Temar watched as Ryshad walked slowly forward, naked blade in hand, light catching the engraving on the metal. Looking at his calm face, Temar wondered if he’d ever have the experience to justify such iron self-control.
“Grisa Lovis, chosen for D’Istrac.” Robust cheers followed a man stepping forward from the far side of the crowd. Somewhat older than Ryshad, his sparse black hair was cropped so short as to be almost shaven.
“You’re going bald,” observed Ryshad, mocking. “Getting old?”
“Getting stupid?” Lovis countered, drawing his own sword. He unbuckled the scabbard and threw it to some supporter, an orange and red sash belted gaudily round his waist. “What possessed you to call a challenge?”
“Not me.” Ryshad shook his head. “Must have been a man with something to prove. Sure it wasn’t you?”
Lovis was circling round now, sword held low in front of him. Ryshad moved on light feet to keep his opponent always in front, a handspan’s distance between the hovering points of their swords.
“I’ve got nothing to prove.” Lovis looked as if he were about to say something more but stepped forward instead, blade coming in hard and level at Ryshad’s belly. Temar’s breath caught in his throat, but Ryshad angled his sword in a blocking move. In the same movement he was stepping sideways, sweeping his blade up and around as soon as he was out of danger. Lovis met the scything stroke with a counter strike that sent a clash of steel shivering through the intent crowd. Ryshad yielded to the downward pressure, but only by sliding his own blade round and out, drawing Lovis forward. The other man was too experienced to be tempted into compromising his balance, Temar noted with regret. He brought his blade up to counter Ryshad’s turning stroke and the guards of the two swords locked, holding the men almost nose to nose.
As they broke apart, Temar remembered to take a gulp of air and realised everyone else had been holding their breath. All eyes stayed on the two men circling warily again.
Ryshad made the first move this time, raising his sword for a downward strike that tempted Lovis into a direct thrust. Ryshad moved off the line, sweeping his cut down at an angle, but Lovis was already moving sideways, bringing his own sword up in a parry. He slid from counter to strike, steel whipping round to bite into Ryshad’s shoulder. But Ryshad had his blade there to block, and as Lovis stepped back to try a second cut in from the other side Ryshad swept his own sword across to leave a smudge of scarlet spreading through the sweat-soaked sleeve of his opponent’s forearm.
Stolley’s shout of triumph nearly deafened Temar and every man in D’Olbriot colours joined his exultant yells. Less partisan onlookers shouted their approval too as Mistal nudged Temar. “D’Istrac’s men are ready enough to applaud a good move.”
Temar saw men in the same orange and crimson as Lovis nodding their approval of Ryshad’s skill.
Steel smacked on steel as the contest resumed. The two traded blows, each strike parried, each parry sliding smoothly into attack, swords flickering from side to side, gleaming metal always turning biting edges away from vulnerable flesh. Then, in a move that escaped Temar, Lovis curled the point of his sword over and round Ryshad’s blade, darting forward to leave Ryshad recoiling back with an oath, clapping a hand to his upper arm.
“Is it bleeding?” asked Mistal anxiously.
“I cannot see.” Temar shook his head.
This time it was D’Istrac’s men cheering while Stolley and the others yelled consolation and advice to Ryshad. Temar folded his arms, hugging anxiety to himself as Ryshad rubbed at his arm, Lovis waiting patiently, the tip of his sword lowered. Mistal groaned softly as Ryshad wiped his hand on his shirt front, leaving an obvious smear of red.
“He does not look overly concerned.” Temar tried to reassure Mistal and himself.
Mistal shook his head. “He’d have that stone face on him if he was bleeding to death.”
Temar watched anxiously as Ryshad took up a ready stance and nodded to Lovis. D’Istrac’s man came in hard and fast with a sweeping sideways cut but Ryshad smacked it away with a ringing strike. Lovis didn’t miss a step, drawing Ryshad round as he turned the parry with a vicious downward blow. Ryshad deflected the slice but Lovis followed up hard, sliding his guard down Ryshad’s blade until the hilts locked. Ryshad was the first to move and Lovis slammed his pommel on to Ryshad’s hands as they broke apart. One of Ryshad’s hands came away from his sword and Temar’s heart skipped a beat. In the next breath, as Lovis tried to follow up his advantage with a hasty downward stroke, Ryshad moved, half turning his back in a seemingly fatal error. Mistal gasped, but Temar saw Ryshad reaching between Lovis’s hands to take hold of his opponent’s weapon. Lovis struggled to pull free, but Ryshad was already moving, driving his shoulder into the older man. Once he had Lovis unbalanced Ryshad brought all his weight to bear, sending D’Istrac’s man stumbling headlong across the sand. As Lovis scrambled hastily to his feet Ryshad levelled the man’s own blade at his face, grinning.
“Yield?”
Lovis spread submissive hands, smiling as broadly as Ryshad. “I yield, Chosen Tathel, and with good reason.” The warriors around the practice ground yelled their approval, stamping on the hard-packed earth.
“Rysh, here!” Stolley’s yell left Temar’s ears ringing.
Ryshad walked slowly over, taking a leather jug of water from Stolley and drinking with careful restraint. “What moron calls a challenge at noon on Summer Solstice?” he said with disgust.
“One who wants you exhausted and wrung out before he steps on to the sand,” said Mistal, looking suspiciously round the crowd. Temar followed his gaze but could only see keen-eyed swordsmen in animated discussion, empty hands rehearsing moves.
“How is your cut?” asked Temar urgently.
“That’s all ready clotted, as good as.” Ryshad grimaced, spreading his fingers and flexing them. “But I feel like Lovis slammed a door on my knuckles. This hand’ll be swollen like a pudding cloth tomorrow.” He accepted a towel and wiped at sweat dripping down his face.
“Eradan Pradas, chosen by Den Janaquel.” A second challenger strode on to the sand. A wiry man with sandy brown hair and a distinctly Lescari cast to his eyes, he was the tallest man Temar had seen in Toremal.
“Who is this?” he asked Ryshad anxiously. “Do you know him?”
“Oh, yes, long since.” Ryshad was unconcerned, raking a hand through curls sticking to his temples. “He’s always thought he’s better than me, and I don’t suppose he could resist trying to prove it. It shouldn’t take long to send him about his business.”
Temar watched him go before turning to Mistal. “Where can we find bandages hereabouts? To strap his hand?”
If that were the only support he could give Ryshad, it would have to suffice.
The D’Olbriot Sword School,
Summer Solstice Festival, Third Day, Afternoon
Yield?” I twisted the edge of my blade into Jord’s neck, scraping thick black bristles with an audible rasp. We were face to face, my sword resting point up and over his shoulder, the guard digging into his chest and my arm braced to keep him off me. I had his sword arm in my off hand, twisted away and useless. He struggled, tendons taut, face and neck darkening with effort. I leaned in hard to make best use of my hand’s width more height, but he was easily as broad in the shoulder as me and barrel-chested with it. He’d better yield because getting out of this without letting him mark me was going to be cursed difficult. He shifted his feet, and so did I. This wasn’t a move you’d find in any manual of sword art and I’d face Fyle’s derision for getting myself tied up like this.