Elvenborn

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.

Kyrtian ignored the comment—and ignored the fact that the spectators were leaving, one by one, grumbling. He had Lord Lyon's attention, and he was not going to give it up. 'I am well aware that many consider my interest in the past to be eccen­tric,' he continued, 'but because of that interest, I have learned at least one of the secrets lost when we passed the Gate from Evelon. I know how the Ancestors conducted their duels-of-honor and their training sessions—how they taught and prac­ticed combat without pulling blows, without using blunted weapons, yet without spilling blood. Didn't it ever occur to you that they must have had some way to learn sword-work them­selves without risking hurt? After all, unlike us—' here he looked down his nose at the young Lords around him with a bland expression '—they engaged in sword-duels themselves, and not by proxy. Their method is what I use to train my own fighters. Furthermore, I give every able-bodied human on my properties a basic training in fighting-skills, against the day that they may need to defend the manor until my real fighters can come to their rescue!'

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