Something to make it appear that it isn 't worth upsetting the way things are now, that's what we need. Something to show that there is nothing to be gained and a great deal to be lost in a direct confrontation.
It might be all to his advantage that most conflicts were settled in the arena. He knew for certain that in strength and agility, his own worst fighters were the equal of even the best of the fighters down there on the sand—and were superior to most of the men waiting to fight. If it came to a challenge-match like this one, Kyrtian was confident that his side would not lose.
That realization made him relax a little. Really, he was worrying for no reason. As long as issues were settled by human gladiators like those below him, he had nothing to fear.
In fact, the more he studied those fighters, the more confident of that fact he became. It was odd; those gladiators all seemed a good bit younger than he would have expected. This was an important match, or so he had been led to believe. So why weren't the two antagonists fielding their older, more experienced gladiators? What is it that Gel says? "Experience and duplicity will overcome youth and energy every time."
He had managed to lose track of what the gossips behind him were chattering about while he mulled over his own situation and studied the combatants. When he turned a fraction of his attention back to them, he discovered they were placing bets on the outcome, not only of the whole combat, but on the fortunes of individual fighters. Mildly intrigued, he eavesdropped without shame.
"You must know something, if you're betting that high," the drawler said suspiciously. "Don't take the bet, Galiath! He's too confident! I think he bribed the trainers to tell him something!"
"Nonsense, he doesn't know anything—he's just bluffing, and I've wanted a chance to get that horse for ages!" replied a new voice, one that Kyrtian thought was slurred just a little with drink. "I'll take that bet; your racehorse against my red-haired concubine and two jeweled armlets that the one with the two swords draws first blood before he's marked!"
It took a moment for the sense of what they were saying to sink in, and when it did, he felt a little sick. The idea of equating the value of a human with that of a horse—no, as less than that of the horse ... it hit him with the force of a blow to the stomach just how foreign their way of thinking was to his. He'd known it intellectually, of course, but this was the first concrete example he'd witnessed. Up until now, Aelmarkin's slaves hadn't behaved any differently than his own servants at their most discreet.
I truly am the alien here. If they knew how we treat our humans, they wouldn 't hesitate for a moment to bring us all down. He would be considered a traitor to his race, and worse than the Wizards and the wild humans. He had to remember to keep his guard up!
The two feuding parties finally arrived, with great fanfare, at exactly the same moment. With each of the Elvenlords came an entourage of glittering, fancifully-costumed hangers-on. There were box seats at either end of the arena, directly above the two doors that had disgorged the combatants; those boxes were now occupied by the newly-arrived lords and their entourages. Kyrt-ian found that he could not for the life of him remember their names and Houses—not that it really mattered to him. He would, if he was introduced later, congratulate the winner and be properly sympathetic to the loser. It wasn't likely, though, that Aelmarkin would make such an introduction, unless he thought he had a way of making Kyrtian lose face.
How they took their seats and in what order was clearly as choreographed as an elaborate ritual. Neither of the Lords wished to be seated first, and there was much arranging of the chairs and jockeying of seating before the two Great Lords sat at precisely the same moment. They glared at each other across the span of the arena, before turning away with studied indifference to speak with a companion.
Now Aelmarkin, as host, stood up; Kyrtian caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned j ust enough so that he could watch his cousin without being obvious about it.
"Most noble Lords," Aelmarkin said, his smooth and impersonal words carrying effortlessly above the whispers of those seated all around him, "You have determined to settle your differences in trial-by-combat, and have accepted my offer to host this venture. Are you still of the same mind to accept the outcome of this combat as the settling of your feud?"
He of the azure serpent replied with a gruff, "Aye" while he of the white alicorn simply nodded.
"Very well," Aelmarkin said calmly. "Let the record show that both agree to be bound by the outcome here below us. Let all who ye assembled here so bear witness."
"We so bear witness," came a chorus of voices, some indifferent, sxjme full of tense excitement. A hush came over them; all whispers and movement stopped. So profound was the silence that the slightest rustle of fabric came as a shock.
As if this had been a signal, the fighters below tensed.
Aelmarkin surveyed the two opposed lines of fighters for a moment, an odd smile on his lips. "Very well," he said at last, into the stillness. "Begin."
Kyrtian's full attention immediately turned to the arena. The two lines of fighters leapt at each other, hurling themselves across the sand to meet in a clangor of metal and harsh male shouts. The noise echoed inside the arena, making Kyrtian wince involuntarily. Added to the noise of fighting was the clamor of shouts and cheers behind him and to either side of him, as the onlookers cheered the combatants on.
Kyrtian was still trying to figure out how Aelmarkin intended to score this combat, when the swordsman nearest him managed to beat down his opponent's guard and laid open the other's sword-arm from shoulder to wrist with a single blow.
The rnan screamed, and dropped to his knees, a torrent of shockingly scarlet blood pouring from the wound into the sand as his blade fell from his slack fingers.
For one moment, Kyrtian was startled by how realistic the wound was—then he realized that it wasn't "realistic," it was real.
He felt as if someone had rammed him in the midsection and knocked all the breath out of him. He started to shake, as a wave of sick horror twisted his throat and stomach.
It's real—it's real. They're trying to really kill each other.
They 're dying, and all so a couple of idiots can settle an argument! Senseless—useless—insane!
Then, strangely, it all dissolved under a flood of blinding rage. He lost caution, lost focus, lost everything except the will to make it all stop. He rose abruptly to his feet.
"No!" he shouted, spreading his arms wide, his voice somehow carrying above the noise of combat. His powers, leaping to answer his will, poured out; an angry and violent burst of magic tore out of him.
It flung the combatants to their own sides of the arena, and dropped every man in the arena to his knees—except the injured one, who was frantically trying to close his gaping wound with his good hand.
The sudden silence, heavy with anger, seemed louder than his shout.
For a moment, no one moved—no one seemed able to believe what he had done.
Then in an instant, both of the Great Lords turned to stare at him with an anger as overwhelming as his. Kyrtian felt the weight of that anger, all of it directed solely at him, and came to his senses with a start.