Read The Fifth Vertex (The Sigilord Chronicles) for Free Online Page B

the blade by random chance. Goodwyn was in one of his rhythms, a dance where he knew every move his opponent would make before they made it. It was what made him impossible to defeat and what made his performance so mesmerizing.
    Urus was so enthralled by the performance that he almost didn't notice the two groups of First Fist slowly making their way around the outside of the stadium, heading away from the performance and toward him. At first the movement started as a flicker of red in the corner of his eye, but as they drew closer they stared back at him, the only people in the stadium not watching Goodwyn. He had no idea what the First Fist could possibly want with him, but it couldn't be good.
    The closer they drew the more worried he became, his mind careening through a list of all the things he had done wrong that might warrant a visit from the First Fist. He thought of the cookies he'd taken from the palace kitchen; the ale he and Goodwyn routinely smuggled from the storehouse behind the Victor's Chalice; and all the other mischief the boys had a penchant for getting into.
    His mind returned to the fall from the palace roof and he wondered if he had somehow broken a law, either by jumping or by surviving. Maybe they knew about his family's magic and the shaman wanted to interrogate him.
    Then a truly terrifying thought occurred to him: Had High Shaman Kebetir seen him? Were the First Fist coming to arrest him for spying on the man's conversation?
    His heart raced, his chest tightened, and sweat poured from his head as the men approached. He looked for a way out, but he was still shackled to an elephant's hind end and had nowhere to go. The rapt audience focused solely on the performance. If he made a move to run, everyone would notice.
    "Urus Noellor," the first man to arrive said aloud, "you're to come with us."
    Urus held up his chained hands and tilted his head at the elephant, forcing a smile.
    "I'm kind of in the middle of something," he signed, dragging his chains as he made each word.
    The men shared a laugh at his expense, pointing to the dung on his clothing and sneering at his chains.
    "You play a good prisoner," remarked one of the men, who stood close enough to for Urus to see and read his lips. "It suits you."
    "What do you want with me?" Urus asked, relenting and speaking aloud.  
    The men chuckled again.
    "Not only does he fight like a baby, he talks like one too."
    The insult didn't hurt. Urus had long ago developed a thick skin when it came to his speech problem.
      The leader of the group leaned in so close to Urus's face that he could smell the spicy meal the man had just eaten on his breath. "Boy," he said, "if it were up to me I would drag you and all the other culled outside the city walls, bury you neck-deep in the dunes, and let the crows feast on your eyes."
    Urus swallowed, wondering if this man had been responsible for what happened to the last boy to be culled.
    "But instead we've been ordered to fetch your worthless hide, willing or no. So you're coming with us."
    "I beg to differ," shouted Battlemaster Guren, hopping a wall and stepping out of the center ring.
    "This is First Fist business, Guren, do not interfere," shouted one of the soldiers. His gaze, still fixed on Urus, held nothing but contempt and disgust.
    "I don't care if it's your business or the goddess Ishimani's business, this boy has yet to be culled and you'll not take him," ordered Guren, towering over the two smaller soldiers in his polished armor, brandishing one of the most jewel-encrusted swords in the arena. Battlemaster Guren was outranked only by Uncle Aegaz, Kebetir, and the emperor himself.
    "Then cull him so we can get this over with and back to the celebration," snorted the leader of the group.
    Guren nodded, strode over to one of the many ceremonial pyres burning throughout the arena, and pulled a metal rod from the fire.
    Urus blanched.
    It was a branding iron.
    "Off with your shirt, crowfeed," snarled