Stumbling forward, Corwin just managed to catch himself before falling. He peered around, waiting for another drake to appear. A tremble slid through his body and down his legs, the right one already starting to burn from the drake’s poison. He leaned to the left, keeping the weight off it as best he could. At least it wasn’t deep, the bleeding slow and sluggish. But it was only going to worsen.
A glint in the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned toward it as the mists parted once more, this time to reveal a second tree, smaller and younger than the first, not much more than a sapling. Hanging from its branches were a morning star, a dirk, and a buckler. Another test, this one easier than the last. Corwin had never been one for two-handed fighting, and so he picked up the buckler and slid it on his left hand.
The moment he did so, a figure appeared from around the tree. The man wore peasant’s garb, dirtied and patched, and he had ash smeared across his forehead and cheeks. Wary, Corwin retreated a step, resisting the urge to raise his sword.
“Who are—?”
The man flung out his hands, and a ball of fire appeared in his palms. Corwin had only a second to think wilder before the flames reached him. He raised the buckler just in time to deflect the fire. With a loud curse, the pyrist sidestepped and tried again. Corwin spun, following the movement and keeping the buckler in front of him. The pyrist let loose with his magic once more, this time a steady stream of fire. Corwin blocked for a few seconds, but the small shield wouldn’t be able to stand such a blast for long.
With a shout of desperation, he spun away from the pyrist and pivoted around the young tree, his wounded leg throbbing with every step. A second later the tree burst into flames, the heat of it forcing Corwin back. The pyrist followed, lobbying volley after volley. Corwin blocked when he needed to and dodged whenever he could. Before long he was doing wild leaps and flips through the air, whatever he could to stay away from the flames. His right leg went blessedly numb, but he wouldn’t be able to keep this up for long.
I’ve got to stop him. More than that, he wanted to stop him. To slay this pyrist, so like the one who had killed his mother.
There was only one way. Despite the danger—the risk of fire and the oppressive heat—Corwin circled closer to the man. Several flames caught him on the shoulder and one lashed across his cheek. He hissed in pain but didn’t retreat. Instead he moved faster, leaping and spinning like an acrobat. He whispered a silent prayer of thanks for his Shieldhawk training, where he’d learned the art of the dodge and survival. Spin and leap, dodge and duck, spin again. All the while he kept his eyes on the pyrist, waiting for an opening. When it came, he took it without hesitation, burying his sword in the man’s side. The pyrist cried out once before vanishing.
Panting, Corwin bent over and dropped the buckler to grip his wounded shoulder, already covered in blisters from the flames. He wouldn’t be able to raise his arm, the pain strong enough to leave him dizzy. He needed this to end soon, but another figure appeared, this one bearing a sword and shield. He wore the traditional brigandine armor of Norgard, a lightweight piece that covered the torso but left the arms free for full movement. A helmet hid his face. No sooner had Corwin spotted him than the man attacked. The prince barely had time to grab the buckler from the ground and use it to block a downward, hacking swing. His opponent’s sword screeched as it met the steel on the front of his buckler.
Wrenching free of the clash, Corwin retreated. He kept his sword out in front of him, but it shook in his sweaty hand, his arms weak from fighting and from the drake poison working its way through his body. He didn’t want to fight this man, but the stranger gave him no choice. Wherever Corwin went, he followed, relentless. He swung and Corwin blocked. He thrust and Corwin parried. Each hit landed like a hammer, and Corwin knew either he must kill this foe or he would die himself.
It wasn’t easy to kill a man in armor, especially not when you were wearing just a loincloth. Corwin pressed close, blocking more attacks than dodging them as he searched for openings to land his blade. For a while, he didn’t think it would happen—the other fighter was too good, too careful. But then he made a mistake. Thrusting his sword at Corwin, he overextended, leaving an opening big enough for the most inexperienced of swordsmen to exploit. Corwin lunged toward it, sinking his sword through the man’s shoulder and into his chest. A killing blow.
The man shrieked and fell to his knees. Sickened by the sound and the sight of the death he’d wrought, Corwin pulled his sword free. But the man didn’t vanish as the others had done. Instead he raised a blood-soaked hand to his helmet, using the last of his strength to pull it free.
Corwin stared down into the face of his father. As he once had been, young and strong, not the wasted shell he was now.
“You are not worthy to wear my crown,” Orwin said. “Not . . . worthy.”
The words landed harder than any blow. Oh goddess, let this end, Corwin thought. A tremor struck his body, this one hard enough that he dropped his sword and shield both. He fell to his knees, succumbing to the pain and poison while across from him, the vision of his father vanished at last.
Another figure appeared a moment later, this one far smaller than the others but no less a threat. Corwin gaped at the boy, his gut twisting at the sight of him. He wore a flimsy breastplate of boiled leather, much too big for him, and he carried a rusted iron sword. The Sevan crest, a red bull in charge painted on the breastplate, seemed to mock Corwin. Everything about the boy was a mockery, a reminder of his greatest failure and biggest regret.
Unbidden, a memory rose up in his mind of riding with the Shieldhawks toward the Sevan supply line they’d been sent to destroy. He’d taken a shortcut, going against his commander’s orders. Ahead, he saw a boy dressed like a soldier. Only he couldn’t be a soldier. He was too young and frail, eyes too wide and frightened.
“Kill him,” Otto had said. “You’ve got to, Captain. He’ll give us away, soon as he can.”
But Corwin hadn’t. In the end, he couldn’t. The boy was just a child, someone’s son. A slave given in tribute to the Godking who had conquered his lands. “Go home,” Corwin told the boy. “Find your parents.” And then he set the boy free—to betray him and his men to the Sevan forces.
Outrage and anguish ignited inside Corwin, the strength of it driving him to his feet just as the soldier boy attacked. Corwin dodged the blow, pivoting to the right. Then he turned and grabbed the boy by the wrist. With one hard squeeze, he forced the boy’s hand open, making him drop the sword. With his other hand, Corwin grasped the boy by the back of his breastplate and hauled him off his feet. Even in his weakened state, overpowering him was easy. Still the boy fought him, kicking and snarling like a wild beast.
Corwin held him aloft as he bent to pick up his own fallen sword. One stab was all it would take, hardly more effort than swatting a fly. He raised the sword and the boy cried out, the sound as pathetic as a mewling kitten.
Kill him, a voice whispered from amid the mist. Finish this. Prove yourself. Kill him.
Corwin raised the sword again. His body trembled; sweat stung his eyes, blurred his vision.
Kill him! The voice seemed to strike him like a fist, demanding his compliance. Kill him and this will end. Your suffering will be over. Kill him!
“No,” Corwin said. “I won’t kill him. I won’t do what you want.” He would do what was right and just—mercy for a foe too weak to fight. Letting go of the boy’s breastplate, he shoved him toward the mist. “Get out of here.”
The boy vanished, and the next moment the mists parted, bright sunlight pouring over Corwin. He blinked against it, aware of a strange tingle spreading over his skin. Looking down, he saw his injuries had vanished. So had the sword. None of it had been real. And yet it had been. From far below, the cheers of the crowd reached him. He glanced at Edwin, standing on the other side of the altar. It seemed they’d both made it—one trial over and two more yet to come.