Chapter Thirty-five

28th day, Month of the Dragon, Year of the Rat

10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Tolwreen, Ixyll

Stripped to the waist and already beginning to sweat, Ciras Dejote entered the circle in the heart of the metal tower. The sword he bore was the one that had come from the Ixyll grave. Over the time he’d been in Tolwreen, between being subjected to a variety of tests or feasts offered in his honor, he’d learned the blade had once belonged to Jogot Yirxan, a Morythian member of the vanyesh who had been a swordsman without equal.

Across from him, a hulking silver behemoth stalked into the circle. He bore a resemblance to a man because he had begun as one. All of his bones had been wrapped in silver, and the metal had been etched with very fine dragons coiling and cavorting along the polished surface. Over the years, as the work was continued, the bones had been split and extended, so now the thing known as Pravak Helos stood eight feet tall and boasted a second set of arms. They linked into the body right at the lower edge of the ribs, and were silvery whiplike appendages that ended in short, sharp dagger blades.

In his upper two hands, Pravak bore swords, each the equal of the blade Ciras carried. His opponent hardly needed the swords since his hands ended in long, very sharp claws and the outer edge of his lower forearm bone had been serrated. When he was fully alive, Pravak had enjoyed stalking and killing Viruk. In reshaping himself, he’d become more than their match.

His skull had likewise been coated in inscribed silver, but he wore a mask that resembled what he’d looked like in life. The fullness of his face, as well as the wild tangle of filaments that danced from a warrior knot at the back of his head, let Ciras imagine what he must have been when mortal. The fact that he had hunted Viruk did layer muscle into those bones, painting a picture of a fighter who relied on power more than speed.

And he has the advantage here again. Ciras bowed deeply and held it for a respectful time. His foe did the same, then set himself. He adopted the first Scorpion form, with both swords up and back, but the two tentacles darted forward, promising punishment for a rash attack.

Ciras drew the sword and scabbard from his sash and bared the blade. He kept the scabbard in his left hand. His foe’s stance offered him two easy choices for offense, and one for defense, but he really found himself facing two foes. Granted, they were joined at the hip and would coordinate their attacks, but he had to watch out for twice as much as he would with one opponent.

Then again, there is one set of legs, so there is a weakness. Ciras smiled, though he was truly unable to tell if that insight had come from his own mind, or through his connection with the vanyesh blade. He had a sense of having faced Pravak Helos before and having beaten him. That meant Pravak would be looking for revenge. He’ll be dwelling on the last time we fought.

Pravak took a step forward and Ciras noticed another weakness. His foe had a high center of gravity, so any lunges would overextend him. He would have to recover, but just how fast he could remained to be seen.

That is knowledge I require.

Ciras took one deep breath, then puffed it out quickly. He dropped into Dragon fourth and advanced quickly, his scabbard high and blade low. He twisted away from a slash by the left whip, then parried a sword cut high. He darted past on the left, then leaped back. Pravak’s right sword whistled down on a diagonal cut that struck sparks from the marble floor.

Ciras took one step forward, then whirled. He presented his back to his enemy for a heartbeat, then snapped the scabbard up and smashed Pravak in the face. The right tentacle whipped in, seeking to entangle Ciras, but the Tirati ducked. The tentacle wrapped itself around Pravak’s spine and, as Ciras spun away to the right, he brought his sword up and severed the slender cable.

The tentacle uncoiled and slithered down through Pravak’s pelvis to the ground. The lumbering behemoth turned to the right, but Ciras had already stepped back out of range of the return slash. He continued to move to his own left, keeping the second whip well away from him. He parried when pressed, slipped away when he could, and kept his enemy moving.

With a flesh-and-blood foe-especially one who would have been bleeding from having lost the tentacle-the strategy of avoidance would have proven very effective. But the creature he faced was not flesh and blood, and was drawing sustenance from the world around him. Ciras, on the other hand, was already slick with sweat. He wiped his brow and splashed the ground with a flick of his wrist.

A battle of endurance would only end one way.

Then Pravak did the unexpected. He kicked the tentacle at Ciras. It slithered across the ground and Ciras easily leaped above it. In doing so, however, he froze himself in place. Without a foot on the ground, he could not dodge, and that was the moment Pravak charged. Blades held wide, and the single tentacle extended like a spear, the vanyesh drove forward.

Three attacks. He could parry any two, but the last would get him. Panic shot through him, but Ciras fought it down. Then his right foot touched the ground and without thinking, he acted.

And felt himself awash in the tingling of jaedun.

Ciras dove forward, face-first, feeling a sting as the tentacle’s blade scored the flesh over his right shoulder and buttock. He landed on his chest and slid forward, then stabbed both arms out. The sword and scabbard each sank between the large and small shinbones. Drawing his legs in and then shooting them out forward, he slid between Pravak’s legs and past them.

Ciras’ weight twisted the behemoth’s legs, bringing Pravak’s knees together. The scabbard snapped in half, which sent Ciras off to the right. Then the silver filaments binding the shinbone at the ankle parted and Ciras spun away on his rump, sword still in hand.

He slammed up against the foot-high rim of the circle and almost made it to his feet before Pravak crashed down at its heart. Swords bounced free of hands and Ciras batted one out of the circle as he darted back in. Raising his sword over his fallen foe, he stroked the blade downward and slashed through the warrior’s knot.

With it went the strength in Pravak’s limbs.

Ciras stepped back and bowed to his enemy. He then turned and bowed to the others seated in the small amphitheater where they had battled. Though most of them remained shrouded in shadow, he saw a few shapes he recognized either as hosts at meals, or opponents he’d already defeated.

A low laughter ran from Pravak’s throat. “Have I not said he is Yirxan reborn? A brother has returned. It is an omen of the future.”

One of Tolwreen’s ruling council-a diminutive shape hidden in deep folds of a thick brown robe-bowed toward the combatants. “Ciras Dejote, you have passed through the Nine Trials. You have proven yourself worthy. Tonight you shall be initiated in the final mysteries of Tolwreen.”

Ciras bowed and started toward the edge of the circle, but the counselor called out. “Wait.”

The Tirati did as bidden and froze in place. The counselor raised his arms and though the robe’s sleeve slipped back, Ciras could see no hands or forearms. Still, a green nimbus gathered around where hands should have been. It formed into a green ball, which expanded as it drifted toward the circle. When it reached man height it bounced along on the ground like a bubble. He wondered if it would make it over the circle lip, but it did so without any difficulty. The moment it touched down in the circle, it expanded and fused with it, becoming a huge hemisphere that would have towered over Pravak had the creature been able to stand.