to outlaw challenges altogether to save the waste of trained fighters." He smiled thinly. "Some have even suggested that if challengers are unwilling or unable to conduct duels-by-magic, that they should take sword in hand themselves to settle their quarrels."
Astonished mutters and a few gasps followed that announcement, and Lords Wyvarna and Marthien looked openly dismayed.
Lord Lyon looked down his long, aristocratic nose at Kyrtian with a hint of sardonic interest. Kyrtian raised his chin and reminded himself that his lineage was as long and proud as that of the House of Kyndrefh. "How much better, then, if you can have your challenges without the loss of a single fighting man or spillage of a single drop of blood?" he demanded. "Maybe your gladiators will stop running off if they know they aren't going to be killed in a senseless grudge-match. And I know I need not point out to a Lord of your experience and wisdom that such training will make better field-forces than anything our foes can create. Think of the kind of fighters you will field, when you can breed the best to the best, then give them real combat experience where they can learn from their mistakes!"
"Bloodless matches? Where's the sport in that?" someone behind Kyrtian muttered.