Victor of Tucson

Victor stood behind Queen Kynna’s high-backed, hand-tooled, gold-filigreed chair and listened to her and King Vennar hash out the terms of the duel. The king sat in a similar chair on the opposite side of an equally ornate table. It was Victor’s job to appear imposing, and he did his best. Still, with his aura tightly in check, his armor all stowed away, and his Core locked down like a bank vault the day before payday, he didn’t think he was imposing anyone, least of all Vennar or his champion, Obert.

Obert, on the other hand, was putting on a show of deadly force and barely restrained potential for destruction. He was an eleven-foot-tall man built like a ballet dancer. He walked more gracefully than a panther and projected a ferocity that would make a tiger seem cuddly. His long, lithe limbs were corded with hard muscle, his skin was tan and glistened as though oiled, and he wore armor consisting of a shiny breastplate, an eagle-visored helm, shiny bracers, and rune-inscribed greaves. Victor considered it “shiny,” but the armor was more than that. It shone with the inner light of dense enchantments and radiated with a lustrous greenish-blue tint.

Victor forced his face into an unimpressed, almost lackadaisical expression as he regarded him. Still, inwardly, he was impressed, especially by the man’s eight-foot longsword that hung from a scabbard on his back. Victor could only see the hilt and pommel—a glowing tiger’s eye gemstone—but the thing had a presence he couldn’t deny. Still, Victor didn’t react. He didn’t smile or glower. He didn’t let his gaze linger. He constantly surveyed the room, the table, the monarchs, and even the motes of dust gently drifting through the beam of sunlight streaming through the high window.

He could tell his inattention was bothering Obert. The man stared at him as though he could melt Victor’s heart with his gaze. Victor almost smirked at the thought—maybe he could! He let his eyes drift past Kynna’s crown to King Vennar, a very different sort of man. Short—for a Ruhnian, with very dark, nearly black skin and eyes that glowed much the same way as Kynna’s and Dar’s. Was he a distant relation? His flesh certainly reminded Victor of Dar’s. It wasn’t quite the same—it didn’t look exactly like stone, but it had a porous, uneven quality that made it difficult to imagine how it would feel.

The king’s voice was certainly far smoother than Dar’s. “I understand you feel backed into a corner, Kynna—may I use your given name?”

“We’re both monarchs here, Wil. I won’t complain if you don’t.”

“Very good. First, let me thank you for responding to me before King Groff. I assure you, Frostmarch will offer better terms than Xan.” He glanced at Victor and ran his eyes up and down his figure, from his well-polished boots to his freshly cut hair. Victor thought he saw a smirk hiding behind his bright eyes. “I’m pleased you’ve found yourself a young champion willing to stand for you. I’d heard rumors but hadn’t let myself fully believe them.” His lips curled into a more pleasant smile, and he leaned closer to Kynna over the table. “I’m not ashamed to admit that I loathed the idea of a great old warhound like Foster dying to save a lost cause. Will your new man take the knee, as Foster never would?”

“Oh no. You mistake me, Wil. I’m not here to negotiate a surrender. Today, we will agree to the terms of the duel.”

Chamberlain Thorn and his counterpart—a small woman Victor hadn’t caught the name of—sat at the left-hand sides of their monarchs, and it was the woman who reacted first to Queen Kynna’s words. She audibly choked and had to hold the back of her hand to her mouth and look down, coughing softly to clear her windpipe. Everyone ignored her as the king once again looked at Victor.

“Quite so. Shall we begin?” Victor couldn’t see Kynna’s face, but she sounded very prim.

King Vennar, still staring at Victor and attempting to make eye contact while Victor continued to study the empty space in the air between himself and the far wall, could barely contain the lascivious expression on his face—a dog eyeing a child’s abandoned hamburger. He slowly nodded, cleared his throat, and elbowed the woman beside him. “Certainly. Let’s discuss terms.”

Kynna inclined her head slightly, her tall, crystalline crown glittering in the light as it dipped forward. “Have you any thoughts about sovereign succession?”

King Vennar brushed the back of his hand over his lips, almost like he had to physically push away the hungry grin. “I see no reason to be overly harsh. I would think banishment will suffice.”

“Of only the monarch or their entire lineage?”

“Oh, I would think the entire lineage.” He tsked and, again, leaned forward with an earnest expression. “You could avoid that if you’ll just have your new champion take the knee. I’d keep you on as a Duchess.”

“No, King Vennar, I believe we should do this properly. I have my ancestor’s reputation to manage.”

“Ah yes, the great Ranish Dar.” Vennar smirked, shaking his head. “So. Are we agreed then? Banishment for the ruling family?”

Kynna nodded. “I believe that will suffice. No need for a grisly display of beheadings.” At her words, both chamberlains began to write on the documents before them. She tapped one of her hard nails on the table—click, click, click. “And the Oaths of Submission?”

“One hundred years,” Vennar spoke firmly, and Victor saw Obert shift in the corner of his eye, but he refused to look at the other champion to see his expression. Instead, he continued to let his eyes wander around the room, staring at the art, the furniture, and even the tiles along the far wall.

Kynna glanced to her left, looking at something Thorn had written, then nodded. “Very well. All nobility, minor and major, shall swear peace and allegiance to the victor for a term of no less than one hundred years. We’re in agreement?”

Vennar nodded. “We are. Tribute and Taxation?”

Again, Kynna looked to Thorn. “What is our proposal, Chamberlain Thorn?”

Thorn cleared his throat and lifted his notebook, speaking clearly, almost like he was presenting to a room full of people, not just the three at the table with him. “We propose the following: The vanquished shall be bound to deliver tribute unto the victor in the form of wealth, crops, and provisions. The amount paid shall be no less than thirteen percent of each season’s surplus, verified by the Crown’s agents, who shall be given full access to all records upon request.”

Vennar frowned, looking at his chamberlain. She didn’t speak but tapped something in her notes as she nodded. Vennar looked back to Kynna. “I agree.”

“This has been painless, Wil!” Kynna sounded borderline patronizing, but Victor couldn’t see her face, so he couldn’t be sure. Vennar didn’t look angry, though; in fact, he looked like he’d just been given a gift. “There’s just the matter of the Right of the Chosen Blade.”

Vennar barked a short, harsh laugh. “Forgive me, Kynna, but do you even have a cadre? I’d thought Foster was your last champion until…” He glanced at Victor again, this time doing nothing to hide the smirk on his face. “Recently. Still, I’ll bite. How many champions should the victor claim?”

Kynna stiffened her back, squaring her shoulders. Victor imagined she was putting on a show of indignation at Vennar’s dismissive attitude. Even so, she spoke very precisely with perfect decorum, “I would think a single choice will suffice.”

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Vennar leaned back in his chair, pushing away from the table as he waved a dismissive hand. “Very well.” He looked to his chamberlain. “Is there aught else?”

“Just secondary terms, Your Majesty—things like hostage exchange, judicial authority, cultural exchange—”

Vennar sighed. “You can handle this with goodman Thorn here, yes?”

Kynna spoke before the diminutive woman could reply, “I’m in agreement. These lesser matters can be handled by our people. However, we have one final matter to discuss. I’m assuming the duel will be held here, at the ring at Westhome. Have you looked at the schedule?”

Vennar nodded, reaching up to adjust his golden, diamond-studded crown. It wasn’t a bulky crown, but it gleamed and sparkled impressively. “It’s clear for months. Not many duels these days.”

Kynna’s response was immediate. “Sunrise, then?”

“So eager?” Vennar chuckled, glancing over his shoulder at Obert. “What say you, Champion? Will you be ready at dawn?”

“To slay this whelp?” Victor could feel the heat of his stare and the sloppy, or perhaps deliberate, slip of his aura that felt like iron and blood and somehow made Victor think of burning flesh. Even so, he refused to look at him and kept his face fixed in his simple, almost idiotic half-smile. “Aye, I’ll be ready,” the champion growled.

Vennar nodded and pushed his chair back. “We’re agreed, then?”

Kynna also stood. “We are.”

“So witnessed,” Thorn and the other chamberlain said in near unison. For the first time, Victor let his eyes drift over to Obert’s face, and he locked his gaze with the fierce, golden eyes behind his eagle-beak visor. He didn’t do anything more than smile, a genuine, eager grin that exposed his bright, straight teeth. Still, Obert took a step back, perhaps caught off guard by the idiocy suddenly fleeing his opponent’s gaze. Or, Victor reasoned, maybe Obert saw something in his eyes that was at odds with his display of weakness. Victor continued to stare and grin as the man turned on his heel and led the king and chamberlain out of the room.

“You did well, Victor,” Kynna said as soon as the door clicked shut. “Assuming your intentions had anything to do with your…less than significant bearing. If King Vennar thought there was any chance he’d lose, he would have bargained much more viciously.”

Chamberlain Thorn gathered up his papers and nodded. “Yes! These terms are wonderful.” He looked at Victor and inclined his head. “Ahem, assuming you win, sir. Do excuse me, Your Majesty; I’ll need to catch up with Lady Foi to finish the negotiation.”

Kynna nodded. “Go on then.” She watched him exit, then turned to Victor. “If you fail, you realize my entire family, from my son to my fifth cousin, thrice removed, will be forced to leave Ruhn, yes?”

Victor shrugged. “Well, My Queen, if I fail, I’ll be dead.”

Kynna’s face, never exactly cheerful, fell into such a dour expression that Victor instinctively wanted to proclaim his innocence, though he’d done nothing wrong. “You’re awfully flippant about this whole ordeal. You saw Obert! I’m sure you felt him, too. Tell me this now, Victor, is there more to you or not?” She gestured to him in exasperation, indicating his current state, no doubt—dressed in the same clothes he’d worn the day before, only this time he’d tweaked the colors of his attire to be more complementary to Gloria’s heraldry; his shirt was pale yellow, his pants and leather pieces black.

“I am what I am, My Queen.” When Victor saw her irritation fall away, only to be replaced by something closer to despair, he almost confessed his game. He settled on a compromise, saying, “Maybe you fear that your ancestor has sent me here to fail, maybe to teach you a lesson or to play a cruel game. Maybe you’re wondering if he wants your family to be forced to leave Ruhn—that he has some sort of plan for you beyond this world.” Kynna took a breath to speak, but Victor rushed to finish his statement, “You should know that he’s a prideful man, and he wouldn’t enjoy seeing his descendants chased off their homeworld. I also don’t think I’ve done anything to deserve being sent to my doom.” He finished with another shrug. “Try to stay confident, Kynna.”

“Your enigmatic nature is rather maddening, Victor.” She sighed and pointed to the door from which they’d entered. “Our portal awaits. By the way, I’ll put aside your lack of propriety for now, but do remember to address me properly in the future.” With that, she turned and marched to the door, and Victor followed, trying to replay his words in his mind. When had he addressed her inappropriately? It took him a minute, and by then, he was already through the door and marching down the hall to the portal chamber, flanked by four of Kynna’s guards. “Ah!” he said, as he recalled calling her simply “Kynna” after telling her to be confident.

She turned to regard him as they walked. “Something amiss?”

“No. My apologies, Your Majesty.” He turned to the guard on his left, meaning to grin or wink, but thought better of it when he saw her stern eyes through the slit in her helmet’s visor. When they entered the portal chamber, the magical gateway was already active, glowing with deep blue Energy that hummed and buzzed as it crackled faintly. It would take them straight back to Gloria; the two delegations had met on neutral ground—a city called Westhome, which was the seat of the Ruhnic Empire on the Western Continent. Victor had seen it on a map and knew it was close to two thousand miles south and east of Gloria.

Part of him wondered if the place would still be neutral after he began to enact Dar’s plan—pushing Kynna into kicking off a succession war. There were many rules, laws, and customs he had yet to master in this strange, new world, but so far, he was rather enjoying himself. Kynna interrupted his thoughts by striding through the portal without hesitation. Victor hurried to follow her, cringing slightly as he anticipated the portal's hot, shocking embrace. When he stepped out on the other side, Kynna stood facing him.

“You’ve only about twelve hours before you’ll be fighting for your life. Is there anything you need to prepare? Anything you’d like to put in order?”

Victor rubbed his chin as he looked around the dim, circular chamber. The portal crackled behind him as the guards followed them through. And then it sizzled and disappeared, throwing the room into deeper shadows. “I’ll take some time to myself, I suppose. Do you mind if I go to my chambers to write some correspondence?”

“By all means.” She stepped closer and spoke in a less imperious tone than usual, “I am worried, and it makes me unpleasant. I understand you’re putting your life on the line tomorrow, and while the consequences would be dire for me and my loved ones should you lose, I want you to know that I understand the point you made earlier. You may die tomorrow. It’s not a small thing you do for me, and—”

“Um, My Queen?” Victor grinned at the wide-eyed disbelief on her face after he interrupted her out-of-character attempt at sympathy. “I certainly don’t mind helping you, but there’s no need for any guilt. I’m not doing this for you.” He grinned wickedly and winked at her. “I’m doing this for the glory.”

Kynna scowled and pressed her blue-painted lips into a thin line as she glanced at the nearby guards. Victor wondered what was running through her mind. How ruthless could she be? Would she banish these soldiers because they’d witnessed him interrupting her? He didn’t believe she was a tyrant, but it was kind of fun to test her. If he wanted to gauge her response, he was left disappointed because she just nodded and turned to stride out of the chamber, followed by three of the four guards. “Well,” he muttered several seconds after the door had clicked closed, “I guess, technically, not responding is a response.”

The remaining guard didn’t comment. Victor looked at her, standing at attention just behind him. “What’s your name, soldier?”

“Bryn, sir.”

“You’re the same guard who was waiting for me at my chambers this morning, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Assigned to me permanently?”

“Until you die or leave, I suppose.”

Victor laughed. “I like you, Bryn.”

“Thank you, Lord Champion. May I speak freely?” Her voice echoed from inside her helm—stern, husky, and confident.

“I’d be angry if you didn’t.”

“I don’t reciprocate your feelings. I think you’re awfully rude. I think Queen Kynna ought to have your tongue stabbed through with a hot poker, and I think you’re probably going to die tomorrow.”

“As my auntie would say, ‘qué encanto!’ Hah! Did that translate? I can never tell what the System’s going to make sound like English—er, Rhunish?”

“You said I’m charming,” Bryn replied in a tone that made the words wonderfully ironic.

“Perfecto!” Victor laughed and started for the door. “I’ll need your help finding my way back to my chambers. This is a big palace.”

“Take a right after the door.”

Victor grinned, pleased that he’d scored a blunt-speaking, no-nonsense escort. As they walked, he slowed and gestured for her to hurry beside him. “Tell me about Obert. You ever seen him fight?”

“I have. He’s a devil with that long sword of his. Most people agree he’s deep into the epic tier of mastery.”

“Mmhmm. And what sorts of affinities does he have? Any spells that stand out?”

“I don’t know how true it is, but I’ve heard his strongest affinity is for momentum, but I’ve also heard he has a touch of the void. I don’t know much about his abilities, sir, but I’ll say this much: the longer you fight him, the more deadly he becomes.”

“Hmm.” Victor nodded, sighing as he pressed his hands into his lower back, stretching as they walked.

“You’re not concerned?”

“Sure, but I figured he’d be good with that sword. I mean, it’s no secret that he’s dangerous. I guess, if anything, your words make me feel a little better. Now I’ve got the beginnings of a strategy: kill him quickly.” As he spoke, his lack of sleep got to him, and Victor yawned hugely. “Sorry about that. I didn’t sleep much last night.”

“Nerves?”

“Hmm? Oh, no. I was reading. My mentor sent me with a huge list of topics to study.”

“Your mentor?” For once, Bryn sounded respectful. “Do you mean Ranish Dar?”

“Yeah. I tried to get him to cut out some of the more boring-sounding stuff, but—”

“Boring? You have books from Ranish Dar, and he personally told you to read them? Boring?” Her voice rose stridently as she hurried to keep pace with him, so much so that a pair of housekeeping staff looked up from the cabinet they were dusting, staring after them with wide eyes.

“Easy, Bryn. You’re going to get me a bad reputation around here.”

Bryn scoffed. “Too late to worry about that!”

Victor smiled again, genuinely enjoying her acerbic nature. “Yeah? People are talking?”

“Do you want the truth, or do you want me to be ‘easy’?”

“The truth, but don’t yell about it!” Victor recognized the stairway down a long gallery of stately portraits to his right, so he turned that way.

“Well, most everyone thinks you’re a madman or a criminal paying penance to the great Ranish Dar. People are getting their affairs in order and packing their belongings. Most agree that we’ll be released when Her Majesty, Queen Kynna—long shall she reign—is ousted and banished. Not many are happy with you for forcing the duel; there was some hope that another neighboring kingdom would put pressure on one or both of Gloria’s enemies, thereby granting us a reprieve. That hope is dashed now that—”

“All right, all right. I get it. Listen,” Victor pointed down the hallway toward the purple-black pair of doors at the end, “there’s my room. I’m going to go in there and write some letters to people who don’t hate me. Then I’m going to try to get a little sleep. Can you make sure I don’t—”

“Oversleep?” Bryn slammed a fist against her shiny, silvery breastplate. “It’ll be my pleasure, Lord Champion.”

“Jesus, chica,” Victor laughed, “Do you have to make it sound like an insult?”

“Win tomorrow, and then maybe I’ll change my tune.”

“Hah! Right on. Say it like it is! You know I like it.” Victor turned to face her more squarely, then stood to attention as though he was back in the Free Marches preparing to address his troops. He slammed his fist to his chest in salute, stared into her eye slit soberly for a moment, and then smartly turned on his heel and strode to his room. He had a lot of letters to write.