Elvenborn

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—

—and oddly enough, Lord Marthien.

'By the blood of our Ancestors, Lyon, I haven't seen a better fight in decades!' Lord Marthien shouted, as Kyrtian banished the weapons, and Kaeth offered his now free hand to Gel to help him up. 'It's worth losing the challenge to have seen it!' He turned his attention briefly to the arena, and waved graciously at Gel. 'Well fought, boy! I couldn't have had a better champion!'

He gathered up the remains of his entourage, and in amaz­ingly good humor, led them out.

Kaeth and Gel left the arena in a similar state of accord, and Lord Wyvarna made his way to the area of seating where Lord Lyon still stood, clearly in a high flood of euphoria. After a mo­ment of hesitation, Kyrtian followed to join them.

When he reached them, he found them involved in a rehash of the combat, but Lord Lyon broke off when he noticed Kyrt-ian's approach.

'Well, you impudent young puppy, you were right and I was wrong!' Wyvarna exclaimed, laughing. He showed Kyrtian a friendly face for the first time since he'd entered the arena. 'An­cestors ! That old fool Marthien was right for the first time in his life—even if I'd been the one who lost, I'd have thought it was worth it to have seen a fight like that!'

He shook his head, and now that he was closer, Kyrtian real­ized that Wyvarna was much older than he had thought. It was often difficult to tell the age of an Elvenlord, but a hint of lines at the corners of his eyes, and a certain sharpening of the tips of his ears indicated that he was older than Lord Lyon. If Lord Marthien was just as old—

Then I've gotten myself two very well-entrenched allies; maybe not as powerful as Lord Lyon, but certainly respected by the Council. This is coming out better than I dared hope!

'And I think it was just as well that it never came to a chal­lenge with young Kyrtian, here, hmm?' Lord Lyon asked, slyly. 'Given how well his bodyguard fought—what must his trained fighters be like?'

Kyrtian's respect for Lord Lyon rose a notch. He's remind­ing Wyvarna that this could have been very expensive—and he's making sure that Wyvarna will spread the word. So al­though I might be considered a dolt, I'm a dolt no one will want to challenge.

Lord Wyvarna gave an exaggerated shudder, and laughed again. 'Damn me if you aren't right about that! His men would have cut mine to pieces without even breathing hard!' He clapped Kyrtian on the back, hard, trying to make him stagger. Kyrtian, who had been expecting something of the sort, braced himself and stood firm, smiling.

'It was a pleasure to show you the secret I discovered, my lords,' he replied blandly. 'Of all the things I dislike the most, waste is highest on the list, and there is no reason other than losses in a real battle to have to replace a gladiator or a fighting-slave before his time. Humans are hardly difficult to breed, but it takes time and resources to train them, resources that could more sensibly be put to other uses! Besides, if we keep killing

the strongest and cleverest of our breeding-slaves, what do you think we'll end up with? These techniques are quite easy to learn, and even easier to apply; if you can set a collar-spell, you can create these training conditions.'

Wyvarna gave a half smile, and glanced over at Lord Lyon. 'Then I expect we'll be getting a mandate from the Council about using them shortly, eh, Lyon?'

'I believe that you can count on that, Wyvarna,' Lord Lyon replied, just as blandly as Kyrtian.

Wyvarna coughed, and then shrugged. 'Well, times change, and the ones who won't change with them are fools,' he said to no one in particular. 'I'll be off; Marthien will be sending his conciliation-party, and I should be