He did not say what foe he trained his humans to fight—he figured that Lord Lyon would assume that he meant the army of the Wizards or of the Wild Humans, not an army commanded by his fellows. Not a flicker of mistrust appeared on Lord Lyon's face, only a growing interest—and if anyone here had been thinking about the idea of taking his holdings by force, that last statement would give them a reason to think better of the plan.
"If all this is true—" Lord Lyon turned to a silent, black-clad, flame-haired human who stayed at his side like his shadow. "Kaeth-—get down to the arena and get some armor and weapons. I want to see how this works."
The human saluted, and left Lord Lyon's side, jumping down into the arena and walking past the gladiators as casually as if they were statues. Kyrtian caught Gel's eye and nodded; Gel followed him.
"I believe that you will find this well worth your time, Lord Lyon," Kyrtian said evenly, then turned to the feuding parties. "My lords, will you make your choice of combatant?"
There was more grumbling, but finally it was settled that Lord Marthien would be represented by Gel, and Wyvarna by Lord Lyon's man Kaeth. Since it was obvious that there was no longer going to be the bloody spectacle that everyone had planned on, no one really wanted to remain any longer, and both lords lost most of their entourages, leaving only their human bodyguards and one or two other slaves in attendance.
As for Aelmarkin's guests, they had all departed as well, probably returning to the Great Hall and the food and drink and other pleasures they had abandoned to watch the combat. That left only Aelmarkin, Lord Lyon and a young er-Lord who was probably his son, a couple of young lords who looked to be friends of his son, and Kyrtian. Those who remained seated themselves, and waited with varying degrees of impatience for something to happen.
Gel was no stranger to getting into armor quickly, and neither, apparently, was Lord Lyon's red-haired bodyguard. Both appeared at the same door of the arena a remarkably short time later; Gel must have told Kaeth not to bother about weapons, for neither man carried any. Kaeth looked up at his master, who nodded to Lord Wyvarna; Kaeth immediately picked up one of the discarded shields stacked at the side of the arena bearing the azure serpent, and Gel took one of the discarded white alicorn shields.
"We've agreed to longsword and shield, master," Gel called up, in a servile voice that Kyrtian hardly recognized. He suppressed a nervous chuckle, and nodded.
Then Kyrtian fixed his gaze on a point on the sand at Gel's feet, and concentrated, drawing motes of power out of himself, and spinning them into the fabric of a pair of his very special blades.
He'd conjured up longswords so many times, that it was hardly any effort at all to spin out a mere pair of them. The air above the sand misted briefly, then shimmered, and a pair of fine blades condensed out of the mist as Kyrtian felt a slight inward
drain of power. He looked up to see that Aelmarkin was watching closely, with a look of intense concentration on his face.
I wonder if he can follow what I'm doing? Has he the talent to read all the special modifications I've made?
Gel gestured to the identical swords and let Kaeth pick first.
The bodyguard picked up the nearest, and gave it an experimental swing, then rapped his shield with it. The shield gave off a perfectly normal metallic clang, and Kaeth nodded with satisfaction. "Feels like a regulation longsword, Lord Lyon," he called up into the viewing stands, squinting against the light. "Maybe a bit better balanced than most."
"These blades will act in all respect like a normal battle weapon," Kyrtian assured the few who were left in the stands, but concentrating on Lord Lyon. "With a single exception, that is. They will not cause any physical damage. Gel, please offer your opponent a target."
Gel held out his sword-arm with a grin, knowing that Kyrtian would eliminate the shock of being struck for this part of the demonstration.
"Kaeth, if you would swing at Gel please, and cut off his arm?"
Lord Lyon's slave did not hesitate; he took a full, overhand swing at the arm Gel extended for him as Lord Lyon leaned forward a little with interest. The blade passed through Gel's arm, leaving a glowing line, and making about half his body glow.
"Wounds cause a slight shock to the wounded man to tell him that he has been wounded, and the blade leaves a mark that he and any referees can see," Kyrtian explained. "There is no other effect on the fighter so struck, but for the purposes of scoring, there is full attention paid to the realities of battle. The longer Gel stands there, the more of him will glow, representing how close he is to death by blood-loss from such a massive wound. If he had only gotten a slight wound, there would only have been a mark and a shock. Eventually, according to the rules we follow, he will glow all over and be forced to retire."
"And if the wound was immediately mortal, he'd glow all over as well?" Lord Lyon supplied.
"Yes, and he would get a larger, quite unmistakable shock."
Kyrtian replied. He permitted himself a smile. "We allow for the heat of combat causing people to forget themselves, and the shocks they receive will get their attention." He negated the glow with a moment's thought, and Gel shifted his feet in the sand.
Lord Lyon nodded thoughtfully, and even Wyvarna and Marthien looked more interested than they had been. "I'm sure there are more details that I will want to ask you about later," Lord Lyon said after a moment of silence. "But meanwhile— let's settle this quarrel and have our practical demonstration, shall we?"
At this point, Kyrtian caught a decidedly unfriendly expression on Aelmarkin's face. It was there for only a moment, but it reminded him that his cousin was the host of this combat, and that Kyrtian had done him a fair amount of damage.
But maybe there was a way to begin repairing that damage— or at least, doing something to make up for it. Never make an enemy that you don't have to, he reminded himself, and never give an enemy you already have another excuse to act against you.
"Cousin?" he said, gesturing to the arena. "As host, yours should be the honor."
Aelmarkin looked briefly startled, then suspicious, but stood up. He bowed to the two for whom this entire combat had been arranged. "Lord Marthien, Lord Wyvarna, will your feud be settled by the outcome of this challenge?"
"Aye," came the reply—grudgingly, but without much hesitation.
"Be it witnessed," Aelmarkin intoned.
"We so witness," came the chorus of Kyrtian, Lord Lyon, Lyon's son, and a pair of hangers-on, thinner than before, but enough to satisfy custom.
"Very well," Aelmarkin continued, as Gel and Kaeth eyed each other and settled into nearly identical stances. "Begin."
Aelmarkin seated himself, and crossed his arms over his chest. Kyrtian leaned forward to watch what he suspected would be a very fine show.
There was no rush to combat and clash of weapons this time, not with two such seasoned fighters. They circled each other
warily, taking careful measure of each other, making tiny feints and gauging the speed of response. Gel and Kaeth were a good match for one another, and although Aelmarkin leaned back in his seat and looked dreadfully bored, Lord Lyon and the two feuding Elvenlords were quickly on the edge of their chairs, recognizing the level of skill each man represented. Kyrtian felt a thrill of pride as he watched Gel's catlike, powerful moves; it was obvious that Kaeth was an extremely well-trained and probably very expensive slave, and regarded Gel as his equal in ability.
When the first exchange came, it was sudden; Kaeth thought he detected a weakness and drove in, making Gel's shield and blade ring with a flurry of blows. Gel countered successfully, and when Kaeth sprang back, both of them had tiny glowing marks, Kaeth along the back of his sword-hand and Gel across his forehead.
Well used to the rules of the game, Gel did something that surprised Kaeth; he sprinted backwards out of reach for a moment, just long enough to pull a scarf from around his neck and whip it around his forehead. Kyrtian risked a glance at Lord Lyon, and saw him frown suddenly in puzzlement, then just as quickly nod and smile slightly.
Good. He understands that if Gel hadn 't done that, the glow would drop over his eye, obscuring his vision as blood would without a scarf to stop it. He's beginning to understand how complex the rules-magic is.
Kyrtian abandoned himself to watching the fight, able to enjoy it as a demonstration of grace and expertise. He noticed that Kaeth was grinning, just as Gel was; evidently, Kaeth seldom found himself with an opponent of comparable ability, and without needing to worry about crippling injuries or death, had given himself over to the exhilaration and visceral pleasure of such a duel. With each exchange of blows, one or both of the combatants came away marked, but only superficially—and by the time they'd acquired half a dozen "cuts" each, Lord Marthien and Lord Wyvarna were on their feet, cheering their representatives on with as much vigor as they would have used if their contest had gone as planned. Kyrtian's own heart was
pounding at this point, and his fists clenched with excitement. It was a terrific combat, and he honestly wasn't certain who he wished to see win it.
Kyrtian noticed a pattern in Kaeth's shieldwork, a weakness, a tendency to push an oncoming blow to the outside rather than hold up under it. That spared the shock to the shield-arm, yes, but it left him open for a sliding parry under the shield or a feint and a drive straight to the chest. If he saw it, certainly Gel did—
Gel made a little dance to the side, another blow towards the shield—but it wasn't a blow, it was a feint, and he followed it with a lunge straight for Kaeth's unguarded throat!
But Kaeth was ready for him! The pattern had been a ruse, a lure to see if Gel would take it! He dodged aside, moving just enough so that Gel's blade slid over his shoulder without harming him, and slashed up in a vicious gut-thrust.
Gel stiffened, and burst into glowing light. Obedient to the rules (and his own sense of high drama), he toppled over and dropped to the ground, "dead."
Lord Lyon rose to his feet, applauding enthusiastically, as Kaeth saluted him, then saluted Lord Wyvarna, who was also on his feet and cheering. So, for that matter, was Kyrtian—