Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [57]
Lleu had struck at Atta with his right hand, the hand holding the weapon. Rhys could see quite clearly the marks made by Atta’s teeth. The dog had not bitten the man hard, just enough to make him think twice about accosting her. Still the wound looked deep, though it had not bled much, apparently, for there were no bloodstains on the skin or on the sleeve of his robe. Rhys could not see the wound well, for his brother’s hand kept moving, but he noted that it had a peculiar appearance, more like a bruise than a slash, for the wound was a strange color of bluish purple.
Rhys was so puzzled by this that he kept staring at the wound, rather than watching his brother, and he was taken by surprise when Lleu made a sudden rush at him, bringing the sword down in a slashing motion, meant to cleave through helm or skull and finish the fight in a hurry.
Lleu threw all his strength in the blow. Rhys, holding the emmide in both hands, lifted the staff above his head to meet the sword. The blade struck the emmide. The staff held, though the impact of the shattering strike jarred Rhys’s arms and sent vibrations resonating throughout his body. He could feel the force of the blow in his teeth. Rhys had misjudged his brother, apparently. Those muscles were not so flabby as they appeared.
Lleu’s face twisted in a snarl. His arm muscles bulged, his eyes gleamed. He had expected his blade to chop the fragile stick into kindling and he was angry and frustrated that his attack had been thwarted. He lifted the sword over his head, intending to strike at the staff again.
Rhys lashed out with his bare feet; first one, then the other, striking Lleu in the solar plexus.
Lleu groaned and crumpled, dropping his sword.
Rhys stepped back, waiting for his brother to recover.
“You hit me with your feet!” Lleu gasped, slowly straightening, massaging his gut.
“I did,” said Rhys.
“But …” Lleu floundered. “That’s not fair!”
“Perhaps not in a knight’s tourney,” Rhys agreed politely. “But if I am fighting for my life, I will use every weapon at my disposal. Pick up your sword. Have another go at me if you like.”
Lleu snatched up his blade and flung himself at Rhys. The sword’s blade flashed red in the waning sunlight. Lleu thrust and stabbed, fighting with more force than skill, for he was a cleric, who had only lately come to swordsmanship, not a knight who had been in training most of his life.
Rhys was not in any danger. He could have ended the fight almost before it started with a jab to the gut, a thump to the head, or another well-placed kick. He did not want to hurt his brother, but he soon saw that Lleu was under no such constraint. Lleu was outraged, wounded in both pride and body. Patiently, Rhys parried Lleu’s blows, which were becoming increasingly wild and desperate, and watched for his chance.
Ducking beneath one of Lleu’s arcing slashes, Rhys thrust the emmide between Lleu’s legs, tripping him. His brother came down hard on his backside. He held onto his sword, but a twitch of the emmide sent the weapon flying through the air to land in the grass near Atta.
Lleu cursed and scrambled to his feet.
“Atta, guard,” Rhys commanded, pointing at the sword.
The dog jumped to her feet, positioned herself in front of the weapon.
Lleu’s hand darted to his belt. Pulling a knife, he lunged at the dog.
Rhys seized hold of the hand gripping the knife and squeezed Lleu’s forearm, pressing his fingers deep into the soft parts of the wrist.
Lleu’s hand went suddenly limp. The knife fell to the ground.
Rhys bent down, picked up the knife, and thrust it into his own belt.
“The paralysis is only temporary,” Rhys advised his brother, who was staring at his hand in dumb-founded astonishment. “The feeling will return to your fingers in a few minutes. This was a friendly contest. Or so I thought.”
Lleu scowled, then looked ashamed. Nursing his useless hand, he backed off, away from the dog.
“I just meant to scare the flea-bitten cur, that’s all. I wouldn’t have hurt it.”
“That much is true,” Rhys said. “You would not have harmed Atta.