The Warrior's Bond (Einarinn 4) (37 page)

That remark and Stolley’s carrying voice turned plenty of interested heads.

“The Esquire’s just here to support my brother,” Mistal answered smoothly.

Temar’s smile was guarded, but the idea intrigued him. Kel Ar’Ayen needed fighting men, didn’t it? They’d given the Elietimm a bloody nose the second time round but they’d needed wizards and mercenaries to do it. Wouldn’t Tormalin men, sworn to him be better? He’d see what Ryshad thought.

“I’ll have silence or I’ll clear the place!” A grey-headed man muscled like a wrestler strode out on to the sandy floor.

“That’s Fyle, sword school provost,” Mistal whispered hastily.

Temar nodded; that explained the unmistakable air of authority.

“All challenges posted by recognised men have been duly met, as you all bear witness. Now we have a final challenge.” Fyle paused for some latecomers hurrying in. “A challenge posted without the knowledge or consent of the man named, which is an abuse of all our practice. When I find out who’s responsible, they’ll answer for it at the point of my sword.” He scowled at the assembled onlookers standing in tense silence. Clapping his hands together with a crack that made everyone jump, Fyle turned to the far door of the practice ground. “Ryshad Tathel, sworn man to D’Olbriot and newly chosen, stands ready to defend his right to that honour!” The belligerent shout echoed back from the empty rafters and even silenced the hum of noise outside.

Temar watched as Ryshad walked slowly forward, naked blade in hand, light catching the engraving on the metal. Looking at his calm face, Temar wondered if he’d ever have the experience to justify such iron self-control.

“Grisa Lovis, chosen for D’Istrac.” Robust cheers followed a man stepping forward from the far side of the crowd. Somewhat older than Ryshad, his sparse black hair was cropped so short as to be almost shaven.

“You’re going bald,” observed Ryshad, mocking. “Getting old?”

“Getting stupid?” Lovis countered, drawing his own sword. He unbuckled the scabbard and threw it to some supporter, an orange and red sash belted gaudily round his waist. “What possessed you to call a challenge?”

“Not me.” Ryshad shook his head. “Must have been a man with something to prove. Sure it wasn’t you?”

Lovis was circling round now, sword held low in front of him. Ryshad moved on light feet to keep his opponent always in front, a handspan’s distance between the hovering points of their swords.

“I’ve got nothing to prove.” Lovis looked as if he were about to say something more but stepped forward instead, blade coming in hard and level at Ryshad’s belly. Temar’s breath caught in his throat, but Ryshad angled his sword in a blocking move. In the same movement he was stepping sideways, sweeping his blade up and around as soon as he was out of danger. Lovis met the scything stroke with a counter strike that sent a clash of steel shivering through the intent crowd. Ryshad yielded to the downward pressure, but only by sliding his own blade round and out, drawing Lovis forward. The other man was too experienced to be tempted into compromising his balance, Temar noted with regret. He brought his blade up to counter Ryshad’s turning stroke and the guards of the two swords locked, holding the men almost nose to nose.

As they broke apart, Temar remembered to take a gulp of air and realised everyone else had been holding their breath. All eyes stayed on the two men circling warily again.

Ryshad made the first move this time, raising his sword for a downward strike that tempted Lovis into a direct thrust. Ryshad moved off the line, sweeping his cut down at an angle, but Lovis was already moving sideways, bringing his own sword up in a parry. He slid from counter to strike, steel whipping round to bite into Ryshad’s shoulder. But Ryshad had his blade there to block, and as Lovis stepped back to try a second cut in from the other side Ryshad swept his own sword across to leave a smudge of scarlet spreading through the sweat-soaked sleeve of his opponent’s forearm.

Stolley’s shout of triumph nearly deafened Temar and every man in D’Olbriot colours joined his exultant yells. Less partisan onlookers shouted their approval too as Mistal nudged Temar. “D’Istrac’s men are ready enough to applaud a good move.”

Temar saw men in the same orange and crimson as Lovis nodding their approval of Ryshad’s skill.

Steel smacked on steel as the contest resumed. The two traded blows, each strike parried, each parry sliding smoothly into attack, swords flickering from side to side, gleaming metal always turning biting edges away from vulnerable flesh. Then, in a move that escaped Temar, Lovis curled the point of his sword over and round Ryshad’s blade, darting forward to leave Ryshad recoiling back with an oath, clapping a hand to his upper arm.

“Is it bleeding?” asked Mistal anxiously.

“I cannot see.” Temar shook his head.

This time it was D’Istrac’s men cheering while Stolley and the others yelled consolation and advice to Ryshad. Temar folded his arms, hugging anxiety to himself as Ryshad rubbed at his arm, Lovis waiting patiently, the tip of his sword lowered. Mistal groaned softly as Ryshad wiped his hand on his shirt front, leaving an obvious smear of red.

“He does not look overly concerned.” Temar tried to reassure Mistal and himself.

Mistal shook his head. “He’d have that stone face on him if he was bleeding to death.”

Temar watched anxiously as Ryshad took up a ready stance and nodded to Lovis. D’Istrac’s man came in hard and fast with a sweeping sideways cut but Ryshad smacked it away with a ringing strike. Lovis didn’t miss a step, drawing Ryshad round as he turned the parry with a vicious downward blow. Ryshad deflected the slice but Lovis followed up hard, sliding his guard down Ryshad’s blade until the hilts locked. Ryshad was the first to move and Lovis slammed his pommel on to Ryshad’s hands as they broke apart. One of Ryshad’s hands came away from his sword and Temar’s heart skipped a beat. In the next breath, as Lovis tried to follow up his advantage with a hasty downward stroke, Ryshad moved, half turning his back in a seemingly fatal error. Mistal gasped, but Temar saw Ryshad reaching between Lovis’s hands to take hold of his opponent’s weapon. Lovis struggled to pull free, but Ryshad was already moving, driving his shoulder into the older man. Once he had Lovis unbalanced Ryshad brought all his weight to bear, sending D’Istrac’s man stumbling headlong across the sand. As Lovis scrambled hastily to his feet Ryshad levelled the man’s own blade at his face, grinning.

“Yield?”

Lovis spread submissive hands, smiling as broadly as Ryshad. “I yield, Chosen Tathel, and with good reason.” The warriors around the practice ground yelled their approval, stamping on the hard-packed earth.

“Rysh, here!” Stolley’s yell left Temar’s ears ringing.

Ryshad walked slowly over, taking a leather jug of water from Stolley and drinking with careful restraint. “What moron calls a challenge at noon on Summer Solstice?” he said with disgust.

“One who wants you exhausted and wrung out before he steps on to the sand,” said Mistal, looking suspiciously round the crowd. Temar followed his gaze but could only see keen-eyed swordsmen in animated discussion, empty hands rehearsing moves.

“How is your cut?” asked Temar urgently.

“That’s all ready clotted, as good as.” Ryshad grimaced, spreading his fingers and flexing them. “But I feel like Lovis slammed a door on my knuckles. This hand’ll be swollen like a pudding cloth tomorrow.” He accepted a towel and wiped at sweat dripping down his face.

“Eradan Pradas, chosen by Den Janaquel.” A second challenger strode on to the sand. A wiry man with sandy brown hair and a distinctly Lescari cast to his eyes, he was the tallest man Temar had seen in Toremal.

“Who is this?” he asked Ryshad anxiously. “Do you know him?”

“Oh, yes, long since.” Ryshad was unconcerned, raking a hand through curls sticking to his temples. “He’s always thought he’s better than me, and I don’t suppose he could resist trying to prove it. It shouldn’t take long to send him about his business.”

Temar watched him go before turning to Mistal. “Where can we find bandages hereabouts? To strap his hand?”

If that were the only support he could give Ryshad, it would have to suffice.

The D’Olbriot Sword School,

Summer Solstice Festival, Third Day, Afternoon

Yield?” I twisted the edge of my blade into Jord’s neck, scraping thick black bristles with an audible rasp. We were face to face, my sword resting point up and over his shoulder, the guard digging into his chest and my arm braced to keep him off me. I had his sword arm in my off hand, twisted away and useless. He struggled, tendons taut, face and neck darkening with effort. I leaned in hard to make best use of my hand’s width more height, but he was easily as broad in the shoulder as me and barrel-chested with it. He’d better yield because getting out of this without letting him mark me was going to be cursed difficult. He shifted his feet, and so did I. This wasn’t a move you’d find in any manual of sword art and I’d face Fyle’s derision for getting myself tied up like this.

“I yield,” said Jord with disgust. “But you’ve got the luck of Poldrion’s own demons, Ryshad.” He had the sense not to move until I’d carefully taken my blade away from his neck.

“I’ve some salve for that, if you want.” I didn’t want to find myself in that position again, I decided. Drawing blood was one thing, but cutting a man’s throat by accident wouldn’t do much for my standing.

“I’ve had worse when the wife’s been feeling passionate.” Jord rubbed the raw scrape on his neck. “But you’ve the skills to ride your luck, so I suppose you’re worthy of being chosen.”

I held out a hand. “My thanks for helping me prove that, to myself as much as everyone here.”

The avid crowd were hanging on our words, just as they’d hung on every move of the gruelling fight. Cheers for us sounded above stamping feet, making the ground tremble beneath my boots. Jord turned for the applause of D’Istrac’s men and I headed wearily for Fyle, who was standing with Temar and my brother. Fyle had the water jug.

“Some of us have other plans for Festival,” Fyle growled with mock severity. “I thought you were going to take all afternoon.”

I spread my hands. “Got to give a good show. We can’t have people thinking you’re the best this school has to offer, now can we?”

Fyle made as if to cuff me round the head as I drank. Dast’s teeth, I was thirsty. “Is that the last of them?” I’d fought four men through the fiercest heat of the day now, drinking only as much as I dared to replace the sweat I’d been shedding.

Fyle nodded. “No one’s come near me since Jord gave you that first touch.” And that bout had taken as long as the previous three together, so anyone wanting to step up to the challenge had had his chance. I sighed with relief and drank deep.

“Everyone probably thought you were done for.” Mistal’s pallor was slow to fade, betraying his own doubts.

I managed a smile, water dripping down my chin to add to the sweat soaking my shirt. “Jord did, which is how I got him.”

“I saw barely a feather weight’s difference in your skills.” Temar moved closer. “But that was enough for Raeponin’s scales.”

“Listen to D’Alsennin, Mist, he knows what he’s talking about.” I felt the first leaden weariness heavy across my shoulders now my blood was cooling. “Here’s your sword, Esquire, and many thanks for the loan.” I handed back the antique blade with faint regret. Now I’d managed to use it without Temar’s disembodied presence trying to guide my limbs, I’d rediscovered the superb balance of the sword. When Messire had made a Solstice present of it to me, it had truly been a Prince’s gift. But had he known enchantment would make it such a two-edged boon?

“I’ll fetch the scabbard.” But before Fyle got halfway round the dusty circle, we saw a handful of belligerent men in Den Thasnet colours accost him.

“What’s to do?” Stolley came over, face bright with a fair few goblets of Festival cheer.

“Not sure,” I said slowly. All I wanted was to get towelled down and into clean, dry clothes.

“No!” Fyle shouted, taking a pace forward to emphasise his refusal, but Den Thasnet’s man failed to step back, leaving them nose to nose.

“I’ll go and find out,” murmured Stoll, clenching his fists unconsciously.

“Is there a problem?” Mistal was staring, puzzled.

I rubbed at my aching knuckles. “Temar, can you strap this up again?”

“Let me,” offered Mist.

“No offence, Mist, but you can’t truss a chicken for the pot.” I hoped my light tone softened my refusal.

“If you would hold this.” Temar handed the blade to Mistal, who held it like a snake he expected to bite him.

Temar deftly unwound straps of linen binding, rerolling them as he did so. “A sizeable number with Den Thasnet trefoils have suddenly appeared.”

“More than the D’Istrac men and the Den Janaquels together.” I looked round idly to tally the D’Olbriot men here to cheer me on. There were a fair number, but most had been taking full advantage of the Sieur’s Festival wine.

“Do you think there’s going to be trouble?” Mistal looked concerned.

I was watching Fyle; Stolley was beside him now, arms folded and one foot tapping as he listened to Den Thasnet’s man. A murmur of anticipation laced with disquiet was spreading round the practice ground. We couldn’t hear what was being said but Stolley shoving Den Thasnet’s man full in the chest was clear enough.

“Strap it up, Temar.” I held out my tender and unpleasantly discoloured hand.

He nodded. “This is only storing up trouble. You need cold water, ice if we can get it. Does the Sieur keep an ice house?”

I nodded absently, still watching Stolley and Fyle as Temar made an efficient herringbone pattern of bandaging up my wrist. Fyle came striding rapidly across the sand, leaving Stolley facing down Den Thasnet’s man with a sneer of disgust.

“What’s to do, Provost?” I asked with mock formality.

“Den Thasnet have someone to answer your challenge,” replied Fyle without humour. “Mol Dagny. Ever heard of him?”

I shook my head. “No, but I’ve spent a lot of time away, you know that. How do you rate him?”