A Stolen Crown (27 page)

“Maybe I’ll do that,” Aaron said.

“Let me know if you learn something useful,” Malek said. “And try not to get yourself killed in the next fight.”

Over the course of the afternoon, Aaron won his next three fights, each of the fighters proving more skilled than the last, but none of them particularly difficult to beat. Because he had entered the competition as an unknown fighter, the betting odds had initially favored his opponents, which meant the money Carly had bet quickly grew to a sizeable sum. Now that the crowd had seen Aaron's swordsmanship, the odds for subsequent bets were shifting around, making for an exciting day both in terms of the fights and in terms of the betting.

It was late in the day and Aaron had just finished fighting a large pale-skinned man with a beard, who wielded a large battleaxe. The man reminded Aaron of Matthius, who he had met back in Ashford, which seemed like a lifetime ago and he thought about Ehlena and hoped she was somewhere safe, wondering if he might see her again some day, and he realized he missed her precociousness and the contrasting innocence of her delicate features. Aaron almost felt badly about defeating the fighter, but it could not be helped. He was not about to get wounded by an opponent just to get out of the rest of the fighting.

Besides, the few cuts and scrapes he had managed to receive were taking their toll as his power began to grow in pressure as it healed him and the pain in his head was getting worse. During this last fight, Aaron found himself reeling when the healer used some additional power to mend a particularly nasty gash in one of the other fighters who had lost a previous bout. He wanted to say something to the man, but Aaron decided the less he dealt with mages, the better. Now that his match was complete, Aaron walked to the boards to find out who he was supposed to fight next.

Carly joined him, having grown tired of Malek’s increasingly drunken advances, and she found Aaron standing at the stone in the center of the circles, looking at the parchment that the officiator had hung on a spike.

“You really are a very good fighter, Aaron,” Carly commented as she walked up and stood next to him.

“I had a good teacher,” Aaron said, still staring at the parchment. “There's no one left for me to fight.”

“Except one,” the officiator said, overhearing Aaron. He pulled out a quill and uncorked a vial of ink and, holding up the parchment, he wrote a name next to Aaron's. “You will fight Kasha.”

“Of course,” Aaron said. “Kasha is the champion.”

“Good luck,” the man said. “You will need it.” He stopped up the vial of ink and tucked his quill into a pocket in his vest then he threw a glance behind Aaron and Carly and walked away.

Aaron could see his name had been written in next to Kasha's as the final match in the day's events and both he and Carly turned to see whatever the officiator had looked at and they discovered an Ansari standing nearby, also looking at the parchment on the stone. The nomad was dressed head to toe in robes of several shades, all of them lighter or darker versions of the desert sand and Aaron imagined that the robes would be perfect for disappearing into the dusty terrain. He noticed the swords hanging at the nomad's waist and he wondered if this might be the legendary sword fighter who he was supposed to fight. The Ansari nodded at him, nothing more than a pair of eyes behind the wraps of cloth, then turned and walked away.

The sun set quickly while several workers scattered fresh sand around the main fighting circle and brushed the ground flat, using rough brooms made out of bundled sticks. Aaron waited at the edge of the ring with Carly and Malek sat nearby on a wooden crate he had found. The old pirate was deep into his ale and the crate creaked under his weight as he lurched around on it. The break between fights was longer, so a lot of the crowd had availed themselves of the various food and drink vendors and the smells of local spices floated along the quickly cooling night air. Finally, the officiator walked out to the center of the circle, holding a burning torch in his hand and a large flagon in the other.

“The final fight!” he yelled and the crowd quieted. “A young warrior, new to the circles, Antal of Ashford, a contender this day, will challenge the champion, Kasha An Ansara!”

The crowd cheered and Aaron drew his sword then he walked into the circle, waking slowly to its center as the officiator walked to its edge. Across the ring Aaron watched as the nomad he had seen earlier also entered the circle. The Ansari walked casually across the brushed ground to stand just over a sword’s length from Aaron, sword in hand.

“This fight shall last until the flames have died or a fighter has fallen,” the officiator yelled. “Now, begin!”

He brought his torch down to the ground and touched the edge of the circle. Almost magically, the stone burst into flame, lighting up the ground and the faces of the people gathered around to watch the fight. The nomad, Kasha, stood motionless, poised, waiting, eyes flickering in the firelight. Aaron already knew this would be a different fight from the ones he had already fought this day, not just from all the talk of Kasha, but from sensing the energy of his opponent. Unlike the other fighters, who were focused, determined and aggressive, Kasha was predatory, confident and calm. Aaron remembered Tarnath’s training and breathed, focusing on his own inner circle and the people gathered round the fighting circle were silent.

Somewhere in the town, a horse neighed softly. Aaron felt his ears drawn to the sound and in a blink Kasha was on him, attacking in a flurry of steel. The crowd roared as the onlookers cheered the match. Blades danced in the firelight as Aaron recovered his balance, moving his sword as fast as he could, blocking the sharp steel of Kasha's blade as it flickered dangerously close to his face. Aaron realized very quickly that the nomad was exceptionally skilled and it was all he could do to keep up. This would be a very different fight than the ones he had already fought.

Kasha swung and Aaron ducked, bringing his blade up under the nomad’s reach. Instead of pulling back, Kasha moved forward and sprung upwards, somersaulting over Aaron's sword, then stepping in, sliding steel across Aaron's shoulder. Aaron spun and stepped back, bringing his sword up to meet the nomad’s blade and push it away. The crowd cheered as the first drops of blood hit the ground. The cut was not deep but the surprise of it jolted Aaron out of his rhythm. He stopped, taking a moment as his opponent circled around him. Aaron took a moment to breathe and focus. He felt his feet connect more firmly with the dirt beneath him and he lunged forward, launching an attack that would seem erratic to anyone watching and he hoped Kasha would think the same thing.

Aaron had not fought anyone with such skill since his training with his uncle, Tarnath. Even at the Academy, most of the fighters had predictable styles, movements they would repeat and patterns that would begin to reveal themselves right from the start. Aaron had even found the repetitions in Nathas' style and the only one he had sparred with who was unpredictable had been his friend Borrican. Tarnath, on the other hand, always changed his style and made a point of being unexpected, unless he was laying a trap of some kind. It was one of the first things Aaron had learned from him, but there was also something about the way Tarnath had fought, like a style without a style that he recognized in the footsteps and movements of his opponent. Fighting Kasha was almost like fighting Tarnath, except Kasha had a longer reach and moved faster than the old man, with more grace and fluidity, and almost as much power. Kasha was undoubtedly younger than Tarnath had been, but so was Aaron. Now that Aaron had found his footing and began to revert to his training, he and Kasha traded blows a hundred times over and not one connected with the other. Their steel flashed at one another, flickering in the flames, dazzling the onlookers.

Aaron watched Kasha move, like a cat in the desert, and waited, breathing patiently and matching every stroke. There was no pattern to learn, no rhythm to take, only the search for opportunity where none was given. Finally, Aaron saw his chance and flicked his sword past the Ansari's guard. He felt his sword part the soft cotton of the nomad's desert robes and taste flesh. Kasha leapt back, and for the second time, blood dripped to the ground, this time from the Ansari's arm. The crowd was awestruck. Aaron felt a moment's satisfaction when he saw the nomad’s sleeve darken with red but then he noticed a sting on his own forearm. He looked down and noticed that Kasha had cut him as well. It was a minor cut but still a cut. Aaron smiled at the sword fighter. Their skills were evenly matched and it seemed he would not be able to attack unscathed. Whether Kasha smiled back or not, Aaron could not tell because of the desert wraps but the fighter nodded then moved in for another attack.

They danced again, their swords a blur. Steel bit steel so rapidly the sound of it became a kind of music, chiming in the night air. Aaron ducked, thrust, stabbed and swung, only to be met by Kasha’s blade blocking and always moving to strike, relentless. The flames were beginning to gutter but neither fighter slowed, both immersed in the battle, testing for weaknesses, pushing attacks, determined to find an opening and hoping the other would make a mistake. Before long, the flames were completely gone then someone shouted from the crowd and Aaron and Kasha leapt apart, both of them breathing heavily.

They both turned as a tall, Ansari nomad with a long beard entered the circle. As the man approached, Kasha knelt, sword still in hand but laying flat upon the earth. Aaron looked over at Malek for some indication of what he should do but the pirate was drunk and had passed out. Carly shrugged, but Aaron caught the eye of he officiator who nodded, gesturing that he should also kneel, which he did, next to his opponent. The old, nomad rested each of his hands on both their heads and said one word in Ansari.

“Victory.”

The crowd cheered, forgetting that the fight had ended in a draw, which would make for a mess when it came to determining the results of the many bets that had been placed. The old man gestured for Aaron and Kasha to rise.

“This place has not witnessed such skill in many years,” he said. “The desert honors you both.” The old man turned to address the crowd. “Now we feast!”

The crowd cheered with cries of 'Antal' and 'Kasha' intermixed throughout. The betting tables quickly began doling out winnings to the appropriate parties, minus of course, their commissions for handling the money. Those who had bet on either Aaron or Kasha to win the final round were given back their money and the purse that was to go to the winner was split between both competitors. As they rose and left the ring, Aaron reached out and clasped Kasha’s hand and was surprised at how slender the sword fighter's hand was, though he was not at all surprised by the iron grip that held his hand. Aaron nodded respectfully then he turned and made his way from the circle, amid the cheers from the crowd and a lot of hands clapping him on the shoulder. The group of Ansari merchants bowed their heads when he passed them and Aaron nodded back, figuring it was probably the Ansari thing to do. He met up with Carly and found that Malek had roused from his drunken stupor.

“Well,” Malek said. “I figured you were done for, Antal. They tell me you made a draw with Kasha. That's unexpected.”

“You didn't think I would win?” Aaron asked.

“No, I did not,” Malek said, then he took another gulp from his flagon and he turned and walked away.

“I have never seen such swordsmanship,” Carly said. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

Aaron shrugged and sheathed his sword. He took a drink from a water skin Carly handed to him.

“I didn't know I was any good until not very long ago,” Aaron admitted. “My uncle taught me with wooden swords ever since I can remember. We trained with steel when I was old enough, but he was always far better than me.”

“Your uncle must be somebody important if he's better than you.”

“He was,” Aaron said. “It didn't stop him from getting killed though.”

“Oh, I'm sorry.” Carly frowned but Aaron shook his head.

“Don't worry,” he told her. “This is a time for celebrating.”

“Well, I think he would have been proud,” Carly said. “You just fought the best fighter of Forsina and you didn't lose.”

“I didn't win either,” Aaron said, “but I don't much care as long as we have the money to continue on our journey.”

“Oh yes,” Carly said with as smile. “From the bets I made, we had enough money for that after your third fight. The rest is profit. You also get prize money.”

“I'm glad,” Aaron said. “Why didn't Malek seem all that pleased?”

Carly laughed.

“He bet against you,” she told him. “Malek lost, which means now he needs us, which means I don't have to put up with his leering and his wandering hands. I expect he's going to get good and drunk tonight, so he'll be pretty docile tomorrow anyway.”

Aaron accompanied Carly over to the betting tables where she collected her winnings and Aaron received the prize money for all of the fights he had won. The money Carly had won far outweighed what Aaron received and he could see why some fighters would team up with the traders who could make larger wagers. Still, something about the whole thing did not sit right with him, but he let it go. They would be leaving Forsina the next day and whatever the customs of the Ansari were, they would not affect him.

As Carly and Aaron made their way from the betting tables over to a large tavern where fire pits had been lit outside and meat was being cooked on heavy metal grills, a hand gripped Aaron's arm. He turned to find the fighter, Kasha walking next to him and he stopped.