Strife & Valor: Book II of The Rorke Burningsoul Saga by Regina Watts (red queen ebook .TXT) 📕

name of Weltyr when you would defy the ancient structure of his Church and defend the doings of witchcraft! Perhaps you wish Elishta-bet for your own wife, or perhaps your motivations are even more sinister; either way, you can hardly pretend you are acting in sync with the will of the Lord.”

While the crowd shuffled to the sides of the mannequin-lined arena, Fortisto stepped up on my behalf. “It is my belief that he was, in fact, called to Weltyr’s business, Zweiding.”

The cocky sneer twitched from the face of my opponent. “You of all men would know,” the Commander allotted without irony, “but how could you be so sure?”

“Because he has brought proof,” said Fortisto, gesturing toward me while looking over his shoulder at Valeria. I extended my hand for the relic she placed in my grasp.

And it felt wrong.

I had accepted the object into my hand without looking away from Zweiding. Now, I stared sharply down at it.

The wrapped Scepter of Weltyr had seemingly grown in length and breadth alike. Indeed, its very shape had changed beneath the cloth that cloaked it.

Silent, all the blood draining from my face amid a mixture of confusion and sudden understanding, I plucked free the knots of the shroud.

Zweiding, having waited for Fortisto to continue, now looked between me and the parcel I untied with trembling hands. “And what proof is that?”

I could not answer him.

EXIGENCE

THE SILK FELL tumbled to the dirt at my feet before it was caught by the wind. Off it billowed, dancing into the sky while Valeria and Fortisto both softly gasped.

A golden sword glittered in my hand, its blade formed of a steel so flawless that it glowed nearly white in the rising light of the sun.

With both hands, I hefted the blade high before me and turned it this way and that. The steel hummed as if severing particles of the very oxygen we breathed—as if tearing at the fabric of reality. Mouth open in astonishment, I supported the blade with one hand to observe the pommel and grip with the other. The great blade’s hilt was as studded with glittering gems as had been the Scepter in Fortisto’s office.

The priest was as shocked as I. All three of us stood, wide-eyed and open-mouthed as we studied the transfigured object in my hands. Unable to appreciate the stupendous meaning of the spectacle, Zweiding rested an impatient hand upon the pommel of his own blade.

He repeated his question in a tone all the more terse. “What proof has assured you this fool works in the name of Weltyr, Fortisto?”

Naturally unwilling to tear his eyes from the beautiful blade, Fortisto at least recovered his senses enough to answer the question.

“His victory, Zweiding,” said the priest softly, finally lifting his gaze to the Commander of the Order. “His victory will be proof that he works in Weltyr’s name.”

Inhaling sharply, I lifted the flat of the blade and pressed its cool metal to my forehead. My eyes shut, lips moving in prayer. A breeze flowed through my body and spirit, this divine breath washing down from my skull through each one of my limbs.

The promise had been fulfilled. I had received my sign, and my sword.

I had received the manifestation of a greater oath than any I had ever before sworn.

“Let us begin,” I urged, lowering the blade and staring down Zweiding. “The sooner we do, the sooner this duel be but an ugly memory.”

“For one of us,” agreed the Commander, eyes following Valeria as she and Fortisto found a place to stand near the hedges that flanked the field’s entrance.

While I stood across from Zweiding and listened to the terms of the duel rattled off to us by a secretary of the Order to whom such responsibilities were allotted, I was amazed to find myself calmer than perhaps I had ever been. Much as I had begun to view my divorce from the order as an inevitability, awareness of my future victory came upon me with the same crystalline cognition. To say I felt confident in my ability to best Zweiding would have been incorrect. Rather, I felt that the victory had been ordained—that it said nothing of my own personal skill, and everything of the grace of the god who had chosen me.

“Weltyr will name the victor of this duel,” the secretary told us, having summed up the guidelines by which we were to engage in battle. “When the dust has settled, the winner must abide by the standards of the loser, for that is the will Weltyr has chosen to support. What is your will, challenger?”

“That Zweiding should yield his claim over the hand of Elishta-bet.”

“And your will, Commander Zweiding?”

“That this impudent welp should be ejected from the Order, and his rank permanently stripped.”

Terms stated, Zweiding and I were sent to back twenty paces.

The secretary made himself scarce and, only when clear at the side of the field, called the fatal word: “Fight!”

A bevy of noise erupted to emphasize how unnaturally quiet the battleground had been. Amid the cheers of the witnesses and the metallic clatter of moving armor, Zweiding charged. I met him head-on, moving not so much by instinct but by the hand of one who knew my body better than I did.

Our swords met.

Across the sparking blades, a wave of surprise altered Zweiding’s face. The force of my parry knocked him back some feet, and my charge gave him only a few seconds to recover.

We were both amazed for different reasons as I swung the glittering blade in a blitz the Commander was forced to waste much time and ground parrying. The sword in Zweiding’s hands, though possessed by the same unyielding charm reflecting his oath to the Church, rattled as though to warn any lesser blade would have already snapped. He gritted his teeth against the energy rattling through him with each hammering of this new sword of mine through the air, his skull surely ringing as he met each