TYMASS BY RING-LIGHT

TYMASS BY RING-LIGHT, by Mike Adamson

Verily it be that, unknownst to the prevailing wisdom, the Gods and Fates shall move in concert and all that is undone shall be remade. From black despair shall come the joy of day, and the bearer of this revolution shall in service be redeemed.

―The Testament of Farnor.

 

Afternoon light shafted through high, narrow windows in the airy stone hall where Ramaan, commander of the Palatine Guard, sat at his broad desk of scented wood, scrolls and volumes littering its surface. Voices raised from afar were the only sound as the tough, senior officer studied the report before him at length. Eventually he lay down the papyrus and clasped hands across the stamped-lappa-leather armor at his belly, to stare at the figure opposite. “Ex-Guardsman Derros,” he pronounced slowly, with care, as if handling an object he would rather not. “You have done your sovereign a service.”

Derros was less concerned than he may have been years ago, when he walked these halls in uniform. Ostracism to a life in the wilds had taught him much, and the worth of men was high among those things. The powerful, sun-browned figure was swathed in a robe of green, his shock of dark hair brushed for the occasion, but his stare was hard as ironstone and he cared only for the justice of the moment.

“I rescued Her Highness from the warlord Sharnek, and delivered her home to hearth and kin,” he stated flatly in his deep tones. “My loyalty to the Royal House of Tymass and the land of Farnor has never been in doubt.”

“I beg to differ,” Ramaan fired back, spreading his hands. “You were dismissed from the Palatine Guard for reasons which seemed ample to the tribunal.” He composed himself as if his next words were bitter. “I remember the affair, and have re-examined the records this morning. At the order of Her Highness the Princess Therolynn, the matter is to be reopened. In view of your service to her, she is petitioning His Majesty for a pardon. However, I understand this is not what you seek.”

“I was unfairly dismissed,” Derros rumbled. “I would have the matter heard afresh and my name cleared.”

“And doubtless your position reinstated.”

The giant across the desk shrugged. “That is not a condition. I well recall the pride of the company of guards, but after five years my own master, I can comfortably inform you there is more under the Rings of Malovar than a military life.”

Ramaan bristled, as if the observation was a personal slight, but the princess had instituted matters and he must follow orders. “Very well. You’ll have your hearing, but unless you can say more or better than last time, I have no doubt of the verdict. You might wish you’d considered the pardon instead.”

After another moment’s hesitation Ramaan shrugged faintly, drew a fresh parchment from a stack, dipped quill to ink and wrote out the order that would set the official machinery in motion. Derros watched him silently, the swift scratching of the pen the only sound, then the ink was sanded, the dust blown away; a box of stamps was inspected and one selected, the device impressed over Ramaan’s signature. Then the paper was folded and the blue wax—not the red–produced to seal the document with the official stamp of the Palatine Guard. The warrior from the wilds held his tongue but a smile twisted his lips as he observed the paraphernalia of bureaucracy, the keeping of records, the system of accountability–a blizzard of parchment that seemed more impedimenta than the means to an end.

A guard escorted Derros along a hall he knew well to a courtyard garden where he was told to wait, and soon an elderly seneschal in robes of rich blue came to fetch him. He was escorted to a library where sunlight danced on dust motes, and he found the Princess Therolynn at a broad table of polished stone, a massive volume open before her. The young woman’s striking beauty, to which Derros had become more than accustomed in the weeks of their journey back to the capital, was enhanced by a gown of white silk, and polished gold glimmered upon her arms; a dagger rode her hip as custom demanded of any unmarried Farnorian woman.

She looked up at his entrance, her smile like the sun framed in her dark tresses, and took his hands in greeting. “My father is well disposed to the review of your case,” she said softly.

“I ask no favor,” Derros murmured. “Just that truth be told and justice done.”

She escorted him to comfortable chairs below an arc of high windows, and they sat. “You told me much of your period of service, during those long days upon the river as we made our way back from the Chelraami jungle. I read the official report myself. But I believe there were things left unsaid. Would you go over it one more time?”

Derros sighed softly and seemed pensive. “Some things I would rather remained unspoken until the tribunal.”

The princess folded her hands and looked sidelong at him from beneath dark lashes. “I feel I grew to know you well enough on our journey to consider the official finding of dereliction of duty puzzling to say the least.”

“I shall consider that a compliment, My Princess.” He spoke with an unselfconscious ease, in no sense awed to be conversing with an heir to the throne of Farnor. He had served long enough to understand protocol, though Therolynn felt his patience with it was minimal. In the years of his service she had been growing from childhood, and had blossomed during his exile; in the weeks they sailed the river back from the far southwest she had noticed him in ways generally outside the purview of protocol, and wondered at his stoicism, for though she was sure his interest had been mutual, his control was absolute. Was it merely justice he craved, or was there more to this strange, hard man the fates had made? But she said nothing; any lady had her own secrets, doubly so a princess.

Before they could speak further, a figure entered in a swirl of red cloak and military baring. Derros declined to rise; he was a guest in the palace, not part of the military pecking order, and when the officer presented himself the princess sensed the daggers they stared. The newcomer was hard and erect, a young man of ambitious carriage, a not unhandsome face made rakish with a clipped moustache to match his trimmed curls.

“Lieutenant Gavik,” she began evenly. “This is Derros–”

“We are acquainted,” Gavik returned with more bluntness than was appropriate. “We were comrades of the guard at the time of the unfortunate incident resulting in Derros’s…dismissal.”

Therolynn read the currents between the men with ease and spoke with more authority, though her baring had not changed in the slightest. “And you are no doubt aware His Majesty has authorized a reopening of that case?”

“Indeed.” The officer stood stiffly, hands behind his back, on his dignity, and in that one word, in its coolness and disdain, they read his interest. “I am in two minds as to what purpose this will serve. Is it wise to reopen old wounds? The situation was essentially trivial, but warranted dismissal as it concerned the security of the Palatine.” Now he smiled, a studied ingratiation. “It was an unfortunate affair, but all in the past. Is it not best left there?”

The following silence was just a few seconds too long and they saw a swift-smothered edge of panic flash behind Gavik’s eyes–had he just shown his hand, revealed an involvement previously unsuspected by those he wished to influence?

“If it is indeed trivial,” Therolynn returned coolly, “then I’m sure it will occupy no more than moments of the tribunal’s time. Consider it a rigorous attention to detail in the interests of unbiased administration. On the other hand, if there is new information to be taken into consideration, who can say what effect it may have? Better it be heard than not.” Gavik seemed willing to press the point but the princess cut him off with a gesture, rising peremptorily. Derros came to his feet instantly, his courtesy to the princess but not the officer crystal clear. “A hearing has been set for two days hence. I for one will be most interested in the proceedings.” Her manner warmed somewhat and she and Gavik shared a silent converse of the eyes Derros could not fail to notice. “Was there anything else, Lieutenant?”

He hesitated a long moment, then smiled. “No, Your Highness.” He regarded Derros with a stare which seemed to mask animosity at many levels, then bowed to Therolynn, swung on his heel and went about his business, leaving an uncomfortable silence in which each processed the intrusion and its meaning.

At last the princess gestured to the great shelves of scrolls and volumes. “So much learning under one roof, all here to be read, understood, and used as guidance; yet why is it we must learn our own hearts one stumbling step at a time?”

Derros’s granite face betrayed nothing, but his reply was slow in coming. “You and the lieutenant?”

“Lieutenant Gavik has certain pretentions,” Therolynn returned mildly. “In the last year I have been aware of his interest, and an officer of the guard is a not inappropriate dalliance.” She spoke in a whisper. “The animosity between you could not be clearer, and this troubles me. I assume a royal command to put it behind you would achieve precisely nothing.”

“A fair assumption.”

“Can you tell me why?”

Derros paused, flexed his hands as if he wished he had some physical task to perform, and at last shrugged, fighting not to cross his arms defensively. “I can only say, all will become clear the second day from now. Until then….”

“Yes?” she asked softly.

“Trust that I know my business.”

“Of that I am in no doubt.”

He took his leave and she watched him go, the square set of his shoulders, the confidence of his stride, and wondered…. What could set old comrades against each other in so dire a way? In those moments Gavik had seemed a different man than she had known in all her years. What grave did Derros’s return threaten to open?

###

To walk the streets of golden Tymass once more was a strange feeling to Derros. Five years was a long time to call the wastes home, and he had treated with the farmers and fisherfolk, the tribesmen of the wilderness, and gone among strange peoples in lands beyond the frontiers of Farnor. The capital seemed too much, too tall, too loud, too crowded.

Indeed, as he left the gardens of the palatine, with their luxurious emerald and purple foliage within unscalable walls of glass-slick granite, he was met with the low drone of the city– thousands of voices, the rumble of wheels, the tread of ponderous beasts of burden, snatches of music, cries of workmen, the metallic clangor of forge and workshop. This was what it meant to dwell among a multitude, and though he had once called it home he found he missed the silence of open spaces, the blue distances of plain and steppe, alone with his thoughts and a campfire.

On their return from the far jungles, they had been met by a royal galley on the river and taken aboard at once, two days and they had been in the capital. To see the marble and porphyry towers, the oblate architecture of obsidian and metaled glass, emerge from the afternoon haze had been a bitter return for him. For these exotic and elegant buildings, climbing to the blues and lavenders of the daytime sky, were a place he preferred to forget, and had passed through but rarely. It was the princess’s ancestral home, he had no choice but to be here, but he was not obliged to like it.

He stopped at a cookstall in a market place, spent a couple of myrkhas for flatbread stuffed with spiced meat and shredded greens, a clay beaker of ale on the side. He ate in the shade of a flapping awning, and listened to the converse of those around him.

Farnorian speakers predominated, but he heard snatches of other tongues, the soft speech of courtly Zimmeron in the warm southeast; the guttural consonants of Chelraam; the quickfire syllables from Endalomir, where the snows lay long. Truly, Tymass on its great river was a crossroads of Malovar. The face and form of the world passed by in the multitude, from the pale features and white fur trims of the northerners, to the rich olive skin of the Zimmerani, whose custom demanded undress. Among them all were fabrics of color and pattern beyond description, harness and cape, tunic and leggings, gown and shift.

Yet, for all its civilization, all its pretentions to culture, weapons were never far from hand, and among the fine robes and fancy styles strutted in the afternoon sunglare, he saw swords at hip, mailshirts, and corselets of fire-hardened lappa-hide. This was a world poised on the brink of lethal violence at any moment, and the patrols of the city guard had never changed that fact.

Dusting his hands, he walked on, passed through the shaded porticos of great civic buildings where columns soared to the lavender sky and its glittering slash of pale, daytime rings, and guardsmen marched in leather and gold-chased mail, their scarlet cloaks brilliant in the sun glare. Their officer rode a cantabra, the proud riding beast of the nobility and cavalry squadrons, a prancing creature of richly dappled hide, whose limbs seemed over-long and covered the ground in a rush like the very wind. The long head was made for browsing upon pendulous bushes, bifurcated ears could swivel forward and back at the same time, while bright, dark eyes high in the skull were never at rest, but seeking danger. The long, thin tail was fringed with pale hair and cloven hooves beat the cobblestones with fine steel shoeing.

Derros watched them go, thought back upon his time in the guard and shook his head faintly. As a young recruit he had dreamed of being that officer, but many a dream was dashed when fate took a hand.

He had taken a room in the warrens by the river, three floors above a tavern bar, and he returned to it as afternoon heat made the city grow stale. Soon the season would change and big winds would drive away the fumes of industry before the rains came. In winter, the shadow of the rings would plunge the northern hemisphere into doubly hard months, but for now all was heat and dust, and the people waited for the cool of evening before Tymass would come properly to life.

Derros was watching.

Gavik had appeared on the scene with a promptness speaking of shock, which told him his return was the last thing Gavik expected. The officer’s precipitate intrusion suggested that reopening old wounds was, in this case, very likely lethal to his career prospects, much less to any pretentions he had of liaison with a princess of the blood. He had everything to lose, and, looking back on that night, years ago, when Gavik and Derros had gambled for their futures, Derros understood everything he had lost and the other had won. Bitterness had too long been his companion, but exile taught him both patience and caution, and now he was watching for a knife in the dark.

Tymass could be a dangerous town, and a thief in the night happening upon him for the contents of his purse would be a convenient tragedy–for Gavik.

###

The room was squalid, and Derros, stripped to a loincloth, rested on the floor, his trail pack of stout khourmi-flax unfolded for groundsheet and blanket. The bed he preferred not to touch, and rested as evening thickened over the city. When the sun left them through golden haze, the stars blazed out and the glimmer of the planet’s rings brought soft, diffuse illumination to the world as surely as the many moons which rode above and below the ringplane, moving in their celestial dance of crescents and stars in an indigo bowl. The city found its voice, the great cry of life, and music lilted from markets and ale shops as people danced and drank and traded.

Now, in the half-light of the great slash of ice from horizon to horizon, was the time for all furtive business, and Derros could almost feel Gavik’s agents drawing close. He would know Derros would not allow himself to be arrested on some made-up pretext by walking the streets where the guards could close in; if he was to keep Derros from speaking before the tribunal he must take more direct, but still discrete, action, which would likely take only one form. He wagered his life on his certainty.

In the gloom of his room, lit only in the ring-light from the window, Derros sighed and passed a hand across his face. Am I right? he asked grimly of the darkness. Five years was a long time. How certain could he be? Had he fallen into the ancient trap of pride, and the fury that accompanied its bruising? Had he learned no wisdom from the mystics of the far deserts who had honed his swordsmanship? Surely…! But he had walked a long road to bring his life full circle, and in the end he faced only himself. The courage of his own conviction was what counted, and he set aside his misgivings as he sensed events moving at their own pace. He had returned, Gavik had attempted, however ineptly, to head off the tribunal; subtlety would probably now be abandoned.

But Derros made a silent pact with himself in those moments of introspection. If Gavik was the man he believed him to be, he deserved all that came to him. But if matters did not take the turn he anticipated, then the gods had shown that room for doubt existed, and he could allow discretion to weigh heavily in his reckoning. To walk away may be bitter, but he would do so with his life. With a silent oath, he placed himself in the hands of those above, willing to see the error of his intentions—but, for the moment, proceeded as if his life were in direst jeopardy all the same. Anything else was foolishness.

The warrior rose with a wolfish readiness, rolled through exercises and flexed every joint and muscle. Then he drew on boots and forearm guards, strapped on his sword harness and slid away the honed blade over his right shoulder. He smiled as he looked down upon the city, the million lamps and torches aflicker upon the wide roll of the river, the whole frosted by the gleam of the ringplane, and wondered if he should be the hunted or the hunter. The former took less effort, for then his quarry would come to him.

He thrust wide the slatted window shutters and crouched to scan the street with the sharp eyes of the far-sighted. Gavik would have the building watched, somewhere down there an agent cradled a wine cup and stared intently at the doors of the block, as another would watch the rear exit, and after a while he was satisfied he was unseen up here. The flare of torch and lantern painted the buildings in orange flicker and in the press of the crowds only the doorway was watched. He eased onto the sill, crouched after the habit of the great silver apes, then stretched out to the course of stone that marked the corner of the tower. Mortar was worn and peeling, and he worked fingers into holds easily enough, transferred a toe to a block, and climbed with the agility of a tree-dweller, upward to the shingled roof. A single great effort swung him over the rain sluice and he rolled onto the shallowly-inclined surface.

Now he could laugh softly as he took a seat in a cross-legged pose of meditation, to feel the roof’s warmth under him and listen in the night breeze for sounds that would tell him his quarters were invaded, and when his room was discovered empty every possibility would be exhausted. The simple fact Derros had done the remarkable in bringing the princess home unscathed meant he was to be reckoned with, and Gavik was a cautious man, eager to not be seen as party to anything untoward: he would send only the best.

Assassins.

The master assassins were, ostensibly, beyond the law in Farnor, they dwelled as a silent and invisible cult of murderers who profited from the grievances of others, and were not unique upon this wide, troubled world. The crown knew of them, and a tacit peace existed, neither law not cult would prosper by open war; so the assassins plied their trade and so long as the victims were never counted among government, court or army, they may do so. It made sense Gavik would have a channel into them, and pay solid coin for the task.

The tenement block was old, no fancy architecture here, it was four-square construction of stone from the hills, roofed with thick slate, and Derros made his way toward the apex on soft-footed tread. He looked out upon the city like a ghost in the sky, stood in the peace of a warrior as yet unchallenged, to watch the last flush of day stain high cloud that crept across the field of rings and moons, and at last he sensed company–those paid to spill his blood were here.

Faint scufflings came to his sharp ears, not the flitter of night-wraiths, winged creatures that often congregated around chimneys for warmth in the winter, nor the scamperings of vermin; this was the stealthy sound of pursuit, and he scanned the night with senses made acute by the great, silent, lethal wastes. He went down flat to the long apex, eased to the blind side of the shallow slope and watched. He felt, more than saw, a dark shape detach against the background glow of the city and smiled with the predatory glee of the hunter closing in.

Clearly, they had scoured the building room by room, and logic dictated only the roof remained. Two assassins crested the parapet at opposite corners and lay low, watching. Half-seen hand signals were exchanged and they crept up the slope, blades sheathed and hands filled with razor-honed throwing darts. This was a specialty, poison-tipped missiles from which the merest graze, untreated, brought swift oblivion, and he had faced their like just once in all his years.

Deep in the combative trance, Derros breathed softly, muscles balanced to send him into action when the moment came. His sword remained at his back and with smooth and stealthy motion he drew a pair of daggers from his harness. Speed was the key, and judging the moment, and he found himself in the state of nigh-perfect balance with his world which delineated him as a warrior. Not a guardsman, not a man-at-arms, a warrior. He felt the flow of time around him, reached just a moment into the future, sensed the predatory instincts of his opponents–skills the equal of their own arcane training.

As honed metal flittered through the dark, he rolled this way and that, avoided by the merest shavings the throwing darts which sprinted from the slate in momentary flashes of sparks. A whirling weapon ricocheted skyward with a whine of spinning edges, went through his hair and clove free a lock, and for a moment he was sure the poisoned edge has kissed his left ear. But no spreading numbness, no cold of the grave, manifested in his limbs and he wove the life-kata with untarnished poise. Not for nothing had he studied at the knee of a Battlemaster in the wastes beyond civilization, the fruits of whose teachings had carried Derros to triumph more than once. He moved in a wide-legged crouch, twisting like the undulations of a serpent, until the last razor-honed weapons went tumbling by in the icy ringlight.

When none remained, the assassins drew their swords and crouched, balanced on the slope of the roof to spring into action, and Derros waited, breathing softly. He saw only their outlines, knew they wore dark bindings, only their eyes revealed, but their identities meant nothing–he had no quarrel with their guild, but with their employer. So when they came for him in a whirl of glimmerings blades, he flipped the daggers and threw them in a blur, instinct alone sending them to target. One buried in a thigh, taking the man out of action, while the other was parried by a lightning stroke, so when he rocked his blade over his right shoulder, Derros went left and sword met sword in a chiming clatter which echoed over the rooftops.

The soft bluish light was deceptive, one learned not to trust one’s eyes at night, but to see from within, to know where things were rather than see them, and such skill served the warrior well. Derros’s blade moved in a web of flickers, cut, thrust and parry beyond the speed of any common soldier–for the years in the wilds had also served him in arcane ways, and he was not the man who had left in disgrace. The assassins discovered this as his sword felled the first with a strangled cry, and he turned for the second, who crouched with blade outstretched, the dagger removed from his leg but the limb useless. There was no retreat, no quarter asked or given, and the strange, fanatically-driven warrior of the dark stood and fenced, disadvantaged but grimly determined.

Derros could respect their commitment and code, and when he dispatched the second hire-killer he saluted with his blade over the body to do honor to courage and skill. Then he cleaned his sword on the warrior’s bindings, and cast about for his daggers. One was gone, sent whirling into the night, the other he recovered and wiped, then sank to his knees in the not-dark night and breathed deeply. Now he could let the tension flow away, and acknowledged silently he had avoided death by the narrowest margins. Such escapes bred a lethal arrogance in some, as if they believed they were untouchable, but the true warrior knew the balance of fate and never made light of it. Breath sighed away as he reveled in the gift of life, and made a hand-sign to the gods as he took in the ring-light, a blessing from on high that assured him he would live another day. And when his heart was steady, he came to his feet and raised his blade to the sky, saw it outlined against the rings in salute to the flow of destiny, then made his way silently to the corner of the roof, to descend to his room, sure the event was done.

As dawn approached, night-wraiths circling to settle on the carrion on the roof would bring the city guard, but it was no longer his concern. Dead assassins were rare but not unknown, and none spared tears over their sort.

Now Derros smiled, hard-eyed, as he eased off his sword harness in the silence of his room, stripped and bathed himself of red flecks of other men’s blood with the pitcher of water provided him; for Gavik would get the message clearly. He had just one day in which to prevent the wildman of the wastes from speaking.

###

The note slipped under his door told Derros he had the Lieutenant of the Guard badly rattled. It was hand-written upon fine papyrus, folded in three and passed under the portal by one who came and left on stealthy tread. Derros knew he had company–reclining upon his bedroll on the floor he felt the approaching steps through the boards beneath him, saw a shadow move in the crack of light, and when the note appeared he relaxed his hand from the dagger at his waist.

The note made him grin humorlessly. We must speak discretely. The pavilion on the bridge, noon. I shall come alone, on my honor. G.

A man whose honor was predicated upon a dishonorable act had no honor at all, and Derros shook his head. Gavik would have his men scattered through the crowd in civilian dress, but he would need a devious pretext indeed to start anything in public. Besides, Derros had a fair idea of what he would discuss.

An hour before noon he dressed in the robe he had bought for his forays onto royal ground, brushed his hair and tied it back, girded dagger and sword harness, and walked out with his hood raised against the sun. He made his way though the bright and dusty day, through the colorful multitude, ate from a cookstall on his route, and at last joined the Way of Kings. The road was lined with the elegant villas of the merchants and officers, and with trees of luxurious summer foliage, laden with pendulous fruits of lurid and enticing hue. The wide way ran down from the palatine district to the great Tymass Bridge, which spanned the Caloweth in an architectural marvel of arched spans between towers rising from artificial islands, supporting a plethora of buildings across the width of the gleaming waters. A double drawbridge at the midpoint gave access to the taller ships, though most river traffic passed beneath the monstrous construction with ease.

Flags crackled in the stiff wind over the river, and a stream of foot traffic lined the roadsides. Tanoraths, the great gray-brown draft beasts of Malovar, wrinkled of hide and ponderous in their mighty tread, lumbered by with their loads, or towed carts piled high with produce, and the tunnels beneath the buildings squatting on the bridge echoed to their endless passage.

At the mid-point, by the counterbalances which raised and lowered the drawbridge sections, a public pavilion had been constructed on a platform overhanging the waters on the west side, where travelers may wait as ships went through; most of the time it served as a rest-stop, where weary pedestrians could buy ale, breadcakes and sweetmeats, and Derros was there with time to spare. He took a seat and stared out across the vast and languid surface of the river, sparkling in the dayglare, watched boats moving it seemed as far as the eye could see upon the lavender waters, and let his senses drink in the people around him.

The jabber of a dozen languages was as exotic as the rainbow colors of dress familiar and foreign, and soon Derros spotted the guards. Tough men, soldiers by their bearing and the trim of their hair, lounged in civilian garb, robes or shifts and kilts, minding their own business, staring disinterestedly off across the waters or nursing a drink, bored yet with alert eyes…. Gavik could not be far away, and Derros steeled himself to pluck his sword from his shoulder should their truce fail in the slightest.

Soon a shadow moved at his side and he looked up into the tight expression of Gavik. The guardsman was dressed in a robe of burgundy, trimmed with gold thread, a sword at his hip, hood up for anonymity, and he hooked thumbs into his sword belt. His face had always been hard, now it wore an expression of confidence bordering upon arrogance, and Derros winced inwardly, remembering Gavik’s natural skill–the occasions in sword drill when he had ended a sparring match with Gavik’s blade at his throat. A laugh, a slap on the back and they had shared a table in the mess, all forgotten, but that distance between them had always been implicit.

“Thank you for coming. After your showing last night I know I do not have you in any way intimidated.”

“Assassins don’t come cheap,” was the wanderer’s grunt. “Next time they’ll cost you twice as much.” Derros smiled, flint-hard. “Say what you came here to.” His manner was confident but only he was aware of a thrill of uncertainty, for he remembered all too well that Gavik had been the superior swordsman in the academy, long ago. Their ways had diverged and each man today was shaped by his experiences, but which of them, he wondered uncomfortably, really held the upper hand, if sword should meet sword?

“Why is it so important to you?” The question seemed genuine, his expression open. “If you were angling for your position back I could understand it, but by your own admission, you’ve no interest in returning to the Guard. So, what difference does it make?”

Derros sighed through flared nostrils, looked him up and down and took his time. “You’re dishonest, Gavik. You always have been. An ambitious little tanorath-turd who keeps his eye on the main chance. You’ve climbed in society, and good luck to you. But you did it over my back, my reputation, and that’s not acceptable.”

“You agreed to dice for who took the blame.”

“I did.” His eyes were hard as he looked out over the waters, speaking softly below the drone of voices around them. “I lost, I went before the tribunal and took the dismissal. It was only later, much later, when watching master players in a marketplace half way across the land that I realized you cheated.”

Gavik blinked in surprise, not entirely convincingly. “I? Cheat? You malign me, old comrade. My honor is precious to me, and would do nothing to tarnish it.” He smiled thinly, half-shrugged. “And has it been so ill a destiny? The wilderness has clearly been good to you, while the Guard is where I belong. Had I gone and you remained, it would have been a waste on both counts.”

Derros stared up at him for long, difficult moments, the light in his eyes saying there was more to be said on that point, but at last he moved on. “What are you asking me for?”

Gavik would not sit with him, but kept his hands well away from his sword. “I’m asking you to let things be. Don’t spoil it. It was a misdemeanor, few even remember it. And it was in a good cause. Let it be. I have my career, you have the freedom of the world.”

“But I am without an honor, which came to you through falsehood.”

“A man who accuses another of cheating at dice doesn’t have honor to begin with, Derros.” Gavik was very controlled in his speech, as if he had rehearsed this rebuke a thousand times. “Besides, what can it matter? Out there among a million souls who never knew you from the first man to draw breath?”

“It matters to me! And to the family who will no longer even breathe my name, they are so ashamed of what I became!” His voice had not risen but his eyes flashed hate. “This is not right.”

The lieutenant looked around furtively. “What would make it right?” He raised an eyebrow. “Go on, name your price.”

“You’re not above buying your way out of it, now that murder has failed.”

“What’s a little assassination between old comrades?”

“Nothing personal? Just business?”

“One cannot allow sentiment to get in the way of success.” Gavik swung a foot onto a chair and leaned elbow to knee. “Now, what’s it to be? Good coin of the realm? A fine cantabra to ease those dusty feet? A little concubinage of an evening? I’m easy, name it–but don’t get too greedy, there’s a limit to all things.”

“Greed is your art, not mine. I’m only here to clear my name. And if that should happen to see a certain Lieutenant of the Guard fall from favor, well that’s the will of the gods.”

“You’re not entering into the spirit of negotiation,” Gavik said mildly. “You have to work with me, give me something, as I’m willing to give you. The alternative is not attractive. For either of us.”

“What can you threaten me with? You can’t be indiscrete, and discretion was a qualified failure last night.”

“Oh, I can threaten you with the law.” Now the officer’s face was stony. “If you lay out the facts for the tribunal tomorrow I will respond to your accusations as the wild lies of a man desperate to besmirch the honor of an upstanding officer, the whole business a disgrace to the corps. I will call you out, and ask for satisfaction in trial by lappa.” At the unconscious flicker in Derros’s expression he grinned mercilessly. “Yes. I’ve done it before, I know what to expect, I’m not afraid to do it again.”

Derros had seen and done more in the years since he walked away from this city than he could easily recall, and had become accustomed to backing his own skill against the world. But if Gavik had survived the ordeal once already, his cunning was not to be underestimated, and a cascade of thoughts poured through Derros’s mind. Where had his duties taken him? Had he lived the soft life of a palatine officer, let his skills erode in the safety of high position, or did he pride himself on combative prowess and hone those talents relentlessly? As ever, the nature of combat depended on many things under the scintillent heavens of Malovar, all of which were clear only to the gods.

“That’s what awaits you, noble Derros of the high ideals. A fight to the death, not simply against me, but against the most celebrated death-bringer of all Malovar.” He stood back. “Think about it. Think hard. I could take you, back on the training field, and I stand by my skill now. Don’t confuse the events of last night with any reticence to duel. And if tomorrow, you simply don’t appear before that tribunal, I’ll know you made the right choice.”

He stepped back gently, melted into the crowd, his heavies slipped away one by one after him, and Derros folded his arms to stare into the blue distance over the waterway. A challenge was a challenge, and he had expected some deviousness from his old opponent; but trial by lappa was an ancient rite made terrible by reputation, and one he had hoped never to witness, much less take part in. He had encountered lappa in the great, wild wastes and his respect for them was absolute.

He stared long into the glimmer of the waters and did battle with his conscience. Was honor really worth everything?

###

The council chamber of the Palatine was a chill, thinly echoing room of marble and polished granite. It was uncomfortable and unwelcoming, a place of laws and decisions. The three military officers at the elevated bench wore dress uniform, all polished breastplates and flowing cloaks, their hawkish faces made more severe by the morning light from high slit windows whose breeze stirred the long banners of the Royal Guard, to each side of the tribunal.

At the appointed hour, a few military witnesses had assembled, Captain Ramaan among them, a clerk of the court to manage proceedings, but notable among the audience were Lieutenant Gavik, also in dress uniform, and the Princess Therolynn, radiant in a blue gown, a single companion, her Mistress of Chambers, at her side.

At the nod of the presiding officer, the clerk rapped his staff thrice upon the granite flooring and announced in a ringing voice, “ex-Gaurdsman Derros, if he be present, shall approach the bench.”

For a long moment silence reigned, then the strike of a confident tread sounded as Derros entered the chamber from an arched doorway. From the corner of his eye he saw Gavik’s face fall, just for a moment, and was heartened by all he saw there. He marched to the appropriate distance from the tribunal’s desk, halted and rendered a military salute, right fist to left shoulder. He may be a civilian now but there was no taking the service out of the man; he had no wish to alienate the tribunal, and military courtesy cost nothing.

“Ex-Guardsman Derros, responding to summons. May it please the tribunal, I have fresh information to present with regard to my dismissal five years ago.”

“Your case is reopened at the behest of the Princess Therolynn, and approval of His Majesty,” the graying senior officer returned by way of acknowledgment. “As is customary, to avoid prejudice, none of the officers present was involved in your original hearing. I am General Relf, commander of the Household Cavalry, my fellow officers are Colonels Anasta and Bargo.” He nodded right, to a darkly beautiful woman in the uniform of the elite cavalry, and left, to a hard-as-nails career man in the trappings of the Palatine Guards. “We have all thoroughly reviewed the records of your previous hearing and at this point concur with the tribunal’s findings.” He gestured with an open hand. “Ex-Guardsman Derros, please present your new information concerning the events of the night watch of the 23^rd day of the month of Zkauban, the year 2794 of the Tymassian Era.”

Derros let his eyes go around the sparse audience, saw the princess’s impassive face but felt she wanted very much to hear the truth. From Gavik he felt only hate, but his course was set and he gathered his green robe about him as he looked up at the officers. He would never have a better chance to clear his name. “On the night of the 23^rd, I stood midnight to dawn watch, patrolling the corridors and general areas of the Palatine. My companion was then-Guardsman Gavik, and we reported to Senior Sergeant Dalthos. We made our regular circuits, met back at the guardroom every hour, with nothing to report. However, around the four of the morn, an event occurred. At this point, I originally said that I had taken a short rest by the hearth and fallen asleep, and consequently, when I arrived at my patrol area, the royal stables, I’d missed a break-in. Some harness was stolen, nothing very significant, but, as it carried the royal crest, it caused all manner of talk when it appeared on the black market in the city. This brought the Guard into disrepute. All this happened…however, it was Sergeant Dalthos who fell asleep.”

Eyebrows went up around the room and the tribunal shared hard glances.

Derros raised a hand. “I would be the last to tarnish the character of so fine a soldier, and this is why matters unfolded as they did. When Gavik and I returned from our circuits we found Sergeant Dalthos asleep by the fire in the guardroom, and immediately checked his patrol area for that period, finding the break-in and theft. Now, we both considered ourselves in Sergeant Dalthos’s debt, he was the sort of old soldier who looked after new trainees, and had helped us both through the tough realities of soldiering…. We also knew he was unwell–hiding it from day to day–and close to retirement. He and his family would suffer were a man of his seniority disgraced. So Gavik and I conspired to take the blame. As an honorable man, he tried to talk us out of it, but he knew full-well he was ill and promised to repay us any way he could for our service. We diced in the guardroom there and then, I lost, I owned up to the offense, and was dismissed.”

The chamber resonated softly to his words and Derros composed with some effort, it was long since he had needed to speak so eloquently. “We were guilty of concealment of the facts, not dereliction of duty. I left Tymass and wandered the world, but always listened for news, and heard not very long ago that our old comrade had passed away. He can no longer be harmed by his moment of lapse, and this prompts me to bring the information before you now–but there is one other element which demands honor be satisfied. Lieutenant Gavik cheated when we diced for our fate–I didn’t know it at the time, but I do now. I put it to you–had he left our fates to the gods, it may be our roles would have been reversed. Honor cannot be born out of falsehood. All I require is that this be recognized. I seek no more.”

When Derros made the fist salute and stepped back, to place his hands behind his back in regulation manner, the officers of the tribunal sat back and shared troubled expressions. They whispered intently for a few moments, then General Relf beckoned. “Lieutenant Gavik, we will have your comments. You corroborated the original testimony, and unlike this informal session, that hearing was under oath.”

Gavik came to his feet and approached the tribunal, found himself standing a little ahead of Derros. He saluted. “I am willing to take oath at this time, sir.”

The General shook his head. “Unnecessary, we simply want to understand what happened. In your own words.”

Without glancing at Derros, Gavik drew a breath and went into what was probably a rehearsed statement. “The particulars as given by ex-Guardsman Derros are accurate and complete.” A ripple of disbelief went through the audience but he pressed on. “We acted charitably, to conceal the shortcoming of a respected comrade, that he may retire with honor and a clean record to the finish. We understood there would be consequences and agreed to face them, knowing a finding of dereliction of duty would be the end of one career…or the other.” He paused, seemed to steel himself for what came next. “However, sirs, with all due respect, I must strenuously deny the second point. I am a man of honor or I am nothing, and without honor I cannot serve in the Royal Guard.” He paused, glanced for a moment at Derros, and his manner was conciliatory. “Ex-Guardsman Derros has no doubt been through many trials in his years in the wide world, and may well have nursed a grudge from that day to this. Memories can become distorted, or set upon paths more to do with pride than with facts. I do not seek conflict and wish to avoid any shame brought upon the corps, so I will offer my old comrade the opportunity to withdraw his accusation. No foul, no failing.”

His words hung heavy in the cool air and Derros sensed the audience at his back straining for his reply. Would he relent, be shamed by an implicitly groundless allegation, and suffer the stain to his courage of backing away? He looked up into the tribunal’s eyes and saw no judgement, merely pensiveness.

With a faint sigh, he cleared his throat. “I thank Lieutenant Gavik for that consideration, but must renew my accusation. In the year after my dismissal I had the opportunity to observe master dice-players at work and learn the ways one may cheat at the game. I have seen loaded dice, watched the way they fall, and how a master hand can make them favor his luck as destiny never shall. I am more certain than ever that Lieutenant Gavik left nothing whatever to chance on that night, and used my inexperience to secure his position.”

The officers conferred in whispers for a moment, then General Relf gestured to the other man. “Lieutenant? Your response?”

Gavik seemed genuinely regretful, and took his time speaking–masterful acting, Derros felt.

“I do not deny my old comrade believes me to be deceitful, and acts in accord with his own honor. Therefore I must reply in kind. I demand, as is my province, the rite of trial by lappa.”

Now the audience broke into agitated murmurs and the tribunal conferred in hurried whispers. Derros almost felt the princess’s eyes on his back in the difficult moments following, until General Relf once more addressed the chamber. “Lieutenant Gavik, having already endured trial by lappa on one previous occasion, you are fully aware of what is entailed. Few have ever survived it twice, as I’m sure you are also aware. Is ex-Guardsman Derros also cognizant of what is involved?”

Derros’s features were held under iron control. “I am, General.”

“And do you also consent to such trial? You still have the option of withdrawing your allegation, however Lieutenant Gavik also has the right of suit for slander, the penalties for which are also dire.”

“I welcome it,” Derros said with a sudden smile. “For, unlike a game of chance, in which slight of hand can tip the balances, no such deceit will serve my opponent in the lappa-arena. It is the truer test, for now the gods will take a hand, and I am willing to abide by their judgement.”

Relf, Anasta and Bargo conferred once more for a few seconds, then rose. “Then, in accordance with the statutes of Tymass, we are obliged to grant the right of challenge. The parties will surrender themselves to the custody of the Guard, pending the moment of truth.” Relf nodded to the clerk of the court, who rapped his staff three times, and they were committed.

###

The holding cells were chill and spartan, but Derros had no complaints. He waited with the patience he had learned, the stoicism of one whose path is determined. He passed the hours thinking back on the sword-master he had been fated to encounter amid the scorching deserts of the deep south, the old man who had brought him his perspective on life and the world, taught him balance, and he was content.

When a guard came for him he went without question and was only mildly surprised to find himself escorted to the private office of the princess. Gavik also arrived in the custody of another guard–younger men whom Derros had not known in his days in the uniform. The guards stepped out and the two faced the princess across her desk. She was dressed in a plain gown of green, her hair loose, and her deeply beautiful features wore a troubled and disapproving expression.

When they were alone she breathed a displeased sigh. “Trial by lappa. Are you both insane?” The question begged no real answer. “Two men of whom I have the highest regard will do their best to kill each other, while trying not to be killed by a creature which lives to kill.” She spread her hands wide, eyes flashing. “How did your dispute come to this?” Again neither offered comment, and she sighed. “Honor is a cruel task-mistress. It would take from me either the guardsman who has served my family faithfully for many years or the adventurer who saved me from fates worse than death. Or perhaps both. I have never watched such a trial and never wished to, yet you compel me. My prayers would be for you both, but such is rational only before the gods.” She slapped her desk’s polished surface, a gesture of frustration. “Given that the facts have emerged, and the base charge is no longer dereliction of duty, but covering up for another with the noblest intent, an offense which never merited dismissal, I would ask you, as one with vested interest in both, can there be no other resolution?”

Now Derros and Gavik glanced at each other for the first time, the bronzed man of the wastes tight-lipped, hard-eyed, and the officer spoke first, as if the words were extracted with implements of torment. “We see this matter duly distresses Her Highness, and I am sure we both regret this. But we live in a realm of honor, it is the measure of any person, their worthiness to hold a position of trust and respect. My military record is clean, and I recall Derros’s also being spotless until the events of that night.” He smiled faintly, with many troubled glances, avoiding eye contact with the princess. “I brought the challenge…. I would be willing to waive it if Derros withdrew the allegation. I will also give an undertaking, with Your Highness as witness, that I shall take no subsequent action for slander.” He smiled tightly, turning a little toward Derros. “What say you, brother guardsman? Shall we let it be? We can both walk away with our hides intact.”

Now Derros drew a breath of controlled fury and managed a level tone. “You cheated me of position and respect, a role which could have seen me rise far in the military. You cast me out to wander the wastes with the beggars and scum, the bandits and thieves, you’ve enjoyed an upholstered office while I’ve fought in every land from one ocean to the other. You took from me respect, even my own family turned me away as an embarrassment.” Derros looked him up and down like some curious specimen. “If all this had been the whim of fate I would have accepted it stoically, but it was not, it was your whim, for your reasons. We were once fellow guardsmen but there is now no shred of similarity between us. You are a thief, a murderer and a liar.” His words brought a soft intake of breath from the princess, a narrowing of Gavik’s eyes. “I shall not even mention the events of two nights ago.” He balled his right fist. “This hand is used to contest in bloody earnest, unless I miss my guess yours has known only parade ground and drill hall. Trial by lappa? I welcome it.” He eyed the princess. “I regret if I dismay you, Your Highness, but our paths crossed very late in the course of my life. My loyalty to you and the crown has never been in question, but my hatred for this man has grown a day at a time since the moment I learned he had given fate a helping hand.”

“Which I heard Gavik deny to open court.” Therolynn sat back, her dark eyes going from one to the other, then she sighed. “So be it. You make a grievous allegation, Derros, of which I assume there is no evidence the tribunal would accept. Trial by ordeal is all that remains, and the mere fact Gavik was so swift to offer it makes me wonder if those charges might hold substance. A victory for him in the arena, and they die with his accuser.” She eyed the lieutenant with a cold, distant look. “Well, we shall see which way the gods are disposed.”

Derros glanced once at Gavik, knowing the next time they would see each other would be in mortal combat, and saw, through the officer’s iron control, at least a thread of genuine doubt–indeed fear. Gavik had always hedged his bets, but how he would do so this time Derros could not imagine–which troubled him more than the prospect of combat itself.

###

When a priest visited Derros in his holding cell he accepted the benediction for his soul on behalf of the gods of Malovar, high Yarrodan first among them; yet in his heart he had made his compact with eternity, and should his still young life end this day, he was as accepting of the inevitability as in any back-alley scrap. Indeed, better it should be here and now, with purpose, than in some base contest for mere survival.

He sat calmly, done the honor of a soldier’s cloak over the stamped leather harness, grieves and forearm guards, the boots and helmet of a royal guardsman, a uniform he had never expected to wear again. But, should his original conviction be seen as even suspicious, his commission may in fact not technically be annulled, thus the loan was appropriate. His sword waited for him in official care.

The silence was oppressive, and only the square of light from a high window moving across the wall as morning aged told him the passage of the hours. He knew the lappa challenge was always enacted at noon, and rested in a meditative state, thinking back upon his journeys, the adventures that had made him strong, bred in him wisdom beyond his years, culminating with his rescue of the princess not long ago at the temple of Azt’nyr, god of the great silver apes…. The fates had given him the weapon he needed, royal favor, and from that moment all roads had lead to this cell, this fight, this destiny.

He was ready.

He had been briefed on what to expect, the layout of the arena, the nature of the conflict. He and Gavik would enter from opposite sides, and would have mere moments in which to position themselves before the beast was introduced to the combat space. His objectives were twofold–to take down his opponent and to avoid the ravenous lappa. Should the lappa take down either man, the duel was decided in favor of the other by the will of the gods. The rules were simple enough.

Time, as ever, was the enemy, for it gave him space to think, and for old doubts to return. Did he underestimate Gavik’s current skills, or had his years as a battler in the wilds more than redressed any shortcomings he may once have had? This was the question he lay before the gods, and left it to them, and was thenceforth gnawed by only a single doubt–had Gavik actually cheated? As the contest drew near at least some of his certainty seemed to fade, and he wondered if he besmirched a man simply better than himself, and whom, if he fought with right on his side, may very well defeat an unjust upstart. And even should Derros emerge victorious, would he do so in fact over the bones of an honest man?

No, his deepest convictions whispered to him. He is guilty as all sin. His first thought was to hire assassins, not thugs, not ruffians, but murderers. Oh, he is guilty.

As noon approached he readied himself in body and mind, quieted his misgivings with a warrior’s fatalism, and when the cell door was thrust back by a stern-faced Guard sergeant he rose and nodded calmly. He was escorted through a torch-lit passage at the end of which a soldier waited with his weapons, presenting twin daggers and sword with ceremonial precision. Derros doffed his cloak, unsheathed the sword and left the encumberment of the scabbard in the passage, flipped the blade about his wrist a couple of times and drew a deep breath.

For the benefit of the combatant, a diagram of the chamber was attached to the inside of the great door, and he studied it in the moments he had. The sunken arena was circular, a long bow-shot across, rimmed with sandstone walls the height of three tall men and capped with a ceiling of fused crystal riding a ring of massive support pillars about a third of the way in. At the heart lay a shaft leading down to the lappa pens, and surrounding this by five strides of combat space and radiating like the spokes of a wheel, was an evenly spaced ring of twelve pairs of stone walls, half the height of the crystal roof, into which a man may fit but not a lappa. This was the heart of the battle, for here was the warrior’s only means to evade the beast.

Yet, should both men take cover between the same walls they would find too little space to cross swords, and to hold each other at sword’s length would put one or both within reach of the lappa; they could switch to daggers yet whomever put up his sword first to snatch free the short blade would die on the other’s long point. Two men could not effectively hide from the beast in the same cover.

They waited, a minute or so seemed a year in length, then a horn sounded from afar and the sergeant nodded. The stout bronze door was thrust back and he stepped into the brilliance of noon on a floor of hard-packed tan, and took in the arena as the portal was closed and barred behind him.

No cheering multitudes rose away in ranks of seating, this was a place of private challenge. As he had noted on the diagram, the chamber was circular, wide, its walls unclimbable. On the crystal ceiling waited the judges and witnesses, looking down upon the struggle, their backs to the hard sky with its slash of the ringplane and flare of the sun. In the centre of the chamber the pit plunged into darkness, and around it, in a geometrically perfect circle, the paired walls rose gauntly.

On the far side of the chamber, between the defensive walls, Gavik stood in uniform armor, sword in hand, and as if at some unheard cue he bolted for the paired walls, making a fast sprint around the outside of the ring. Derros matched him, sprinting toward his approach as he heard the grind of gears and winches and knew a platform was rising through the dark shaft at the heart, and upon it was a thing from nightmare.

He met Gavik just outside the ring of paired protective walls in a flurry of blows, the clash and scrape of swordsteel, and they hacked at each other like men possessed until a terrible bellow broke from the pit and dust rose in a spray from rending claws as the lappa bounded free. The monstrosity came on hard, darting for the men, and Gavik whirled away into the cover of a pair of walls, Derros going the opposite way to find his own cover in the next pair.

Derros made his ground and heard a snarling and flailing as the creature ripped at the walls around Gavik, and dared a brief glance around the end of the barriers. His blood ran cold at the sight–this was a mature specimen, four times longer than a man was tall from the tip of its brutish jaws to that of its long and muscular tail. It stood tall as a man at the shoulder, went upon four limbs which seemed forged form spring steel, giving it a bounding energy that defied its bulk. The hide was finely scaled but for a ruff of coarse fur around the stout and massive neck, colored for camouflage in the deserts, though as this one’s hunting instincts spiked a flush of scarlet excitement appeared along the line of the spine. The head was a vision from nightmare, eyes like black coals set beneath heavily scaled brow-ridges, nostrils flaring at the end of a ridged nasal arch, while the jaws were lined with serrated, blade-like teeth and driven by massive musculature.

It reached a taloned paw between the walls, stretching for its prey, and dodged back a moment later to glance around, and eyes from hell burned into Derros above jaws that could crunch the heaviest bone, crowned with stabbing, saber canines. The monster sprang in a shower of dirt and Derros dodged back into protection a moment before the slavering killer reached a powerful limb after him, and only the sixth sense of a true warrior warned him—Derros knew Gavik had the experience, and that the safest kill was to send one’s opponent onto the fangs of the beast. Waiting for the beast to be on the far side of the walls from his own perspective, and taking his life in his hands, the guardsman would sprint from his own covering walls to the inner end of those protecting Derros, relying on the prospect of the beast consuming his opponent’s attention.

But when he did so Gavik found a sword point extended at his face in the narrow cleft, Derros ignoring the lappa whose talons flailed just short of his flesh. The reach of the blade kept Gavik out of the protective space and the lappa saw him in the same moment. Abandoning Derros, it came down the outside of the wall. The expression in Gavik’s eyes told all, for it seemed to Derros he had fully expected to make the kill in that instant, bowling his opponent into the beast and taking the cover for himself, and he barely made his ground, the lappa leaving deep scratches through the leather at his back as he flung himself into the protection of the next pair of walls.

Who invented this sick game? Derros wondered as he listened to the lappa snarling and hissing, its talons raking the stone. He paused to pant and looked up to find the tribunal and witnesses–the princess among them–standing above on the crystal ceiling, silhouetted against the sky. They would see everything from up there, each parry and thrust, each tactic; once in the arena there were no rules except to live.

Derros glanced at the central pit. It was a good four strides wide, likely too far for a man to jump but child’s play for the lappa. The platform was withdrawn deep once battle was joined, so to be caught by foe or beast on the inside of the ring of radial walls was to fight with one’s back to a lethal drop. There was more room to maneuver on the outer edge of the ring, but the wall pairs were further apart, it took longer to dive from cover to cover. Neither was perfect, and if either warrior was ever to strike at his opponent he must take risks.

Too much thinking could kill a man in here. The sense of impending doom made Derros drop into a crouch at the last possible moment before a great paw scythed down from above, dealing him a resounding thud on the helmet, and he looked up to find the beast straddling the walls, reaching down between them, it’s hunger terrible to behold. “Patience,” he whispered grimly, “I’ll either deal you a meal or end your fast another way entirely.” He could try for a strike at those massive limbs, but to mis-time it may cost him his blade, or an arm.

Gavik would be on the move. To strike at the man, he must brave the lappa, and as Derros crouched, stared up at the ravening jaws, felt the hot, stinking breath on his face and the drip of spittle as it strained its great head down between the protective masonry, he sprang into the oblique thought this three-sided contest demanded. Gavik would be watching the lappa, move when its attention was firmly on Derros, close in–strike even a passing blow that would slow his opponent’s reflexes and enable the beast to finish the job—yet find a way to survive those dreadful claws in the process. Where was he now? Just one pair of walls away?

Terrible as the game may be, there was strange beauty in it, a balance between human and animal aggression. The abstraction of honor was weighed against base hunger, to pursue one was to risk the other: how much did the aggrieved parties really value their pride? In the end, Gavik had far more to lose than Derros, far more to prove, and took the greater chance.

As if from nowhere, Derros found Gavik’s swordpoint skittering from the greaves at his shins as he reached in from the corner of the wall, left an angry red line by his right knee, but in that moment the lappa spotted Gavik and turned lithely atop the walls to swipe a great paw in his direction. Derros fell on his back, blade presented in great clearing sweeps, then, ignoring the white sting at his knee he rose in a blur and drove his sword vertically into the distracted lappa’s belly.

With a howling screech the creature spasmed, shook from nose to tail and lost its footing, tumbled from the walls to a heavy impact and writhed around its wound, mortal but not a swift passing. Its death throes were terrible to hear as it tired, bleeding out badly, and Derros came around the outer end of the walls, approached from its blind side, and reversed his blade to do the stricken creature the mercy.

Sword silenced heart in a great plunge and the monster froze in a rictus before its breath sighed away and it relaxed into death. Derros eyed Gavik, who crouched frozen with shock by the inner end of the walls, as he jerked the blade free, then the outcast stabbed a finger at the open area beyond the ring of walls. “Over there,” he grunted, panting. “Time to finish it.”

No more trickery, no more tactics, now it was man against man. The wound did not seem to be slowing Derros, though blood was an ugly stain down his leg. The pair made their way silently to the wide, dirt area between the cover walls and the great, curving outer wall of the chamber, aware of the shadows of the witnesses moving with them. They recovered their breath, waited as eyes locked and personalities warred.

“Your choice,” Derros murmured, sure those above would never hear. “Take the penalty for concealing the facts, whatever it may be. Admit to cheating in the draw, and face the consequences. But keep your life.”

“To admit it would be to hand away respect,” Gavik gritted out. “To be turned away from the society of which I am a part. I’ve worked very hard to build a reputation these last years, and it seems your life is the price of keeping it.” He glanced up at the witnesses and lowered his voice, though he knew they would not be overheard, a bitter smile twisting his lips. “And I, son of a patriarch, am under no obligation to explain myself to you, son of gods-know-who from the shipyards of Tymass.” He flipped his blade in a bright arc and came to a ready position.

No other word passed between them and when they came in hard their swords moved in a flicker of sparks from the noonday sun. Their chiming contact rang through the chamber and sand scuffed about their boots as they maneuvered, breath coming hard now. Sweat itched under their harnesses and time seemed to slow, a moment became an hour as effort met effort, cut and parry, stroke and evade–on and on with barely a pause.

Unlike their first brief contact, they now had time to sense each other’s skill, and Derros smiled tightly–Gavik may have always been his superior in the standard dueling forms but he had encountered too few opponents in earnest, and never the gutter-fights that had been Derros’s stock in trade. Classical technique was one thing, reading one’s foe was another, and abruptly Gavik was an open book.

Yet, in the end, the fates had their moment. Derros almost heard their laughter as sweat ran from under Gavik’s helmet into his eyes, momentarily blinding him, so he failed in a parrying stroke and Derros’s sword point plunged cleanly to his throat above the rim of his breastplate. He collapsed to his knees with an awful coughing of redness, pawing at his open flesh, sword tumbling from his grasp, and looked up at Derros against the hard lilac sky, the ring of witnesses framing him strangely. Derros wielded his blade two-handed to end his suffering and in sudden silence Gavik pitched forward in the tan.

Derros drew a long, unsteady breath, and drove his sword into the dirt at his side, eased off his helmet and dropped it at his feet. In that moment he was uncertain if justice was sweet or as bitter as anything he could imagine, and he stood looking down at his old comrade through grimly slitted eyes until he heard the door unbarred and the Guardsmen approached at a run.

###

Evening light thickened over the garden of the Palatine and the rings and moons of Malovar glowed with their spectral silver hue, bringing false day to the pendulous fruit of the ulpar trees, and the slowly gesturing blossoms of flowers which opened only to the night.

Derros sat at a bench under the luminous sky, clad in his green robe, his leg doctored and bandaged. He seemed to have waited a lifetime for this day and now it was done he was unsure how to feel. Satisfaction was real, but whither was he bound? Public notice reversing his dismissal had been promised, in effect honor was restored, but he knew better than any he could not easily set aside the last five years. So he sat and brooded, and at last allowed himself to appreciate the beauty of the not-dark night, and let tomorrow come in its own way.

Shortly he had company and found the Princess Therolynn sinking onto the bench at his side. He made to rise but she waved aside the courtesy. “Derros, my friend.” Her tone made it clear things were no longer as they had been between them. “I have no stomach for spectacles such as I witnessed today. I am aggrieved that a settlement could not be found that did not include blood and death.” She sighed, disappointed. “Make no mistake, I have taken my warrior’s training and if pressed to it, will turn a blade against foes, as you saw me do at least once on our long journey home, and as surely as any other under those rings. But duels of honor are the most pointless way to die.” She was silent a few moments. “I have made inquiries. Two nights ago a duel was fought on the rooftops of the old city, of the very building where an outlander took a room the day after we returned from the wilds…. Was that the event to which you referred in my office?” At his grudging nod she sat back, folding her hands. There seemed more she might say but she sufficed to sigh. “Nothing about this business ultimately surprises me, and if asked to judge I would say justice was served in the end.”

“He cheated gods and fates,” Derros murmured. “They don’t like that.”

“Just so. One might say his scheming from that day forth lead him in an unbroken line, to this.” She shook dark tresses. “I’m sorry it had to end as it did, but I have come to feel what regard I had for Lieutenant Gavik was quite misplaced.” A last sigh through the nostrils and she set it behind her. “Let that be in the past. We have the future to consider. Where will you go, Derros of Farnor?”

“I have not thought that far ahead. Long have I concentrated on a day that seemed it would never come, and now it has gone by I am at a loss.”

“Then we can offer you some options. My father is satisfied with your contest and the report of the tribunal. He feels you a man of honor, and martial skill beyond question.” She locked dark eyes upon Derros’s in the mystic night. “First, he would offer you Gavik’s position. It must be filled, and as a past Guardsman you are welcome back, with record unstained.”

The big swordsman smiled thinly and at last shook his mane. “I thank His Majesty for the offer, but I cannot see myself returning to the old life. Five years my own man has changed me and I would take ill to parades and inspections.”

“I was confident that would be your answer. So instead, I make you a counter offer. Be my bodyguard.”

Now Derros’s eyebrows went up and he grunted in surprise. “Bodyguard? What would be involved?”

“Do what you did from the Temple of Azt’nyr, all the way home. Not a member of the guard, but present, an eye over me and my family, at my side when my duties call me away from Tymass.” She studied his face, found a spark of interest. “Give it some thought, we shall speak of it on the morrow. I hope you shall see yourself remaining in great Tymass, at least for the foreseeable future.” She squeezed his arm softly in the twilight and he rose as she took her leave.

He stood in the gently whispering night and looked at the lights of towers and cupolas all around, felt the great mass of the city below the palatine hill, and wondered at the strange fates that brought life full circle. Perhaps it was for the best–from the moment he recognized her in Sharnek’s encampment he had known he would gladly give his life to save hers.

Perhaps he should do so professionally.

With a grin and a short bark of laughter, he turned for the palace, where a steward waited to show him to a room for the night, and knew in his heart what he would tell the princess when dawn’s light came sliding up from the east over the shining rings of Malovar.

 

THE END

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Mike Adamson holds a PhD in archaeology from Flinders University of South Australia. After early aspirations in art and writing, Mike returned to study and secured degrees in both marine biology and archaeology. Mike currently lectures in anthropology, is a passionate photographer, a master-level hobbyist and journalist for international magazines. Recent sales include to the anthologies Mind Candy Vol, I, Temporal Fractures and Future Visions Vol. 3, and the magazines Daily SF, Compelling Science Fiction and Nature Futures. Mike has placed approaching seventy stories to date.