Part 41 (2/2)
His father was still lying on the ground while the other performers danced around him, singing.
Why isn't he getting up? Did the shock of seeing me kill him?
”You're right,” Xevhan said.
Jolted out of his thoughts, he could only stammer, ”Excuse me, please?”
”It wasn't much of a fight at all.”
Xevhan's chilling little smile sent a wave of nausea through him. Before he could speak, Xevhan rose and strode out of the pavilion. The chubby man darted forward, bowing and babbling something, but at Xevhan's glance, his voice trailed off.
”Friends, I hope you have enjoyed tonight's entertainment.” Xevhan held up his hands, forestalling the applause. ”Young Kheridh thinks the fight would have been better if the Wild Man had wielded a sword against his opponent. I know it's late, but what do you say to a real battle? The Wild Man of the North against the great Zherosi warrior. This time with real swords instead of wooden ones.”
The crowd screamed its approval.
Chapter 33.
URKIAT WAS ARGUING with Olinio, but like the frenzied shouting of the guests, their voices seemed to come from a great distance.
Keirith is alive.
Keirith is safe.
Keirith thinks the fight would be better with swords.
Darak had been too shocked at seeing Keirith to move, to speak. After Urkiat dragged him away, he'd recovered enough to feel relief that his son had acted so quickly, pride that he had averted suspicion by pretending to attack him. Then Urkiat translated the Zheron's speech, and relief and pride leached away.
Keirith, drinking and feasting with the Zherosi. Keirith, screaming at him to go away. Keirith, suggesting a fight with real swords. Nay, that was the Zheron's doing. It had to be. He didn't know what Keirith was doing here, but his son would not betray him.
Darak felt oddly calm, as if this were all a dream and he would wake and find Griane lying next to him, Faelia grumbling about getting up so early, Keirith shaking Callie awake. But of course, it wasn't a dream. It was all happening.
Keirith had risen to the challenge. So must he.
He sat up, smelling the salt from the sea and the smoke from the guttering torches. He got to his feet, staring at the eastern sky, just beginning to lighten with the promise of a new day. And then he walked toward Urkiat.
”It's all right.”
”What? Darak, do you understand what's happening? They want us to fight.”
”I understand.”
”Well, I won't do it! No matter what the Zheron threatens. Good G.o.ds, you can barely stand.”
”I'm fine.”
”You can't-forgive me, but you can't even grip a sword properly.”
Darak frowned at his hand. ”Lash the hilt to my wrist.”
”It won't-”
”Let's get this over with before their mood turns even uglier.”
Two of the guests supplied the swords. They were lovely weapons. Fine balance. Not much heavier than the wooden ones they were used to. And the same length as well, about as long as his forearm. The edges were wickedly keen, though. He gripped the hilt, thumb and little fingers falling naturally into the shallow depressions in the leather made by its owner. With the sword lashed to his hand, he should manage well enough. He was more worried about his legs, which were shaking from exhaustion.
Thikia supplied a thin strip of rawhide. When Urkiat fumbled with it, Bep shoved him aside. ”I'll do it. Your hands are trembling like a virgin's on her wedding night.”
Olinio kept up a steady stream of instructions about thrusts and parries until Darak told him to be quiet. Bep's advice was more practical.
”Hakkon and Bo are trying to sweep the performing area so it'll be more even, but steer clear of the backdrop. The sand's churned up there and we don't have time to do anything about it. Go easy. Get the feel of the swords. But you'll have to land some genuine blows or the crowd'll get nasty. Urkiat? Are you listening?”
Urkiat nodded. He looked like he might vomit.
”You'll be fine,” Darak told him. ”It'll be just like we practiced.”
The drum pounded an imperious beat. Darak looked around the circle of anxious faces. ”Smile, everyone, smile. It may not be magic, but it's a living.”
When Bep translated, wan smiles blossomed on all faces except Urkiat's. He just hefted his sword and whispered a prayer.
Keirith's hands clenched into fists as they circled each other. Even in a performance, feet could stumble, an arm could come up too slowly to block a thrust. Even in a performance, blood could be shed.
His father looked relaxed and alert, balancing on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet like a dancer. Keirith remembered standing with his mam, watching him walk through the village. Her face had lightened with one of her rare smiles. ”Look at the man. Loose-limbed and graceful as a wolf on the prowl.” And then she'd scowled and smacked him lightly on the head and asked him what was he thinking, idling around the house when there were ch.o.r.es to be done?
His father lunged with a swiftness that made Keirith catch his breath. When Urkiat feinted, he clamped his lips together to prevent another telltale reaction.
The crowd was restless. A scatter of boos and catcalls came from the pavilions as they went back to their circling. His father's lips moved. Urkiat nodded.
Another lunge. Urkiat caught the blow and threw it off with a screech of metal. Then he attacked. His blow knocked the sword out of his father's grasp, but the leather thongs kept him from dropping it. The crowd screamed at Urkiat to move in, but he ignored them.
His father hefted the sword with both hands and charged. Urkiat rolled beneath the blade and landed in a crouch. His father paused to shake his hair out of his eyes and nearly missed a low lunge toward his thigh. He stopped it close and flung Urkiat's sword back.
Urkiat staggered, thrown off balance. Feral shouts of ”Take him! Gut him!” rang out. Urkiat ducked under his father's blade, which sliced the air with a great whoosh. The movement spun him past Urkiat, his blade following his body in a sweeping circle that barely missed ripping open Urkiat's belly. And then they were both moving so quickly Keirith could scarcely follow them as they whirled and sidestepped and slashed at each other.
They broke apart. His father was breathing in open-mouthed pants, the wolf's grace abandoned for flat-footed plodding. Urkiat circled, giving him a chance to recover. He finally darted in and his father spun away. The crowd screamed when they saw the trickle of blood oozing down his left arm, screamed louder when Urkiat lowered his blade.
”It's a scratch,” his father shouted. ”Come on!”
Urkiat's charge drove him across the arena. Even with both hands gripping the hilt, each blow beat his sword lower. His arms were losing their strength. His legs were wobbling, his feet clumsy in the loose sand. He warded off a downward thrust, but the tip of the sword opened a new cut on his shoulder.
Urkiat sidestepped a clumsy blow and deliberately turned his back. He strutted away, punching the air with his sword, shouting taunts in Zherosi. It was pure showmans.h.i.+p and the crowd loved it. And it gave his father a few precious moments to recover.
He advanced on Urkiat who spun around at the last moment and blocked the blow. Thrust. Parry. Lunge. Retreat. He could hear his father's hoa.r.s.e pants. He was winded, his strength gone. Why didn't Urkiat stop? Why did he keep pressing him?
His nails dug into his palms. And then his father went down and Keirith bit his lip to stifle a cry.
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