The Charmer

37

With a roar like thunder, riders burst out of the gates to the left of Jayems’ pavilion, charging straight toward the black blocks of cadets. Jasmine barely had time to note Keilor and the commanders move to the far side of the field, leaving the sub-commanders to handle their units. A single shouted command from five different throats caused the ranks to whip out their knives and turn en masse to present a solid wall of resistance to the oncoming hoard. Jasmine barely had time to wonder at the folly of facing horsemen (or stagmen) with nothing but knives when with a zap!, a hundred blades suddenly elongated into three foot lengths of blue light.

“Light sabers!” Jasmine gasped, her eyes enormous.

Jayems’ eyes flicked to her briefly. “Energy blades. Blue Death.” He returned his attention to the fray.

Faced with a solid wall of lightning, the riders sheered off, shouting blood curdling war cries as they tossed glowing white balls into the mass of soldiers. Unless struck from the air with a sword, dazzling white light exploded where they hit, coating the soldiers with glowing powder. Only one grenade struck, and those soldiers immediately removed from the field.

“Acceptable, for cadets, though Keilor will have them doing drills for a month.” Jayems murmured.

The riders made two more passes with the bombs, and one struck, narrowing the field by five more men. The riders, all men with red insignia and red sashes, condensed into a menacing wedge with a fierce, dark haired warrior riding point. The wedge shot into the squadron. Jasmine gasped as the living missile impaled the square of soldiers and forced the box to burst open.

“Mathin the Mad,” Urseya breathed reverently from Jasmine’s left. “Every mother’s daughter would give away their wedding night for a chance at him.”

Jasmine’s eyes opened wider and she watched the fierce soldier with even more interest.

With a snarl of animal bloodlust, Mathin cut his way through men who outnumbered him ten to one, and those men were definitely resisting. Merely outnumbering men like Mathin and his warriors was not enough to ensure victory, or to even offer the hope of it. In minutes the field was reduced by half, and some of the men were being helped off the battlegrounds.

“These are only cadets,” Jayems offered, almost in apology.

Jasmine just stared at him. If these were only cadets, she shivered to think of his army in action. To her eyes, there had been nothing remotely restrained in their defense.

The riders dismounted, pointed towards the gates and told their mounts to go. Expressions grim, the fearsome ten advanced, swords drawn, on the remaining fifty cadets. Shouted commands from the sub commanders, most of whom were still on the field, locked that remaining fifty into a strong, determined opponent. Not a flicker of fear or hint of wavering showed in the entire division.

Yet the ten caused it to fold like a house gutted by fire.

Jasmine winced and flinched each time an energy blade descended and decimated a cadet. She could tell they were trying valiantly, yet heart and soul alone just wasn’t enough to stop the ten. They were invincible.

When the dust cleared this time, ten of the original hundred soldiers who’d begun the tournament remained on their feet, and of those ten, two were sub commanders.

“Tailor and Seris,” Jayems explained in an aside to her. “Our leaders earn the right to lead with cunning and skill. Nothing is given here.” He rose. “Well done,” he told the remaining ten, and they saluted him. The crowd cheered. To Mad Mathin and his men, he nodded, and received a nod in return. The soldiers left the field, and fire dancers and drummers took their places for intermission.

“The ten who have lasted until the end will now have the honor of exhibiting their skills for you,” Jayems explained politely. “It won’t be anything like what you’ll see tomorrow, of course, but these men are not unskilled. I think you’ll find it entertaining.”

“I thought they did very well, considering the men they were facing,” Jasmine protested, feeling the need to defend the men she’d originally set out to thank. She winced, thinking of the humiliating defeat they’d just suffered on her behalf. Would they still feel as charitable towards her now?

The last half of the tournament passed quickly in a stunning display of riding ability, marksmanship, and sheer daring. Jasmine was particularly fascinated by one cadet’s uncanny ability to cling to his bareback, racing mount while assuming an astonishing number of positions. By the time she was presented with the sweating, disheveled victor of the day, she was truly in awe.

Jasmine looked closely at the young sub commander who stood before her, the one called Seris. He must have been close to her age, whereas all the men who would compete tomorrow were unanimously older, though still in their prime. She felt a tug of sympathy for the cadet, who’d fought so hard against such impossible odds, and after a moment, she recognized him. “Aren’t you the one who gave me truffles?” she asked, frowning a little in thought.

Seris nodded his head in respect. “Yes, my lady. I made them myself.”

Her eyes lit up. “You didn’t tell me that when I thanked you for your gift!” she exclaimed. “Had I known, I would have asked you to show me how right away. Is it too late to ask now?”

“Never, my lady,” Seris breathed, his eyes widening in disbelief at his stroke of good fortune. He’d never dared hope for so much when he’d made the admission.

Jasmine gave him a dazzling smile and awarded him with a red sash embroidered with her name. She hadn’t made it herself, but she felt it was best not to share that with him. Why ruin his moment of glory?

Formally, she gave him the traditional words Rhapsody had taught her. “I give you a token of my pleasure. May you wear it in honor of your victory today, in all your triumphs, until you take a wife who demands the same honor.” And then she added a touch of her own, kissing him lightly on the cheek as she presented the sash.

Poor Seris looked like he might swoon. “A tradition from my own country,” She explained in the stunned silence, fearing for a moment she’d committed a grievous social faux pas.

The crowd erupted into wild cheers and began chanting, “SERIS! SERIS!”

To a man, Mad Mathin and his men sent the dazed cadet looks of death as he stumbled his way from the pavilion.

She did not see Keilor’s face.