Full-Blood Half-Breed (30 page)

Paladin sympathized with Drud, who had the great skill and instinct of a warrior, but not the disposition. Drud was kindhearted by nature, and Paladin doubted he would ever have the stomach for true bloodshed. If he ever had to kill someone in battle, Paladin feared the guilt of it might destroy him.

“Fret not over Isooba,” Paladin said. “He will be fine. He has Esmeralda and ‘The One God’ looking out for him.”

That brought a weak smile to Drud’s face.

Drud clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Gracias,
vato
. I appreciate you saving me for last! I knew you’d be the Prosperidad paladín. Your parents named you well.”

“I was lucky to beat you.” If luck did play a hand in this season’s Melee, then it was bad—for everyone standing between him and Fox the Runt. From the moment they had met at Temple Seisakusha more than a year ago, there had been instant, visceral enmity between them. And after the Runt and Urbano sabotaged Tufani, Schöpfer’s justice demanded the Nordling be punished. Paladin’s anger demanded revenge.

“Buena suerte,”
Drud said. He smiled, nodded, and then trotted off to join the rest of the
defeated Prosperidad younglings seated in the dragón’s den. Paladin ran strategies through his mind, ignoring Maga Cabróna as she drifted past, hissing just loud enough for him to hear, “I hope the Nordling kills you, híbrido.”

He would not allow Maga Cabróna’s insults to incite him or weaken his resolve. His focus was locked. Even the cheering spectators failed to stir him one way or another. His mind and heart were pledged to the solemn goal of spilling the Nordling’s blood. True, they only fought with wooden weapons, but a blow to the head was a blow to the head, and Sunderbones could crack open a skull quite effectively.

The Red Cloaks called all the paladíns to the center of the game field, and the Caller rang her bell, signaling for the crowd’s attention. “People of the Thirteen Kingdoms, I give you your paladíns!”

The thirteen young paladíns raised their wooden weapons high in salute to the crowd. The champions cheered for themselves, their fellow paladins, and the spectators, all of them filled with the joy of victory.

All but Paladin and the Runt.

Paladin fingered the cloven arrowhead at his throat and glared at his Nordling rival. The Runt responded with his hallmark sneer.

The Caller rang her bell, bidding the crowd to silence. “Hail the youngling champions! Hail the youngling paladíns!”

For long moments the spectators stood and applauded the young fighters. Zacarías the Bard created illusory sparking lights in the colors of each paladín’s nation. The lights swirled around as the bardlings serenaded them with drum and horn.

The Caller, after quieting the crowd again, announced, “These younglings are the best our kingdoms have to offer! It is now time to decide who amongst them is the best of the best!
Paladíns to arms!
The fight for the Black Spear begins!”

The young champions moved into fighting stances. Paladin spared a single glance for the Runt and then sized up the other eleven champions. He had watched some of them compete already, and knew they were formidable. He could no longer hide behind Ashi-Kobushi. If he hoped to win, he would give it his all, unleash the blended system, consequences be damned. The Red Cloaks rang their bells. The spectators roared. And the most talented young warriors in the Thirteen Kingdoms assailed each other.

Paladin relaxed, giving his body over to the forms he had spent his short life studying, mastering, and melding into one graceful and deadly dance, uniquely his own. He and the Runt did not attack one another. Instead, they worked together against the other fighters, that they could face each other in the end without distraction. They had never planned it. They had not needed to. In this, and this alone, they were of one mind.

The other eleven paladíns seemed of one mind as well. Instead of turning on each other, they teamed together and rushed him and the Runt, and Paladin found himself in the fight of his life.

Rebelde and Walküre had given him the name Paladin to honor the thirteen greatest warriors ever to have lived. He had done nothing to merit it. In his sixteen years of life, much had been made of so high a name. Names of this caliber were titles, bestowed by kings and gained through honor and valor. Today, embracing the martial gifts of the four gods and engaging his peers in a contest that would prove legend, he would earn it.

The paladíns from Hatarimsitu and Simbadola flew at him. Both girls were tall and lean with silky dark skin and long staffs. Their lionlockes trailed behind them. The girl from Hatarimsitu swung at his legs. Simbadola’s paladín jabbed at his chest.

Paladin leapt above the Hatarimsitu girl’s sweeping strike. He twisted in midair to parry the Simbadolan’s thrust with one end of Sunderbones, and then slammed the other end into her helmeted head. The Hatarimsitu girl charged him from behind, and as he landed, he shifted his weight to one side even as he thrust Sunderbones behind him, driving the tip into the Hatarimsitu girl’s mailed shirt, a “kill” strike to the heart.

“Dead and dead!” the Red Cloaks called at the two competitors from the Nchi ya Kusini.

While Winterewiger’s paladín confronted the Runt, Solbesado’s champion thrust his bokken short sword at Paladin, attacking from behind a wooden round-shield. But Paladin had the superior reach. He retreated a step and jammed the tip of Sunderbones into the Solbesado boy’s wrist, causing him to drop his weapon. Paladin smacked the boy’s shield low with Sunderbones and then touched the staff’s tip to the boy’s heart.

“Dead!” the Red Cloaks yelled.

The paladíns from Hama-Be, Tatsu-No, and Hana-Soshite-Mori surrounded Paladin, their katana and wakizashi bokken slashing and cutting at his vitals. He blocked, parried, and ducked the kill strokes, but the Shimabitos landed several kicks across his legs and torso. They were painful blows. They would leave many bruises, but weren’t solid enough to break bone.

Paladin responded with three strikes, delivered with surgical precision. He tapped the Hama-Be paladín’s helmet right between the eyes.

“Dead!” a Red Cloak called.

He parried a slash from the Hana-Soshite-Mori paladín’s katana and slammed his foot into her chest, launching her into the attacking paladín from Tatsu-No. The Shimabitos were only tangled for an instant, but it was long enough for Paladin to touch Sunderbones to the girl’s heart and the boy’s throat, ending them both.

“Dead!” growled Maga Cabróna at Tatsu-No’s champion. She pointed to the paladín from Hana-Soshite-Mori, her voice thick with disappointment. “Dead!”

Paladin turned to the Runt and saw that the fool had lost his concentration. He was paying more attention to the screaming crowd than he was to the fight, and the young champion from Raimei-Yama was positioned for a strike that would eliminate the Runt from competition. Paladin felt a moment of utter panic. His one chance at vengeance was slipping away. He screamed.

Winterewiger’s youngling paladín swung her bludgeon hard enough to crush the vertebrae in Fox’s spine. He parried with his katana bokken, but her weapon smashed into his hand. He clenched his teeth through the pain and slashed her across the chest with his wakizashi.

“Dead!” a Red Cloak called, and the girl slunk from the game field.

The paladíns from Sombra del Montaña and Kavunchi came at him. He suffered a kick in the ribs and a punch in the eye before eliminating them. He took little joy in their defeats. He was too absorbed in the pleasure of something else.

Vindication!

The entire world bore witness to the pagan’s mad dance of desecration.

Fox had told the monks at Temple Seisakusha that the pagan had cheated in kumite. He had told the other disciples that the pagan had not beaten him with Ashi-Kobushi. He had told anyone who would listen that the pagan had employed some bizarre, bastardized martial system. By Creador’s Burning Balls, he had told them all! But no, they had refused to listen. They had accused him of lying, of making excuses for his defeat, but now, The One God be praised, Fox was vindicated, and no one would ever accuse him of lying again! The arena spectators howled upon witnessing the pagan’s blasphemy.

Certainly there were those who cheered the pagan and his unorthodox martial system, hailing him as an innovative young warrior. They lauded his ingenuity and resourcefulness. They praised his audacity. They were a foolish minority. Most people looked upon the pagan and his corrupt martial system with disgust. Fox eliminated Dulce Aire’s paladín with an upward slash to the ribs, and then turned to the crowd, rejoicing in the jeers shouted at the pagan.

“Profaner!” a Kusini Watu man yelled.

“Abominación!”
an Oestean woman yelled.

A chorus of Nord voices screamed that the trial be stopped, that the pagan be disqualified for sacrilege against Schöpfer, Creador, Muumba,
and
Seisakusha! His blasphemy knew no bounds! Vindication felt so very sweet. Even in the heat of battle, Fox had to laugh.

He laughed so hard he didn’t see the Raimei-Yama paladín attack until it was too late to
parry, block, or avoid.

“Look out!” the pagan screamed.

In an instant of stomach-churning clarity, Fox realized he would not get the chance to humiliate the pagan. He would not be the first Santosian Black Spear. He had celebrated prematurely and his foolish arrogance would cost him the trial.

And Pía.

But then, in a display of disgusting heroics, the pagan intervened, using his bo staff to parry the Raimei-Yama boy’s cut.

“No!” Fox yelled, appalled that the pagan had saved him.

The effort left Del Darkdragón off-balance, and the Raimei-Yama champion retaliated, stuffing his boot into the pagan’s mailed ribs. As the pagan fell, Fox struck at the Raimei-Yama boy’s head, eliminating him from competition.

It was just the two of them now.

The pagan pushed to his knees with one hand and clutched his chest with the other. His bo staff lay on the ground next to him.

Fox had also taken some hurts and paused to catch his breath. His left eye was badly bruised and swelling shut. He would have to keep the pagan to his right, away from what would soon be a blind spot. Also, the little finger on his right hand was twisted backward at an ugly, unnatural angle. Still, with Pía watching and The One God’s blessings, he could defeat an army.

A roar erupted from the thousands of folks watching the Melee, the din so loud Fox wanted to cover his ears until he understood what they bellowed. It was mellifluous music that filled his heart with pride. If his ears did not betray him, half the folk in the arena cheered him. The other half mocked the pagan. The Prophet had been wise. The foolish rabble had unknowingly chosen a Santosian as their champion. He chuckled. Vindication was sweet.

But revenge, he knew, would be sweeter.

Paladin’s head felt like a sack of shattered glass. Every ragged breath pulled daggers into his lungs. He didn’t know if his ribs were broken again, but they sure as hell hurt. His vision wavered in and out of focus, and every inch of his body ached as though a giant cow had used him as cud. But that wasn’t the worst of it. For the first time since the Black Spear trial had begun, he understood what the spectators screamed at him, and Rebelde had been right. After witnessing the blended dance, the spectators spewed the most hateful slurs he had ever heard. He feared they might descend mob-like onto the game field and tear his limbs from his body. He thought he might vomit. It was almost too much, the pain, the nausea, and the fear of the crowd, but if he could take a moment to catch his breath, clear his vision, and focus, he would be fine. But he would never get that moment. Fox the Runt rushed him.

The Nordling was a blur of spinning bokken, and Paladin retreated, blocking cut after wicked cut.

“Stop running, híbrido!” Maga Cabróna screeched at him from ten feet away. “Stand and fight!”

He tried an el Combatedanza lunge, but the Runt slapped Sunderbones aside with one bokken and almost took his head from his body with the other. He backed off and then tried a Ngoma ya Kifo move, slamming Sunderbones into the Runt’s leg. The Nordling faltered for only a moment, then came back at him hard and fast.