Shadow War - Deborah Chester [10]
Shivers crawled along Caelan’s spine in response to it.
Normally he waited until his opponent appeared before reaching out with sevaisin, but now Caelan dared to join early.
A wall of rage hit him, red-hot, and so forceful he felt momentarily stunned.
There was no joining with that. It was murderous rage, a blind hatred as impenetrable as a shield.
Caelan’s mouth went dry. During his stint as a gladiator, he had relied on his special, secret gifts to give him the winning advantage. He depended on them, and now he realized sevaisin would be useless.
How would he anticipate the man’s next moves? How could he make sure he outguessed and outmaneuvered him?
Ruthlessly he shoved his rising doubts away. This was no time for alarm. He must rely on what Orlo had taught him. If nothing else, he could sever the man’s life.
And if he could not cut through that rage with the reverse side of his gift?
Before Caelan could even dare think about that alarming possibility, the solid wood gate to the holding pen burst open. One of the handlers flung a sword onto the ground for the Madrun, and they all fled.
The crowd screamed with glee.
“Giant! Victory! Giant! Victory!” they chanted.
Caelan well remembered his first day in the public arena in what now seemed a lifetime ago. The sight of the stone bleachers rising above him in a towering circle had been overwhelming. The magnitude of the crowd, the noise, the blinding sunlight after such a long time down in the darkness below ... arena shock was an involuntary reaction in anyone new to the games.
The Madrun who emerged came scuttling outside in a half-crouch, dropped to scoop up the sword, glanced left and right to get his bearings, spied Caelan, and came at him with a shrill war cry that raised the hair on the back of Caelan’s neck.
It was as though the Madrun didn’t notice the crowd or the noise. It was as though he didn’t care.
Surprised in spite of all his preparation and Orlo’s warnings, Caelan set himself and waited for the man’s rush.
It was his first mistake.
The Madrun was big, nearly as tall as Caelan, and built like a bull. His massive shoulders rippled with muscle as he swung the sword around his head in a circle, running full tilt now through the deep sand. His head was shaven except for a bushy stripe of rust-red hair, and his ears were misshapen with mutilation scars. He was older than Caelan by at least five years, a man in his full fighting prime. The deep sand did not slow him. The sunlight did not blind him. The crowd did not distract him. His fight with his handlers had not tired him.
Still screaming in his own incomprehensible tongue, he was suddenly upon Caelan. Too late, Caelan snapped to attention and realized he should have been moving to meet the man. To wait for the first strike was a tactical mistake made by the greenest recruits. The speed built up by the Madrun would knock him flat, even if he did manage to deflect that shining blade.
Swearing at himself, Caelan drew on his incredible speed and pivoted at the last possible second, dodging his opponent and moving toward him rather than away.
Their swords clashed with a resounding bang of steel against steel that had the crowd back on its feet, cheering. To the crowd, their champion had seemingly waited calmly until the very last minute before moving. To the crowd, their champion looked very courageous against this barbaric enemy of the empire.
To the crowd, Caelan looked daring. To Orlo and Prince Tirhin, he must look like a lunatic.
Grimly Caelan put the prince’s threat from his mind yet again. He exchanged a fast series of blows, then backed up, dancing around the Madrun in a circle. He wanted to evaluate this creature’s fighting skills before he closed with him again.
The Madrun’s red eyes glared at Caelan without wavering. With teeth bared, he rushed again, forcing Caelan to feint and spin without even an attack in return.
Hating being on the defensive, Caelan feinted, then feinted again, but the Madrun was not fooled. He simply attacked, hacking and screaming while