Elyon had said all he was going to say. He could barely even think straight for the pain blazing in his shoulder and arm. “I’ve told you everything, Mallister. Everything. The whole truth. Do with it what you will.” He raised his blade. “Now let’s finish this.”
The Emerald Guard shook his head, hesitating. “You can’t fight on without your sword arm. You’re important, Elyon. You need attention.”
Elyon Daecar scoffed. “So now I’m important? What about the hundred others who could bear the Windblade as well as me?” He didn’t care to hear what Mallister said to that, and wasn’t about to let this cursed crowd get the better of him either. He bull-rushed the man, charging, swinging wildly, as Mallister Monsort reared backward, swatting Elyon’s strikes aside. A hack at the lower legs missed, and a swing for his left arm as well, but all that put Mallister off balance and Elyon saw his chance, driving forward for his knees to tackle him to the floor.
The men tumbled onto the sand in a knot of limbs, plate scraping against plate, all grunts and curses. Laughter stormed through the crowd like a gale. Elyon didn’t care. If this is how they like to duel here, so be it. The men were evenly matched in size, though Elyon had the momentum and managed to get himself on top of his opponent. First blood, he thought, as he threw a fist into Monsort’s face, trying to split a lip or bust his nose. The Emerald Guard twisted his neck in time. Elyon’s fist hit the side of his helm, glancing, punching right into the ground.
The thrust threw him off balance, and Monsort heaved at the hips, throwing him off him, then scrambled back up to his feet. Both of them had lost their blades during the tussle. Monsort saw his lying nearby, and ran for it. Elyon leapt up and gave chase, pain throbbing through his right arm. Monsort reached his blade in time, picked it up, turned and slashed at once. Elyon juddered to a halt, pulling away, the tip of the steel swishing past. He roared and rushed again, lungs burning, swinging for Monsort’s face. Another glancing blow, as the man shifted sideways, and forward Elyon Daecar went, his momentum taking him to the ground.
He landed with a puff of dust and grit, the wind punched out of him. The crowd were roaring, laughing at him. Laughing! He gasped for air, pushing himself up to his knees, but his right arm gave way and he collapsed right back down. More laughter. Horrid, humiliating laughter. Then a huge great triumphant roar rang out, louder than everything that had come before, and the sound of men shouting out, “’Monsort! Monsort! Monsort!”
Elyon rolled over, wheezing. The skies above were a hard blue, the air chill and crisp in his lungs, the sun rising in the east. He crunched at the waist, sitting up, then laboured to stand, and saw Sir Mallister Monsort standing before him. “It’s over, Elyon,” the Emerald Guard said.
Elyon plodded forward, shaking his head. “No…not yet. I’m not done with you yet, Monsort.”
“It’s over,” the knight repeated. He gestured to Elyon’s left leg. “Look for yourself.”
Elyon didn’t look. I can’t lose to him. He kept on coming, step by painful step. The crowd were in uproar, rotting fruit spattering on the ground. He felt them pelting the sand behind him, and one hit him in the back, bursting.
“Look, damn you! You’re cut. It’s done.”
Elyon glanced down, saw the blood trickling down his leg from a shallow cut on his thigh. He must have inflicted it while he was down. I never even felt it, he thought.
“You were lying, then,” Mallister said.
Elyon looked up at him, mouth twisting in disbelief. “Lying?”
“About Mel.” The man pointed at the blood. “Let the gods decide, we agreed. And there it is. The red truth.”
The red truth, Elyon thought. A fury was rising in him, red as well. “You’re hopeless, Monsort, truly. Even now, you can’t let it lie.” He had held his tongue before, but no longer. “The bard has bedded Amilia, a dozen times I’ve heard,” he spat. “He was there last night, when I left. I could hear them through the walls. Gods, you really think she could ever love you? You?” And he laughed. “No, it was Aleron she loved, Aleron who your sister killed. She’s mocking you, you fool. She and Gold-Tongue laugh about you every night. Mallister Monsort, the pretty blond bedwarmer. The craven who shies away from battle, and bawls over his dead sister every night…”
Those were the last words that escaped the lips of Elyon Daecar. Monsort’s fist came swinging, striking Elyon in the side of the helm, crashing into his jaw. The impact was powerful and sent him reeling, the sound of steel ringing out across the yard.
The last thing Elyon remembered was the mob, the roar of that loud baying mob, laughing…
…and the agony in his shoulder, throbbing.
22
The heat was unbearable.
We should have stayed on the Capital Road, she thought.
To either side, rugged rocky cliffs rose up a dozen metres high, creating a canyon through which they rode. Half of the Matian Way was like this, she had found. A hundred mile ride down a windless red ravine with nary a breath of air to cool them.
“I’m going to die,” Leshie moaned. She was leaning forward in the saddle of her rouncey, head swaying from side to side as the poor horse laboured on. Their pace had reached that of a slug. They had to stop often, so the horses could rest, and they hadn’t passed a stream in two days. The sunwolves and starcats were not faring any better. Even the camels were starting to struggle, and that said it all.
“You’re not going to die, Leshie. We’ll be out of this canyon soon.”
“How soon? How do you know? It’s gone on forever. It feels like it’ll never end.” She slumped forward, almost falling from the saddle. Saska had to reach out and pull her back up.
“Stop being so dramatic. We’re all suffering the same as you are.”
“No. You’re half Aramatian. It’s in your blood to handle heat like this, same as the others. Only Squire and Coldheart have it as bad as me, but even them…” She shook her head. “I grew up in North Tukor, Saska. North Tukor. The coldest, most miserable place in all the world. I’m not born for this.”
“I grew up in North Tukor as well. Me and Del…”
“You grew up in Broadway, and then Ethior. They’re both south of the Clearwater, same as Willow’s Rise. Proper North Tukor is north of the Clearwater.” She gave her a look. “Everyone knows that.”
Saska sighed. She had no energy for this fight. “Fine. You win. You have it worse than anyone, Leshie. Are you satisfied?”
“I’ll be satisfied when we get out of this cursed canyon. How much longer can it go on for?”
At this pace, days, Saska thought. To call it a gentle trot would be an insult to trotting, though she had been assured by Sunrider Alym Tantario that the cliffs would shallow soon enough and the plains would open out. They might get some wind, then, or at least a bit of breeze. And water, she thought. If we don’t find a working well or water source soon…
She had barely any mental energy to take that thought to conclusion, and had reached her limits with Leshie’s whining too. She gave her chestnut courser a kick, spurring the mare up the lines. The Wall was lumbering along at the front atop Bedrock, his enormous, indefatigable warhorse. Beside him, Sunrider Tantario rode his sunwolf Santarinio, a noble beast of calm disposition, gold-maned with silver streaks. Saska had half expected Bedrock to have collapsed by now beneath Sir Ralston’s great weight, but the old warhorse seemed better equipped than others to handle the heat. He just keeps on going, that one. Much like the giant on his back.
“Leshie says she’s going to die,” Saska said to the two men.
Tantario raised a mild smile. “She will live, my lady. We will be free of this canyon soon, and there is a river ahead where we can bathe. When night comes, we may even feel a little cold. It is always much cooler beyond this canyon.”
The Wall was watching the top of the cliffs, wary, eyes moving left and right. Given the heat, Saska and the others had seen no option but to shed their armour, stashing it in their saddle bags, if it would fit, or tying it in rope and laying it over their horse’s back, to clatter and rattle as they went. They had some packhorses with them too who toiled with the rest of their gear.
Half these poor horses will die of exhaustion by the time we’re done, Saska thought. Given the pace they were setting, she had chosen to walk often so as not to overburden her steed, and many of the others had done the same. The Wall had not been happy about any of that, though. Not the slow pace. Not the walking. And certainly not the fact that they had removed most of their armour. In order to keep him at least somewhat appeased, Saska still wore the fine breastplate that Prince Robbert had given her, but the rest…no. I’d walk along naked if I could.
“What exactly are you looking for?” she asked the giant, as he continued to watch the top of the cliffs. “Dragons? Patriots? Is there a tribe of dangerous desert people out here that I’m not aware of?”
