Shadow War - Deborah Chester [13]
But the Madrun would not surrender either. He would not weaken. He would not die.
They fought until both of them were heaving for air, stumbling apart to eye each other, only to attack and clash again.
There had to be some way to outwit this creature, Caelan thought with rising desperation.
What had Orlo said? The barbarian had sheer strength and brute force? How true. Orlo had also warned Caelan not to prance about, but to use every dirty trick he had.
Caelan wearily cast about for something he had not yet tried. He had used everything Orlo had taught him. He had used everything the other gladiators had taught him in barracks. He had used the tactics old veterans tried on each other in combat. He had even watched the Madrun’s style of fighting and returned some of that to the man.
The Madrun’s eyes widened, but he only bared his teeth anew and fought harder.
Evading him once again, Caelan circled to gain a breather. Severance would keep him going until his heart exploded. Then he would drop dead in the sand, and it would be over.
Caelan gritted his teeth. There had to be another way.
There was, of course. He had known it even as he stood in his ready room and boasted to Prince Tirhin that he would fight with everything he had until he prevailed.
He had hoped it would not come to this, but now he knew such a hope was futile. One trick left, something he had never used before, had never seen used in the arena. Only a few of the oldest veterans ever mentioned the Dance of Death, and then in lowered, awe-hushed voices.
Now that the time had come, Caelan felt a coldness that had nothing to do with severance.
Of course he could still cut the Madrun’s threads of life, but although the barbarian’s sudden collapse would look natural enough considering the amount of blood he’d lost, it would be a poor finish to this battle. It would not gain Caelan his freedom.
No, he had to give the crowd the ultimate spectacle. Never mind fear. Never mind his own doubts.
Meanwhile the Madrun still kept pace with him, still circled with him. The Madrun was looking pale from blood loss, but he would fight until he dropped. The stories were true; Madruns did not fear death. Caelan could see nothing in the man’s eyes but the desire to kill.
Still, it had to be tried.
Caelan shifted severance, sucking in a sharp breath as pain swept him, and reached out with sevaisin. Weakened now, the Madrun still throbbed with hatred, but Caelan caught glimmers of what churned beneath.
Withdrawing back to the cold safety of severance, Caelan was able to catch his breath and steady himself in time to meet the Madrun’s next attack. He had his answer now.
Blades flashing, they fought with a fury and speed nearly equal to when they had begun. Caelan gritted his teeth, forcing himself to hang on, forcing himself to ignore the scream in his muscles, to keep going for as long as it took.
Wait, Caelan kept telling himself. Don’t miss the chance.
At last it came. He saw the Madrun tilt his blade for the lunge attempt Caelan had been waiting for. Over and over in drills, Orlo had taught Caelan how to meet such an attack. Catch the opponent’s blade with the flat of yours and lift, using the other’s impetus to carry his lunge past its target.
Instead, Caelan caught the Madrun’s blade and twisted it beneath his. The circular motion of his blade directed the Madrun’s sword point straight into Caelan’s side.
The Madrun’s eyes flew open wide in astonishment, but Caelan twisted even harder, leveraging the Madrun’s blade with his hilt guard to pull the blade into himself.
The crowd screamed exactly at the moment it pierced his ribs. He heard himself grunt from the impact, felt the blade invade his body ... so huge, so horrible. It was worse than he could have imagined. He seemed to have lost his breath, and for a moment he thought he would lose severance, which was all that now held him together. He was burning inside from the strain, and yet it all happened in a split second. His own sword arm was still moving, still twisting around the