Full-Blood Half-Breed (19 page)

“All good folk of the Thirteen Kingdoms! I bid you welcome!” Zacarías the Bard’s manced voice boomed through the arena. He waved his staff in a flamboyant flourish, and thirteen blazing manlike creatures appeared in the sky, each between eight and nine feet tall, with flames leaping from their skulls instead of hair. They flew on ungainly leathery wings spreading thirty or forty feet from one sharp-feathered tip to the other. Except for a red-lensed visor covering their eyes, they were completely naked and utterly without genitalia, male or female.

Paladin’s mouth dropped. There was a collective gasp of astonishment and horror from the folk in the arena. Every person stared, wonder-struck, at the conjured illusions circling above.

They were banes.
Creador’s Bastards
.

Zacarías the Bard had sculpted a full covey of the bastard spawn of Creador out of colored light. No bard in the history of Torneo had ever attempted such a feat. But his greater triumph was the stark clarity of his manced creations. They were the most lifelike illusions Paladin had ever seen. Zacarías the Bard had depicted them perfectly. Each bane’s head was wreathed with dancing orange and blue flames. Each carried a
hoz
, a type of reap-hook weapon with a serrated blade that dripped mance-fire.

Zacarías the Bard seemed to glow with crimson power. He chanted,

Every voice in the arena repeated, “For heroes there were few!”

“When thirteen stand as one!” the crowd chanted back.

Under Zacarías’s direction, an army of warriors appeared in the arena, shaking their weapons at the banes flying above. The illusions were so dazzling they made Paladin’s head hurt. The scene was exactly as he had always imagined.

The bard’s voice grew stronger:

The giant warriors—braver, stronger, truer than any man or woman living in the here and now—punched fists into the air, screaming silently for the blood of banes in perfect time to the voices of the arena spectators. The banes fled, but pain knifed through Paladin’s skull. He couldn’t say if it was the noise, the lights, or both that caused him such agony, but the performance was as excruciating as it was pleasurable and he shrieked from both. Everyone in the arena screamed and yelled, the sounds of pleasure so similar to pain as to be indistinguishable.

The fervor only fueled Zacarías’s zeal. His passionate oration grew to a fever pitch: “Strong blades did cry for blood of bane!”

“STRONG BLADES DID BEG FOR BLOOD OF BANE!”

“STRONG BLADES DID BEG FOR BLOOD OF BANE!”

“OUR HEROES NOW STOOD STRONG!”

And then, following the tradition set down thousands of years before, the bard named each kingdom and the spectators responded with that kingdom’s heroic paladín.

“Eisesland sent the world …”

“Steinhund the strong!”

“Kavunchi danced to …”

“Motojicho’s song!”

“Winterewiger burned with …”

“Bluthammer’s rage!”

“Hatarimsitu’s wisdom …”

“Zanimauti the Sage!”

“Raimei-Yama’s weapon …”

“Ashiryuu’s ire!”

“Simbadola light …”

“Wingu-Zitole’s fire!”

“Hama-Be’s hero …”

“Nihaku the Oak!”

“Tatsu-No’s legacy …”

“Torakiba’s cloak!”

“Solbesado’s gift was …”

“Dosdagas’s steel!”

“Dulce Aire’s mighty …”

“Hacha-Loco’s zeal!”

“Hana-Soshite-Mori …”

“Shinwashi’s eagle eyes!”

“Sombra del Montaña …”

“Tronada’s surprise!”

“Prosperidad gave its king …”

“KING BLACKSPEAR WAS WISE!”

“Thirteen fearless paladíns …”

“King Blackspear was wise!”

“KING BLACKSPEAR WAS WISE!”

“KING BLACKSPEAR WAS WISE!”

And Zacarías the Bard, the most spectacular illusionist the arena had ever seen, waved his
pale staff and thousands upon thousands of colorful pinpricks of light whirled through the ether, fusing, mating, changing color, solidifying into the image of a regal giant.

King Blackspear, in all his glory, stood hundreds of feet high, gripping Ravin, the original Black Spear, in his left hand. The top of his gold crown disappeared into the clouds above Santuario del Guerrero.

Paladin’s heart beat harder than Boipuso the Bardling’s drum. A joy bordering on rapture enveloped him, squeezing salty bliss from his eyes. He could never have imagined an illusion of such majesty or realism. Zacarías the Bard was a maestro, plucking the strings of his soul as if playing a lute. He spared a glance for those around him, and they were all lost to the reverie induced by the bard.

As wonderful as it was, there was something about it that disturbed Paladin deep within his soul. The bard’s illusions and voice felt tainted by the tiniest touch of wrongness. Paladin didn’t linger on the sensation. The illusions were too breathtaking, the bard’s voice too compelling. He turned back toward the show and gasped at what he saw.

A conspiracy of giant ravens corkscrewed out of the heavens and flew a circular wreath around the Blackspear’s enormous head. They made a complete circuit around the arena before vanishing back up into the clouds. The folk in the arena went wild with enthusiasm. Some legends claimed Golanv the Death Raven had sent its own hatchlings to assist the Blackspear. Other stories claimed the Death Raven roused the shades of its dead kin to aid the wise old king of Prosperidad in his crusade to rid the Thirteen of Creador’s Bastards. But though the myth was well known, never, ever, had a bard attempted to reproduce the story. This illusion was ten thousand times more complicated than creating a covey of banes. The concentration and willpower needed to create such elaborate creations of colored light was staggering.

“He’s the best bard there has ever been,” Paladin whispered. Though he could have screamed and no one would have heard him above the deafening acclaim for Zacarías the Bard.

The illusion of Blackspear exploded into millions of sparks that slowly drifted down to the stadium floor like snowflakes of garnet and pearl. The bard’s manced voice was a god’s thunderous declaration: “In honor of King Rainerio the Blackspear and his brave paladíns, the bravest warriors in the history of the Thirteen Kingdoms: LET TORNEO BEGIN!”

Zacarías and the bardlings took several flourishing bows to an earsplitting ovation that went on for nearly ten minutes. Finally, the performers sank beneath the arena through a trapdoor. The Red Cloaks called to the younglings in the dragón’s dens, directing them to the firing lines in groups of thirteen.

Paladin stood for a moment, blinking away the last vestiges of the dreamy reverie induced by the bard’s performance. The pain in his skull eased and his thoughts sharpened. To say Zacarías the Bard’s illusions had been phenomenal would have been a grotesque
understatement, but any description of the bard’s exhibition would be. Words were too frail a tool to describe the breathtaking scene Paladin had witnessed this day. Still, there was something about it that unsettled him.

His contemplations ended abruptly when Prosperidad’s Red Cloak shook her copper bell in his face. She glared at him and Drud with hateful eyes the color of some soggy green vegetable, and then snarled impatiently, “Well, híbridos? Are you competing in the archery trial or not?”

Híbridos
. The slur hit him like a slap in the face, but Drud just rolled his eyes, refusing to let it affect him. Paladin wanted to tell the Red Cloak where she could cram her stupid bell, but that would get him disqualified, so he nodded mutely.

“Come on then!” she shrilled, and went to join the other Red Cloaks near the targets.

“Cabróna,” he cursed, loud enough for only Drud to hear.

“That’s
Maga
Cabróna,
vato
,” Drud said. “The woman is a learned mancer and Healer. She has earned her title.”

“Maga Cabróna, then,” he agreed, chuckling. He discarded his hurt and anger at Maga Cabróna the Red Cloak. He emptied his mind of everything but putting arrows into bane’s-eyes, and when it was time, he stepped up to the firing line and did just that.

Fox the Runt almost wished he still believed in Schöpfer, the so-called goddess of justice, that he could curse Her obscene negligence. The mongrel—with his oh-so-fine new bow—placed another arrow dead center of the target fifty feet away. The Caller, chief of the Red Cloaks and head referee, inspected the mongrel’s shot, turned to the crowd, and called, “Bane’s-eye!”

They were the final two competitors, with minutes of daylight left. For the last half hour, the two had exchanged perfect bane’s-eye for perfect bane’s-eye. Unless one of them bungled a shot soon, the match would end in a stalemate and they would split the winnings of thirteen gold coronas. Pía had said that he had to win every trial in order to prove he was the man of her destiny. Would a draw count as a half-loss or a half-win? And how did a partial victory affect Doña Yesenia’s Interpretación?

The Caller, a beady-eyed woman from Solbesado, signaled him to take his turn. He nocked an arrow and fired.

“Bane’s-eye!” she called after a quick inspection of the target, and then, “Will you younglings accept a draw?”

“NO!” he and the mongrel yelled in unison, just as they had the last seventeen times she had asked.

“Very well,” she said, “but if there is no clear winner when the Grandmother appears, I will call this trial a draw and be done with it.”

He thought his blood would boil. Pía was watching. A draw could end their romance before it had even properly begun. Osvaldo, three years his senior, would be competing in the adult trials. If he won the adult archery trial outright, would the prophecy—the Interpretación—favor him over Fox the Runt? He closed his eyes and prayed to The One God for the justice he had never received of Schöpfer or Seisakusha.

“Take your shot, Del Darkdragón,” the Caller said to the mongrel. “The Grandfather flies
west.”

The mongrel loosed an arrow and once again struck a perfect bane’s-eye. The crowd responded with courteous applause. They wanted drama, and twenty minutes of perfect shots had left them bored. Even the hibrido’s mongrel mother, seated in the western quad of the arena, seemed weary of the long-lasting stalemate. Usually the Cruelarrow glorified Del Darkdragón’s piddliest little deed. Perhaps she had come to realize what a treacherous little wretch he was. Today she seemed distant and aloof. The Cruelarrow’s icy disposition reminded him almost of his own mother, the Black Spear champion, Schneeflocke the Hammerhead of the Heilwidis Matriarchy.

The mere thought of that frost-faced bitch brought bitter bile into his throat. And of course, he could not think of his mother without also remembering his father, the brutal bastard. Schneeflocke had been bad, but Gairovald von Cleaver had been worse, a dim-witted savage who never let a week pass without pounding on Fox the Runt with his heavy fists. Schneeflocke had done nothing to stop those beatings. Parents were supposed to give their children love, affection, and protection, but all his
mamma und vati
had given him were bruises, broken bones, and a bellyful of hate. Everything else—his skill, training, and the few meager possessions he owned—he had fought for, sweat and bled for. He had earned everything he had ten times over, while the pampered mongrel brat, Paladin Del Darkdragón, had earned nothing and been given everything! Even his talent with bow and arrow was inherited from his mother, the Cruelarrow. She had won the archery trial thirteen times, and it was said she could put an arrow through a fly’s belly at thirty feet.

The only thing Fox the Runt had not earned, at least not yet, was Pía’s devotion. Her affection was an invaluable gift from The One God, a gift he would forfeit if he lost this trial. He could not allow that to happen.

“It is your turn, Nordling,” the Prosperidad Red Cloak whispered to him. “Do not let the híbrido see your fear!”

He frowned at the woman. “I fear no híbrido.”

“Then shoot,” she hissed. “Or forfeit the match.”

He nocked, aimed, and loosed his arrow in a single motion, as fast as it was fluid.

“Bane’s-eye!” the Caller yelled, and then she said words so abhorrent he bit his lip to keep from screaming. “I officially call this competition a stalemate!”

Fox the Runt sought Pía in the stands. She and some of the other Santos Creadorians sat in the northern quad to show their support for him. She waved at him, but he could not tell what she thought of the trial’s outcome. Had he failed Doña Yesenia’s Interpretación and lost Pía forever?