Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [17]
In truth, Starad was immensely strong, and skilled in swordplay beyond his years. After all, he’d had nothing but the best instructors since he was old enough to stand.
But Kahless had had a crafty old trainer of his own: the long, drawn-out border wars, which taught him more than if he’d had a courtyard full of instructors. He was willing to pit that experience against any man’s.
“Have it your way,” he told Starad and swung down from his beast, sword in hand. On the other side of the square, Molor’s son did the same. In the next few seconds, their riding companions dismounted as well, forming a circle around them-a circle from which the villagers backed away, one of them having already grabbed the cooking pot.
It was understood by every warrior present that only one combatant-either Kahless or Starad-would leave that battleground on his feet. This would clearly be a fight to the death.
There was no need for formal challenges or ceremonies-not out here, in the hinterlands. Without preamble, Starad uttered a guttural cry and came at Kahless with a stroke meant to shatter his collarbone.
The older warrior saw it coming, of course-but it was so quickly and powerfully delivered that he still had trouble turning it away. As it was, it missed his shoulder by a mere couple of inches.
Starad’s momentum carried him past his adversary.
But before the echoes of their first clash had a chance to die down, Molor’s son turned and launched a second attack.
This time, Kahless was better prepared for Starad’s power. Bracing his feet wide apart, he flung his blade up as hard as he could. The younger man’s blow struck sparks from the hard-cast metal, but could not pierce Kahless’s defense. And before Starad could regain his balance, Kahless had sliced his tunic from his right shoulder to his hip.
so No, thought Kahless, with a measure of satisfaction.
More than just the tunic, for there was a hint of lavender along the edge of the ruined leather. He’d carved the upstart’s flesh as well, though he didn’t think the wound was very deep.
For his part, Starad didn’t even seem to notice. He came at Kahless a third time, and a fourth, matching bone and muscle with his adversary, until the square rang with the meetings of their blades and dust rose around them like a dirty, brown cloud.
It was the fifth attack on which the battle turned. It started out like all the others, with Molor’s son trying to turn his superior reach to his advantage. He began by aiming at his enemy’s head-but when Kahless moved to block the stroke, Starad dropped his shoulder and tried instead to cut him at the ankles.
Kahless leaped to avoid the blow, which he hadn’t expected in the least. Fortunately for him, it missed. But when he landed, he stumbled.
He was just starting to right himself when his heel caught on something and he sprawled backward. At the same time, Starad came forward like a charging beast, his sword lifted high for the killing downstroke.
Kahless knew that someone had taken advantage of his vulnerability to trip him. He even knew who it was, though the man might have concealed it from the others.
But there was no time for accusations-not with Starad’s blade whistling down at him.
He rolled to one side-but not quickly enough. Before he could escape, the finely honed edge bit deep into his shoulder, sending shoot at of agony through his arm and leaving it senseless as a stone.
Striding forward, Starad brought his blade up again apparently his favorite line of attack. Kahless could see the purplish tinge of gore on it-the younger man’s reward for his last gambit.
The sight of his own blood was maddening to Kahless.
It gave him the manic strength to get his legs underneath him, to try to lift his weapon against this new assault. But again, he saw, he wouldn’t be fast enough. Starad would crush his other shoulder, leaving him completely and utterly defenseless.
He clenched his teeth against the expected impact, knowing it was treachery that had cost him this battle.