The Saphire Rose by David Eddings

The fight raged on. Sparhawk was panting and sweating now, and his sword-arm ached with weariness. He stepped back, lowering his sword slightly in the traditional wordless suggestion that they pause for long enough to get their breath. That suggestion was never considered a sign of weakness.

Martel also lowered his sword in agreement. ‘Almost like old times, Sparhawk,’ he panted, pushing open his visor.

‘Close,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘You’ve picked up some new tricks, I see.’ He also opened his visor.

“I spent too much time in Lamorkand. Lamork swordsmanship is clumsy, though. Your technique seems to be a little Rendorish.’

‘Ten years of exile there,’ Sparhawk shrugged, breathing deeply as he tried to regain his wind.

‘Vanion would skin both of us if he saw us Railing at each other this way. ‘

‘He probably would. Vanion’s a perfectionist.’

‘That’s God’s own truth.’

They stood panting and staring intently into each other’s eyes, watching for that minuscule narrowing that would preface a surprise blow. Sparhawk could feel the ache slowly draining from his right shoulder. ‘Are you ready?’

he asked finally.

“Any time you are. ‘

They clanged their visors shut again and resumed the fight.

Martel launched a complicated and extended series of sword-strokes. The series was familiar, since it was one of the oldest, and its conclusion was inevitable. Sparhawk moved his shield and his sword in the prescribed defence, but he had known as soon as Martel swung the first stroke that he was going to receive a near-stunning blow to the head. Kurik, however, had devised a modification to the Pandion helmet not long after Martel’s expulsion from the order, and when the renegade swung his heavy blow at Sparhawk’s head, Sparhawk ducked his chin slightly to take the stroke full on the crest of his helmet – a crest which was now heavily reinforced. His ears rang nonetheless, and his knees buckled slightly. He was, however, able to parry the follow-up stroke which might well have disabled him.

Martel’s reactions seemed somehow slower than Sparhawk remembered them as having been. His own blows, he conceded, probably no longer had the crisp snap of youth. They were both older, and an extended duel with a man of equal strength and skill ages one rapidly.

Then he suddenly understood, and the action came simultaneously with understanding. He unleashed a series of overhand strokes at Martel’s head, and the renegade was forced to protect himself with both sword and shield.

Then Sparhawk followed that flurry to the head with the traditional body-thrust. Martel knew it was coming, of course, but he simply could not move his shield rapidly enough to protect himself. The point of Sparhawk’s sword crunched into his armour low on the right side of his chest and drove deeply into his body. Martel stiffened, and coughed a great spray of blood out through the slots of his visor. He tried weakly to keep his shield and sword up, but his hands were trembling violently.

His legs began to shake. His sword fell from his hand, and his shield dropped to his side. He coughed again, a wet, tearing sound. Blood poured from his visor once more, and he slowly collapsed in a heap, face down. ‘Finish it, Sparhawk,’ he gasped. Sparhawk pushed him over onto his back with one foot.

He raised his sword, then lowered it again. He knelt beside the dying man. “There’s no need,’ he said quietly, opening Martel’s visor.

“How did you manage that?’ Martel asked.

‘It’s that new armour of yours. It’s too heavy. You got tired and started to slow down.’

“There’s a certain justice there,’ Martel said, trying to breathe shallowly so that the blood rapidly filling his lungs would not choke him again. ‘Killed by my own vanity.’

‘That’s probably what kills us all – eventually.’

‘It was a good fight, though.’

“Yes. It was.’

‘And we finally found out which of us is the best.

Perhaps it’s the time for truth. I never had any real doubts, you know.’

“I did.’

Sparhawk knelt quietly, listening to Martel’s breathing grOWIng shallower and shallower. ‘Lakus died, you know,’

he said quietly, ‘and Olven.’

‘Lakus and Olven? I didn’t know that. Was I in any way responsible?’

‘No. It was something else.’

‘That’s some small comfort anyway. Could you call Sephrenia for me, Sparhawk? I’d like to say goodbye to her. ‘

Sparhawk raised his arm and motioned to the woman who had trained them both.

Her eyes were full of tears as she knelt across Martel’s body from Sparhawk. ‘Yes, dear one?’ she said to the dying man.

“You always said I’d come to a bad end, little mother,’

Martel said wryly, his voice no more than a whisper now, “but you were wrong. This isn’t so bad at all. It’s almost like a formal deathbed. I get to depart in the presence of ‘ the only two people I’ve ever really loved. Will you bless me, little mother?’

She put her hands to his face and spoke gently in Styric.

Then, weeping, she bent and kissed his pallid forehead.

When she raised her face again, he was dead.

*Chapter 30

Sparhawk rose to his feet and helped Sephrenia to stand.

‘Are you all right, dear one?’ she whispered.

“I’m well enough.’ Sparhawk stared hard at Otha.

“Congratulations, Sir Knight,’ Otha rumbled ironically, his sweaty head ~gleaming in the light of the fires, ‘and I thank thee. Long have I pondered the problem of Martel. He sought, methinks, to rise above himself, and his usefulness to me ended when thou and thy companions brought Bhelliom to me. I am well rid of him.

“Call it a farewell gift, Otha.’

.Oh? Art thou leaving?’

‘No, but you are.’

Otha laughed. It was a revolting sound.

‘He’s afraid, Sparhawk,’ Sephrenia whispered. “He’s not sure that you can’t break through his shield.’

‘Can I?’

‘I’m not sure either. He’s very vulnerable now, though, because Azash is totally distracted by that rite.’

‘That’s a place to start then.’ Sparhawk drew in a deep breath and started towards the bloated Emperor of Zemoch.

Otha flinched back and made a quick signal to the half-naked brutes around him. The bearers picked up the litter upon which he grossly sprawled and started towards the terraces leading down towards the onyx floor where the naked celebrants, twitching and blank-faced with exhaustion, continued their obscene rite. Annias, Arissa and Lycheas went with him, their eyes fearful as they stayed as close to his litter as possible to remain within the questionable safety of the glowing nimbus of his protective shield. When the litter reached the onyx floor, Otha shouted to the green-robed priests, and they rushed forward. their faces alight with mindless devotion as they drew weapons from beneath their vestments.

From behind them, Sparhawk heard a sudden cry of frustrated chagrin. The soldiers rushing to the aid of their emperor had just encountered Sephrenia’s barrier. ‘Will it hold?’ he asked her.

‘It will unless one of those soldiers is stronger than I am.’

‘Not too likely. That leaves only the priests then.’ He looked at his friends. “All right, gentlemen,’ he said to them. “Let’s form up around Sephrenia and clear a path through here.’

The priests of Azash wore no armour, and the way they handled their weapons showed little evidence of skill. They were Styric for the most part, and the sudden appearance of hostile Church Knights in the holy centre of their religion had startled them and filled them with dismay.

Sparhawk remembered something Sephrenia had once said. Styrics, she had told him, do not react well when they are surprised. The unexpected tends to confound them. He could feel a faint prickling sensation as he and his armoured friends started down the stair-stepped terraces, a prickling that told him that some few of the priests at least were attempting to put some form of spell together. He roared an Elene war cry, a harsh bellow filled with a lust for blood and violence. The tingling evaporated. ‘Lots of noise, gentlemen!’ he shouted to his friends. “Keep them off-balance so they can’t use magic!’

The Church Knights rushed down the black terraces bellowing war cries and brandishing their weapons. The priests recoiled, and then the knights were on them.

Berit pushed past Sparhawk, his eyes alight with enthusiasm and Sir Bevier’s lochaber at the ready. “Save your strength, Sparhawk,’ he said gruffly, trying to make his voice deeper, more roughly masculine. He stepped purposefully in front of the startled Sparhawk and strode into the green-robed ranks facing them, swinging the lochaber like a scythe. Sparhawk reached out to pull him back, but Sephrenia laid her hand on his wrist.

‘No, Sparhawk,’ she said. ‘This

is important to him, and he’s in no particular danger.’

Otha had reached the polished altar in front of the idol and was staring at the carnage below in openmouthed fright. Then he drew himself up. “Approach then, Sparhawk!’ he blustered. “My God grows impatient!’

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