Wings Over Talera - Charles Allen Gramlich [73]
Bryce was too far away for an attack but he lunged at me anyway, his sword held straight in front of him, the muscles of his legs uncoiling like springs. I saw his blade coming in like blued lightning, whipped my own blade across to knock his aside. I leaped to my left and he turned off his left heel, a low growl bubbling from his throat as he rushed upon me again.
Nearly, he had me. I’d expected a moment of respite; he gave me none. His sword drove in, tip winking with light. I parried desperately. Once. Twice. My third blocking move was too high. I felt the jar as our blades struck together, heard the keen of steel on steel as his edge slid down mine in a wrath of sparks and came free. I missed the stroke that followed, felt the burn of a wicked razor slicing in across the outside of my left shoulder. Blood spattered my cheek.
I jumped back, startled. Seldom had I been so easily cut one on one in a sword fight. I backed farther away. Bryce chuckled, and followed.
I spared a quick glance at my shoulder. Too much blood ran to judge the depth of the slash, though the limb seemed to work all right. For now. Unless the wound clotted soon, though, it would bleed me to weakness.
“You’re quick, brother,” Bryce called. “But nowhere near quick enough.”
As if to prove his words, he came charging, boots slapping lightly on the sand as he ran. I half crouched, sword ready. He hacked his blade down. I blocked; I was meant to. He spun right off that parry and slashed across toward me at the midline. I blocked again, and he spun left. I caught his edge on the back of my blade. Metal shrieked as our arms strained, as our muscles bulged.
Bryce slammed a shoulder into my chest, staggering me. He followed immediately with a swordsman’s lunge, his body extended, his blade stabbed like a lance at my heart. I parried. Barely. He kept coming.
Damn, he was fast.
We fenced wildly, an electric flurry of light splintering from the swords. I matched him for a moment—parried, parried, riposted. And I missed as my blade whispered past his cheek and his own blade licked down across my thigh, slicing through the tough jeans as if they were linen and flaying fire across my skin.
I bit my tongue against the pain and stumbled back. Bryce held up for a moment, grinning at me insanely with black lips, his tattoos writhing like a nest of adders. At his throat the milkstones beat and beat, like pigeon hearts. From behind me came the chill tinkle of Vohanna’s laughter, and the sound of her delighted clapping.
“Excellent, my love,” she called to Bryce. “Excellent!”
Bryce sketched a short bow in his mistress’s direction. Then he lifted his sword, brought its tip up close to his nostrils where they flared to catch the scent of my blood upon the steel. His gaze found mine over the blade, and he grinned at me again as his vermillion eyes churned with black runes that bloomed and burst in their depths.
“I am so enjoying this, brother,” he taunted, as he lowered his saber and let the tip inscribe small curlicues in the air.
I was breathing hard, with blood running down my arm and down the leg of my jeans.
“Mom and dad loved us, Bryce,” I gasped out. “It would kill them to see us now. If....” I looked directly into my brother’s face. “If they could be killed. But they’re already dead, Bryce. Did you know that? Our sisters too. Did you know? Did Vohanna tell you?”
It was a last bid on my part to reach through the witch’s control and to touch the Bryce that I hoped still lived inside this vicious shell. But I knew that my emotional thrust had failed as surely as any by steel when he said in response to my comment:
“I didn’t know, but I’m glad.”
He chuckled, and slashed his sword through the air to send ruby droplets of my blood splattering from the blade. He twirled in place, arms up, head back, his voice growing into laughter.
Then he turned to face me and asked: “Ready for the end now?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Now I am.”
He smirked and stalked forward, the tip of his blade weaving. Again came his sudden lunge, faster than a