Shadow War - Deborah Chester [11]
When Caelan had boasted he would fight as Tirhin had never seen him fight before, he had not intended this.
Forget that, Caelan told himself. Concentrate.
The Madrun slashed, and white-hot pain sliced through Caelan’s arm. He struck back in anger, forcing the Madrun to retreat a little, then circled to catch his breath. Blood dripped steadily down his arm, his fighting arm. Already he could feel blood pooling between his palm and the hilt of his sword, making the grip slippery.
Sometimes the game would be halted, if one of the owners wanted a fighter’s wound bound up so the contest could continue equally. But Prince Tirhin would never do that, not for his champion, not for the fighter considered the best in the empire, a man who needed no coddling, a man who had not been wounded in over a season.
Every time Caelan flexed his arm, the wound opened and air rushed in, making it burn like fire.
Caelan frowned and severed the pain. Stepping into icy detachment, he felt the wound fade from his consciousness. Everything around him seemed a bit slower; the Madrun looked a bit smaller than before. His fear dropped from him, as did his distractions. On one level he laughed at the Vindicant priest’s offering him a potion to increase his fighting strength. This was all he needed.
Caelan drank in the coldness, letting confidence increase almost to arrogance. At the edge of his vision he could see the threads of life. How easy it would be to cut those surrounding the Madrun right now.
The temptation grew in him as time seemed to stand still. He held the power of life and death in his grip. It was sweet and exhilarating. The more he drew on it, the more pleasure he derived from using it.
And here, in the void of severance where there were no lies and no need for lies, he could admit to himself that this was why he fought. In the arena he could sip from this forbidden pool as much as he wanted.
But it was not right for a mere man to have such knowledge.
He feared the strength of severance’s pull; he always had. He knew what he would become if he ever gave way completely to it.
Besides, merely killing the Madrun was not what the prince had requested.
With a wrench, Caelan brought himself away from the edge of danger. Severance must always remain his tool, never become his master. He needed only to block the pain of his wound, nothing more.
Meanwhile, in those few split seconds when the world had paused for Caelan, the Madrun continued to circle him, eyeing him steadily. Now, as Caelan met his gaze, the Madrun lifted his sword and licked Caelan’s blood off the edge of the blade. Then he laughed.
Caelan rushed him in a swift attack that caught the man unawares. Grunting in surprise, the Madrun stumbled back, defending himself strongly but clumsily. He learned fast. Caelan found the same trick did not work twice with this man, who was a better swordsman than he appeared.
Back and forth they parried, their blades ringing out in a steady crisscross of deadly force. Up and down pumped their arms, fast and furious, attack and counterattack, until suddenly in one shining moment Caelan felt himself riding a surge of sheer, unbridled joy.
He laughed aloud, and the Madrun was caught by surprise a second time. The Madrun stumbled, made a mistake, and barely evaded Caelan’s lunge. Scrambling back, the Madrun found himself pressed hard by Caelan, who gave him no quarter. Caelan pushed him across the arena nearly to the wall.
The crowd roared approval.
Caelan’s sword was slipping in his hand despite his stranglehold on the hilt, and he didn’t know if he was streaming sweat or blood. He knew only that he had this man where he wanted him. The wall loomed just steps away from the Madrun’s back. And when the Madrun bumped into it, Caelan would finish him.
But suddenly the Madrun dropped his arm, exposing himself to Caelan’s blade. A split second before Caelan could lop the head from his shoulders, the Madrun dove to the ground and rolled toward Caelan’s feet.
Caelan leaped over him and sensed more than saw