Reign of Shadows - Deborah Chester [129]
He crossed the ring while the crowd roared and stamped its feet. They were crying, “Amarouk! Amarouk!” over and over. Caelan realized that must be his opponent’s name.
The black man’s eyes were steady and alert. His muscles rippled beneath his skin as he raised the broadsword, but he let Caelan come to him.
Caelan knew this meant he would have no time to get set. He knew also that it was Amarouk’s right. The man was already the favorite, marked as today’s victor. Knowledge of that shone in Amarouk’s face, but he was far from cocky.
He crouched slightly, settling his haunches the way a great cat might before springing.
Caelan stopped in his tracks, slightly too far away for combat, and heard the cheers change to boos. Caelan barely heeded them. Something felt wrong to him. A broadsword was a weapon of war, requiring a shield or heavy armor for protection. Two seminaked men hacking at each other would cut each other to ribbons. What was the dagger for? To finish off the business?
Orlo had not trained him for this. The weapons were both humming, but not in harmony. They did not belong together. He could not do this.
Abruptly, Caelan turned and flung his broadsword away. It went spinning through the air, sunlight flashing along its blade as it landed with a thud and little puff of dust at the far side of the ring.
A hush fell over the crowd, broken by chatter here and there. People were gripping each other’s arms and pointing.
Even Amarouk’s eyes widened in surprise.
Caelan didn’t care. His own doubts were spinning in his mind, calling him a madman and worse. He closed everything away and sought severance. With a snap, everything was cut off. He entered the coldness, isolating himself, and waited for Amarouk to strike first.
The black man didn’t like it. His expression changed from surprise to annoyance, then to fleeting satisfaction. Circling, he closed in on Caelan, who circled with him, dagger held loose but firmly, wrist taut.
With a yell, Amarouk lifted the broadsword with both hands, swinging it in an arc as he lifted, the whole motion smooth and correct. He was clearly a master of the weapon, but even as he swung Caelan’s senses were alert and prepared.
The sword’s motion grew slower and slower. Caelan ducked and lunged, coming up under Amarouk’s arm. His dagger thrust hard, but Amarouk shifted away barely in time.
The dagger tip skidded through hide, slicing along a rib without doing any real damage.
But the blood splattered red on the sand just the same. The crowd shouted and groaned, all in the same breath.
Fury flared in Amarouk’s eyes. He swung again, and again Caelan dodged the broadsword, dancing too quickly for it to reach him. With an oath, Amarouk tossed the unwieldy weapon away, eliciting a cheer from the crowd.
He drew his own dagger, and Caelan’s grew hot in his fist. The blade was suddenly screaming through him, driving severance away just as Amarouk came at him with a bloodcurdling yell.
Caught half off-guard by the changes inside himself, Caelan barely met Amarouk’s charge. They slashed and parried and circled. Amarouk leaped, kicking at Caelan’s head. When Caelan dodged, Amarouk drove his dagger at Caelan’s chest. Caelan twisted and blocked with his own weapon. The two blades locked, and they were straining against each other with all their strength, feet digging deep into the sand, arms trembling between them.
Then Amarouk reached out and gripped Caelan’s hair.
The physical contact brought sevaisin with a jolt that enabled Caelan to thrust him back. Amarouk went sprawling, still clutching a plug of Caelan’s blond hair in his fist.
Caelan, acting without thought, broke one of the principal rules of short knife fighting: he flung his dagger at Amarouk.
The blade hit its target and went through the meaty part of Amarouk’s arm, pinning it to the ground. The black man screamed and writhed over, pulling out the dagger with a grunt of agony. Blood ran down his arm in a crimson stream, and he raised