VASURAVA SAW SOMETHING OCCUR to Tyrak, though he was not sure what it was. For an instant or two, it was as if the world went dark and a black storm surrounded himself and the Arrgodi prince. He saw Tyrak staring around, wild-eyed, struggling to control his panicked horse. So. The horse could see the black storm as well! But no one else could, not even Rurka, Vasurava sensed. What did it mean? When the booming voice began to speak, he was startled. It was clearly directed at Tyrak, yet he heard it too, quite distinctly. Nothing of this sort had ever occurred to him before . . .
Or perhaps it had.
He recalled the sensation that had struck him when Tyrak flung the barbed spear at him in Arrgodi. The way the world had seemed to reduce to only a few yards, only the two of them contained within an oval, surrounded by roaring, rushing wind. Beyond the roaring wind, he knew the world still existed, but within that space, there was only Tyrak, himself, and the flying spear. And then a white force had flashed before his eyes, tinged with blue at the center.
The spear had struck home hard, as if hitting flesh and bone, and for a moment, Vasurava thought it had. He looked down at his chest, certain he would see the spear protruding, his life blood spilling out onto the marbled floor of the Arrgodi palace. Instead, he had seen the tip of the spear captured by the white-and-blue light, as securely as a dragonfly in amber!
Then the roaring wind had receded, bringing back the sound and cacophony of the mortal world, and Tyrak had attempted to dislodge the spear, to twist and pull and turn it—without success. And Vasurava had known instinctively that were he to reach down and grasp the pole of the weapon, it would come free of the insubstantial light easily.
He had done so and been rewarded with success. As he took hold of the spear, the white-and-blue light dissipated. He saw motes of blue drifting away, sparkling like starlight on a moonless night, then they were gone.
Now something similar had occurred. Tyrak and he were once more detached from the mortal world by some supernatural force, and once more he had seen that blue light glow around himself. Fear flashed in Tyrak’s hot red eyes as Ugraksh’s son also recognized what was happening. Then the voice spoke, urging, commanding, demanding . . . and Tyrak’s fear was replaced by malevolence.
The world crackled back to life.
The sound of a thousand soldiers roaring with shocked emotion struck him like a wave. They were roaring not out of battle rage, for this was no army they were facing on a field of war. They were roaring with outrage at their own prince’s actions. Yet mingled with their outrage and shock was the warrior’s throaty rasp of blind rage. Theirs not to question why; theirs but to kill or die. Their prince, their commander, had spoken his orders, and with Tyrak, it was either follow and obey without question or be killed without question.
And so all leaped forward, encircling the two unarmed and defenseless men on the uks cart.
A thousand against two.
Had slaughter ever been this simple?
Vasurava heard Rurka’s cry of outrage and frustration. His friend had warned him against precisely this event. He had expected no less of Tyrak. Vasurava felt sad that Rurka had been proven right.
Yet he knew that he was not the one who was wrong. It was Tyrak who had chosen to act against Auma, the flow of benign, empowering energy that connected all living beings. His actions were more suited to a Krushan than an Arrgodi. Tyrak’s actions here would be condemned by warriors everywhere, and after Vasurava’s and Rurka’s deaths the story itself would serve to unite the Mraashk against the Arrgodi.
The war that would follow would be to the bitter end, for no Mraashk could stomach such tyranny. Tyrak would be destroyed in time by his own precipitous folly. And Vasurava and Rurka would be martyrs forever, held up as shining examples of courage and Auma for millennia to come.
But I do not wish to be martyred, Vasurava thought sadly. I came not for death but victory. All I desired was to triumph peaceably rather than through bloodshed. Is this your justice, Lord? Is this how you would treat your children who desire peace? Then why should not every mortal raise a sword and let a steel edge speak instead of his tongue?
And then Tyrak came at him, standing in the stirrups of his horse, sword raised at an angle, the slashing blade aimed at Vasurava’s neck.
Vasurava raised his hand. It was a reflexive action, and he had no more conscious awareness of raising the limb than he was aware of the intake and release of each breath.
He was also unaware that he held his crook in this hand, the cowherd’s crook that he took everywhere when traveling. It had been lying across his lap on the journey here, and once or twice he had used it to swish away flies from the haunches of the uks. Other than that, it merely lay there, virtually forgotten.
Now he raised his hand, and the crook rose with it.
Tyrak’s descending sword blade met the length of the crook. Two broad inches of finely honed Arrgodi steel, sharp enough to split a silk scarf in two, struck an inch-thick yew stick, veined and cracked with age—for it had been Vasurava’s father’s crook before him, and who knew when he had cut it and shaped it and how many decades it had served both father and son.
The warrior’s sword met the cowherd’s stick.
And the sword shattered.
For a moment, the world was still. The roaring of the thousand died away to silence. Every pair of eyes was transfixed. Every voice stilled.
As if time itself had slowed, the earth stopped its turning, the sun and wind and heavens paused as well, the sword struck the crook and splintered into a thousand thousand parts. Not pieces or shards or even splinters . . .
Dust.
One moment, a beautifully lethal Arrgodi sword, capable of slicing easily through Vasurava’s neck, or halfway through the trunk of a yard-thick sala trunk in a single stroke, was descending to its butcher’s work.
Next instant, the sword’s blade struck the crook . . . and shattered to powder.
Only the hilt remained in Tyrak’s hand, and the battle cry in his throat.
The cry died as well, as he swung the bladeless hilt, the lack of impact and his own considerable strength almost toppling him off the horse.
He held his seat, then stared at Vasurava as his horse, spurred on, trotted past the uks cart a yard or three, turned smartly, and turned another complete circle before coming to a halt beside the cart. Tyrak stared at Vasurava’s neck with stunned incomprehension.
Then he turned his eyes to the hilt of the sword in his own fist. Bejeweled, intricately carved with the sigil of the Mraashk, finely worked by the most illustrious craftsmen of the kingdom.
Now merely an objet d’art, to be displayed in a museum, useless as a weapon.
He gazed at the hilt in disbelief, blinking.
All around him, his soldiers peered as well.
Then he looked up again at Vasurava, who was lowering the crook to his lap.
A few motes of silvery dust were still swirling in the air, and as Tyrak stared at Vasurava—along with a thousand Arrgodi soldiers—the motes swirled around, rose up, and were carried away by the wind. They were tinted blue, and sparkled as they dissipated.