The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [111]
“But . . . blades?”
“Creslin . . .” Megaera’s voice is low.
“This is really uncalled for, ” Joris interjects.
Creslin shrugs. “Then perhaps a friendly wrestling match—”
“Still . . .” Joris shakes his head. “What earthly reason—”
“Because, if you will, I stand for the Duke.” Creslin’s voice turns as cold as the winter storms, and coldness radiates from him.
Even Klerris steps back.
Zarlen grins as he looks at the redhead, ignoring the byplay between the officers and Creslin.
“Surely, we have a few wooden blades,” interposes Hyel, sweat beading his forehead as he compares Zarlen’s height and muscles to Creslin’s and notes the head’s difference between the two.
“A pair, I think,” adds Joris with a resigned shrug. “I’ll get them.”
Creslin almost grins as Megaera’s body relaxes fractionally. But her eyes flare as they rest on Creslin. He tries not to swallow, knowing what he must do and knowing that Megaera will scarcely be pleased.
“You think this . . . exercise is necessary?” temporizes Hyel.
“Unfortunately, yes,” says Creslin.
Zarlen looks down at Creslin, then at Megaera, and smiles faintly. Thoirkel looks from Zarlen to Creslin, not quite shaking his head. Hyel looks over the parchments still in his hand, as if to extract some meaning from between the scripted lines.
Klerris lays a hand on Megaera’s sleeve, which she starts to shake off, then stops as she looks into the wizard’s eyes.
“Here we are,” announces Joris jovially, returning with two white-oak wands with sword grips and hilts. He offers them to Creslin, who takes the slightly shorter one. Zarlen nods as he receives the other.
Without speaking, Hyel, Joris, and Thoirkel step back to the eastern wall of the keep. Megaera and Klerris remain by the doorway.
Zarlen smiles at Megaera, then leads with the white-oak wand.
Creslin waits. Zarlen’s wand weaves toward him.
Creslin moves his own blade and deflects the bigger man’s attack once, twice, and again. His blade is seemingly independent of his eyes. He has scarcely moved as Zarlen has brought bone-crushing force against him, yet none of the man’s strokes even graze him.
“A dancer, are you?”
Zarlen’s oak wand moves faster, yet Creslin remains untouched. Then, like lightning, Creslin’s wand slashes.
Cluunk.
Zarlen shakes his wrist, where a red welt already rises, looks at his empty hand, and at the white-oak wand on the stones. His eyes flame as he glares at Creslin.
“Berserker . . .”
The whisper comes from Klerris, but Creslin’s short blade is already out even as Zarlen drives his blued steel toward him with impossible speed. Impossible speed or not, Creslin is not where the blade is when it strikes, and the short sword flashes twice.
Zarlen’s eyes glaze as he looks down at his blade on the stones, just before his knees buckle. Creslin waits only long enough to ensure that the man is dead before cleaning his blade on Zarlen’s tunic.
Hyel’s mouth is wide open. Joris is pale, as is Megaera.
Creslin looks at Hyel, then at the body. “I’m sorry that was necessary, but . . .” He shrugs. “He’d already planned to kill me and have his way with my wife.”
Hyel closes his mouth and looks toward Thoirkel.
The dark-haired young soldier looks from Creslin to Hyel and back again. Finally he moistens his lips. “Ah . . .”
Creslin waits, as does Hyel.
“Ah . . . Zarlen said . . . no wizard could stand ’gainst cold steel. No woman, witch or not, neither.”
“He was wrong in both cases, apparently,” Creslin observes mildly.
Hyel nods to Thoirkel and to the body. The young soldier begins to drag the heavy corpse toward the back doorway of the long room.
“What are you?” asks Joris.
Creslin looks from Klerris to Megaera. Klerris shrugs. Megaera looks away, but Creslin nearly winces at the flames in her eyes before her head turns. He looks back to Joris and Hyel.
“I’m one of your regents.” He pauses. “I was the consort-assign of Westwind. I