Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [132]
Skylan was a “pradus,” which Keeper had described as a kind of chief. Being pradus, Skylan was the only “piece” permitted to fight the opposing pradus for control of the fire in the center of the field. Unfortunately, getting to the center was no easy task. Skylan could not simply walk over there (as he had tried yesterday and been knocked on his butt). According to the rules, he could not move to any square without being accompanied by another “piece.” And for some reason, if an opposing piece came between him and the fire, he had to move back to the “touchstone,” one of the six boulders.
Skylan had only the vaguest idea what he was doing and why he was doing it. The other Torgun were equally bad, equally confused. And instead of standing firm, concentrating on the foe.
All he could see was Garn’s face and the faces of all those men who had died because of him. Like vipers, they uncoiled, hissed at him. . . .
The clang of metal on metal broke the spell. Slaves hauled handcarts filled with weapons out onto the field. Keeper ordered his players to choose a weapon and a shield.
Skylan gazed glumly at the collection of swords the slaves placed on the ground. All the weapons were designed to be used in the game, which meant—according to Keeper—that they were made for show. They looked well to the audience, but the blades were of poor quality with blunted edges.
Skylan picked up a sword—the best of a bad lot. All players were supposed to use the same type of weapons, but Keeper had explained that the champion players were permitted to fight with weapons of good quality, which they had specially made for them. The referees turned a blind eye.
Skylan hefted his sword, noting the poor balance, and was about to turn away when he stopped to stare at the pile of weapons more closely. He had seen one of the weapons before. The sword was Aylaen’s, given to her by the Goddess Vindrash. He looked at Keeper in astonishment.
“She fights for her goddess,” Keeper said. “It is right that she should use the sword the goddess gave to her.”
Aylaen stared straight at the sword, but made no move to pick it up. The sword had been long neglected when Aylaen had found it in the Hall of Vindrash. She had been proud of it. Skylan remembered her cleaning it with loving care, spending days rubbing the blade with oil and sand to remove the rust, polishing it with a soft cloth.
“What is the matter with the female?” Keeper asked, scowling. “I took a great risk smuggling that sword from the storage room for her.”
The ogre picked up the sword and tossed it into the ground at Aylaen’s feet. The blade struck point first in the dirt and stood there, quivering.
“A fine sword,” he said loudly. “Suited to a female’s hand.” He lowered his voice. “Take it! Do not offend your goddess.”
“I have already offended the goddess,” Aylaen said. “I will not further offend her by using her sword.”
Aylaen picked up an axe. She was good with the sword, not nearly so good with an axe.
“Say something to her!” Keeper told Skylan.
“Don’t waste your breath,” Aylaen warned. “I won’t use the sword. Vindrash would curse me if I touched it. You don’t know, Skylan. You don’t know what I have done!”
The trumpet sounded, calling the players to the game.
Keeper, shaking his head, picked up the goddess’s sword and flung it back onto the pile.
CHAPTER
5
* * *
BOOK THREE
At Keeper’s direction, the players lined up on the sidelines. He was about to describe to them the opening moves when Sigurd, hearing the trumpet, hefted his axe and ran onto the field.
“Arsehole, get back!” Keeper yelled, and stormed out after him. “Back to the sidelines, you dolt!”
Sigurd stopped and looked around. “Me? What the hell is wrong?” he asked, astonished.