Kushiel's Dart - Jacqueline Carey [340]
These are the things the Skaldi love, the stuff of legend. Twenty spears pointed at Joscelin as he dismounted and his stolen mount was seized. They stripped away his stolen armor, too, while a ripple ran through camp as they searched for a suitable hide to stake out for the holmgang. Hauled to my knees and held in place by the two White Brethren, I saw it all. Selig's hazel eyes gleamed keen and bright as he tested the heft of his shield.
No one would lend one to Joscelin. He stood at ease in the Cassiline manner, only the steel vambraces on his forearms to protect him. I knelt bleeding, rife with pain, and cursed him in my soul. Whether Selig defeated him or no, it didn't matter. He wasn't fool enough to throw victory away on a game of honor. He would break Joscelin; or worse, use me to do it.
Joscelin, Joscelin, I thought, tears running unheeded down my face, You've done it, you've truly done it, and killed us all with your damnable vow.
They took their places at opposite ends of the hide. Joscelin crossed his arms and bowed. Waldemar Selig thrust his sword into the air, and the Skaldi shouted; one voice, thirty thousand throats. They began to pound their weapons upon their shields, a measured beat. Selig turned to the dark watching fortress and swept a mocking bow. I knelt, awash in pain.
And the holmgang began.
I would like to tell it in poets' words, this deadly dance they enacted on a few square feet of hide, before the whole of the Skaldi army and the silent defenders of Troyes-le-Mont. I would that I could. But they were fast, so fast, and I had come back a long way from Kushiel's realm. I saw swords flickering in the torchlight, streaks of steel awash in ruddy light, the sound of clashing metal lost in the beating surge of spear-butts against Skaldic shields. I saw Joscelin's hair, wheat-gold against the darkness, fan out in a tangle of Skaldi braids as he spun, evading Selig's biting blade. Fast; not fast enough. I saw his sleeve darken with spreading blood as the edge of Selig's sword slashed his arm above the vambrace.
The beating rhythm hesitated, waiting to see if blood would spatter the hide. Selig tossed aside his cracked shield and reached for another, knowing without looking that a loyal thane was at hand. Joscelin loosed the buckles of his vambrace one-handed, sliding it up and tightening it in place over the wound, using his teeth.
Laughing, Waldemar Selig attacked, and the beat resumed.
And I saw Joscelin deflect his blow with one sweeping gesture, ready for the attack, his other hand coming up to resume the two-handed grip on his sword-hilt, and his sword slid high across the darkness as Selig raised his shield to parry, the point scoring a line across Selig's jaw.
It bled red rivulets into his tawny-brown beard with its gold-wrapped fork; bled red rivulets, that dropped fat red drops of blood onto the hide.
The Skaldi ceased their pounding.
In silence, Joscelin bowed and sheathed his sword.
Waldemar Selig wiped one palm along his jaw and shook it contemptuously, spattering blood. "For that," he said softly, raising his sword to point it at Joscelin's heart, "I will let you live long enough to see what is left of her when I am done, and have given what remains to my men."
I knew the whiteness of perfect despair.
Joscelin lifted his gaze to Selig's, and stood motionless, his blue eyes tranquil. "In Cassiel's name," he said, in a voice calm beyond calm, "I protect and serve."
And he moved, flowing like water.
All the Cassiline forms have names: poets' names, lovely and serene, drawn from nature . . . birds on the wing, mountain streams, trees bending in the wind. It is how they name what they do.
Except for the one they call terminus.
There is a play, a famous play-its name was lost in white light of despair-in which a Cassiline Brother performs the terminus. I saw a player act it out, once, in the Cockerel. I knew it, then, swaying on my knees, held upright by my Skaldi guards. When Joscelin, spinning in my direction, tossed his right-hand