Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [97]
Skylan, breathing heavily, wiped sweat from his brow and once more took his place. Horg glowered at Skylan; then he suddenly threw down his shield. At first, Skylan couldn’t understand what was happening. He thought for one wild moment that perhaps Horg was surrendering, conceding defeat.
Horg gave a smirk, then, grasping his battle axe with both hands, he ran headlong at Skylan. Horg’s intent was obvious. He had just told all the world and the gods he had no need of a shield, not against such an inexperienced boy. His cronies in the crowd were jeering and chortling.
Skylan was outraged. Behind him, Garn was shouting himself hoarse. Norgaard was screaming at him. Skylan gripped his shield and braced himself for the shattering blow.
Disaster struck in a blur of motion. One moment Horg was thundering down on Skylan, axe raised to strike his shield. In a split second, Horg deftly shifted his axe from his right hand to his left and swept the blade low. The axe sliced through Skylan’s boot and bit into the calf muscle of his right leg.
Skylan barely felt the wound. All he saw was that Horg had left himself wide open. Skylan started to lunge with his sword, only to feel strong fingers clamp over his arm.
“Skylan, stop!” Garn said. “It’s over!”
Furious, Skylan tried to shake him loose. Garn’s hands tightened their grip.
Skylan, red-faced, rounded on him. “Let go of me, Garn, or by Torval I’ll—”
“It’s over, Skylan,” Garn repeated, giving him a shake. “You’ve lost.”
He pointed. Skylan looked to see blood oozing from the wound, running down his foot, staining the white cloth.
Skylan could taste defeat in his mouth, and it was sickening. He flung down sword and shield. He could not look at anyone. He could not endure the disappointment in his father’s eyes, the pity in Garn’s. Head bowed, Skylan waited in bitter anguish for the Priestess to call out, “First blood! The gods have declared Horg the victor!”
The Kai Priestess said nothing.
Skylan wondered angrily what was taking her so long. Was she determined to prolong his shame? He glowered at her from beneath his lowered brows.
Draya stood outside the ring, her hands folded one atop the other, her gaze fixed on the gray rock of the cliffs behind him.
Horg, grinning, raised his axe, waiting expectantly for the Kai Priestess to make her judgment. When she was silent, Horg grew angry.
“I drew first blood!” he cried, and he gestured with his axe at the cloth beneath Skylan’s feet. “I am the winner!”
The Kai Priestess regarded him with calm detachment.
“Return to your place, Horg Thekkson,” she said, her voice cool, “or forfeit the contest.”
Horg’s jaw dropped. He stared at her and roared, “I drew first blood!”
“Skylan, pick up your sword!” Garn said urgently.
Skylan had no need to be told. He grabbed his sword and hefted his shield and stood ready for whatever came next.
In that moment Horg learned he was facing two foes in this ring, and the most dangerous was not the upstart young man wielding the sword.
The most dangerous was his wife.
His friends had warned Horg that Draya might try something treacherous. Horg had scoffed at them. Draya was a woman of blind, unreasoning faith. He should know. He’d been forced to put up with her pious bleatings for years. She might well cross him, but she would never cross her gods.
Now he realized she hated him enough to risk even being god-cursed. Looking back, he could see how she had brought him to this place, maneuvered and manipulated him every step of the way, in order to destroy him.
Well, he would see about that!
Horg turned to face the crowd.
“I drew first blood!” he shouted, appealing to them. “By the laws set down by the gods, I am the winner! The Kai Priestess is trying to thwart the will of Torval!”
No one spoke or called out in support. Then Draya said quietly, “It is late, Horg, for you to be calling on the gods.”
Horg