Elvenborn

He of the azure serpent replied with a gruff, 'Aye' while he of the white alicorn simply nodded.

'Very well,' Aelmarkin said calmly. 'Let the record show that both agree to be bound by the outcome here below us. Let all who ye assembled here so bear witness.'

'We so bear witness,' came a chorus of voices, some indif­ferent, sxjme full of tense excitement. A hush came over them; all whispers and movement stopped. So profound was the si­lence that the slightest rustle of fabric came as a shock.

As if this had been a signal, the fighters below tensed.

Aelmarkin surveyed the two opposed lines of fighters for a moment, an odd smile on his lips. 'Very well,' he said at last, into the stillness. 'Begin.'

Kyrtian's full attention immediately turned to the arena. The two lines of fighters leapt at each other, hurling themselves across the sand to meet in a clangor of metal and harsh male shouts. The noise echoed inside the arena, making Kyrtian wince involuntarily. Added to the noise of fighting was the clamor of shouts and cheers behind him and to either side of him, as the onlookers cheered the combatants on.

Kyrtian was still trying to figure out how Aelmarkin intended to score this combat, when the swordsman nearest him man­aged to beat down his opponent's guard and laid open the other's sword-arm from shoulder to wrist with a single blow.

The rnan screamed, and dropped to his knees, a torrent of shockingly scarlet blood pouring from the wound into the sand as his blade fell from his slack fingers.

For one moment, Kyrtian was startled by how realistic the wound was—then he realized that it wasn't 'realistic,' it was real.

He felt as if someone had rammed him in the midsection and knocked all the breath out of him. He started to shake, as a wave of sick horror twisted his throat and stomach.

It's real—it's real. They're trying to really kill each other.

They 're dying, and all so a couple of idiots can settle an argu­ment! Senseless— useless—insane!

Then, strangely, it all dissolved under a flood of blinding rage. He lost caution, lost focus, lost everything except the will to make it all stop. He rose abruptly to his feet.

'No!' he shouted, spreading his arms wide, his voice some­how carrying above the noise of combat. His powers, leaping to answer his will, poured out; an angry and violent burst of magic tore out of him.

It flung the combatants to their own sides of the arena, and dropped every man in the arena to his knees— except the in­jured one, who was frantically trying to close his gaping wound with his good hand.

The sudden silence, heavy with anger, seemed louder than his shout.

For a moment, no one moved—no one seemed able to be­lieve what he had done.

Then in an instant, both of the Great Lords turned to stare at him with an anger as overwhelming as his. Kyrtian felt the weight of that anger, all of it directed solely at him, and came to his senses with a start.

This might have been a tactical error.. . .

The lord of the white alicorn was the first to rise from his seat; there was lightning in his gaze and thunder in his voice as he addressed, not Kyrtian, but his cousin.

'Aelmarkin,' the Elvenlord said, enunciating each syllable with care, 'I trust you did not anticipate this?'

Aelmarkin also rose, and his voice fairly dripped apology and concern. 'Good my lord, I assure you, I had no idea that my cousin would indulge in such bizarre behavior! I do apolo­gize, I would never have invited him if—'

Kyrtian, who had been staring down at the wounded fighter, now being aided by one of his companions, felt fury overcome his good sense again; he swung around to face his cousin, twist­ing his lips into a snarl, a red haze settling across his vision.

'Bizarre behavior? Bizarre? I call it sanity—stopping utterly senseless and wanton waste! What—'

'Waste?' shouted the other feuding lord, furiously, the ice in

his voice freezing Kyrtian's words in his throat. 'Waste? What do you know of waste, you impudent puppy? You provincial id­iot, who let you in among civilized beings? I—'

'I apologize again, my lords,' Aelmarkin protested, waving his hands about frantically. 'Please, take your seats and the combat can resume—'

'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.