Star Wars_ X-Wing 09_ Starfighters of Adumar - Aaron Allston [66]
Then Cheriss and Thanaer moved against one another.
Their duel was much like the last one, for Thanaer’s blows were strong and lightning-fast … and it seemed to Wedge that Cheriss had slowed further. Nor had she the physical strength to beat her way past Thanaer’s defense; with dagger and blastsword he swept each of her thrusts aside. They drove against one another in a clinch, each blastsword locked at its hilt against the other’s knife, and when they parted, she managed to blood his sword arm’s wrist with a sudden slash of her knife, but the wound did not slow him.
Then they came together, another furious exchange of thrusts and parries, and one of Thanaer’s blows, almost too fast to trace, flicked past her defense to strike her in the chest. There was a crack of released energy. Cheriss was thrown back and down to the floor by the blow.
She lay unmoving, her eyes closed, her breath coming fast and shallow. Moving with exaggerated slowness and care, Thanaer sheathed his dagger, reached down to switch off the power to Cheriss’s blastsword, and nudged that weapon away with the toe of his boot. Then he looked out into the crowd.
A lady at the edge of the crowd—blond, appealing, dressed in alternating shades of blue and violet, her features innocent and carefree—smiled at him and held out her hand. Palm down.
“So it is,” Thanaer said, and raised the point of his blastsword.
Wedge took a step forward, opened his mouth to speak—but he was a half second behind Janson, who shouted, a bellow that filled the chamber, “Challenge!”
Thanaer and the crowd turned to look. Janson stood, one hand in the air and feet apart in a mockery of a heroic pose, his expression merry. “That’s right, Ribbon-Beard. I challenge you.”
Thanaer blinked at him. “Title or non-title?”
“Oh, non-title, I think. I don’t want your title. Just some of that thin stuff you use for blood.”
The Cartann pilot smiled at him. “Very well. As soon as I dispose of this ground-bound rubbish, we can begin.”
Janson’s tone became mocking. “No, no, no. You kill her and I withdraw the challenge.”
A murmur rose in the crowd, a sound of surprise. Thanaer’s face darkened. “You insult me, Major.”
Tomer, behind Wedge and Janson, whispered, “You can’t do that. If you put conditions on the offering of challenge, it suggests that you have no interest in dueling him. Only in the conditions.”
Janson whispered back, “Thank you, Tomer. Now I understand.” He raised his voice. “Yes, Thanaer, I insult you.” The murmurs in the crowd grew louder. “You see, you’re just not good enough to face me in the air or on the ground. I have no interest in dueling you. I’ll do it for the girl’s sake. Spare her, I’ll give you this once-in-a-lifetime chance. Kill her and I’ll treat you like the nobody you are, and you’ll never get to face me. Is that simple enough for you to understand?” With his last few words, he took on the tone of a school lecturer who had neither affection nor respect for his students.
There were gasps from the crowd at his words. Thanaer straightened, stiffening, and looked down at Cheriss. His thinking was very clear to Wedge: Kill the girl, not just for the honor, but to offend Janson, or accept the challenge and gobble up all the honor he could.
He sheathed his sword. “I accept,” he said. “I will put your words on the tip of my blastsword and reinsert them in you.” He moved away from Cheriss to stand at the edge of the crowd.
Wedge and his pilots moved to kneel beside Cheriss. Her face was covered in a sheen of sweat, and there was a grayness, a pallor to it. Steam rose from her wound.
“Upper left pectoral,” Tycho said. “Not too deep. Survivable. But she’s in shock. That can kill her.”
Wedge swore to himself. The dress uniforms they wore didn’t allow them to carry their headsets; the comlinks they carried were very small, short-range