He shook his head. “Enough of this. If you want to kill me, try. Succeed or fail, it will not change the outcome of the battle.”
I opened my hands. “Let your steel talk.”
On either side of us, the battle unfolded. Arrows darkened the sky. Men pitched screaming from battlements. Swaths of blue-skinned warriors fell transfixed. The wounded cursed and moaned or just sighed and died, bloodstained fingers trying to staunch rivers of blood. Assault ladders rose, and men with polearms pushed them back. More men fell as ballistae launched clouds of spears.
Above it all, with smoke rising in a dark grey swirl, the wounded bear banner flew high over Deraelkun.
And below the fortress, Gachin Dost and I dueled.
Twin blades flashed and rang as we parried. Swords whistled through empty cuts and grasses pealed as we landed from leaps. The sting of pain, the flow of blood, minor cuts that but for a twist or slip would have cost a limb or opened an artery. A hard parry with two swords trapping a third, which whipped away through the smoke. Another sword plucked from a corpse, slashing, tracing a red line above a knee, and another clipping inches from flowing locks or harvesting an ear.
We closed and passed, more feeling each other than seeing in the smoke; our movements cloaked, the sounds smothered by the din of battle. A quick cut severed lacings so a breastplate hung loose, and another freed it all the way. A bracer stopped a cut, but mail links parted and gnawed at the flesh beneath. A thrust, a grunt and finger probing a wound to the belly.
We sprang apart, chests heaving, blood flowing from nicks and cuts. Sweat ran into them, igniting pain in places I did not know I’d been wounded. I tore away the ragged armored skirts that had meant to protect my legs. I hunched forward, feeling every year of my age, and eons more, then licked my lips and beckoned him forward.
Gachin, black hair pasted to his face with sweat and blood, smiled easily. “You will not kill me.”
“That was never my plan.” I nodded toward the south. “I just wanted to kill your army.”
Above us, the wounded-bear banner descended on the tower’s pinnacle, and a tiger-hunting banner took its place.
“Another desire that will be thwarted.”
I shook my head. “It’s already been fulfilled.”
The troops that had left Deraelkun had gone north, then worked west and back south through smuggler trails to flank the kwajiin army. They had met with very good fortune, as a breathless runner had informed Count Derael, because they’d encountered the First Naleni Dragons Regiment and a full battalion of Keru Guards. This added a third to their number and increased the competency of the task force Deshiel and Ranai had led from Deraelkun. The raising of my banner was the signal for them to begin their attack, which would take the kwajiin left wing in the flank.
I couldn’t hear commotion from where they were supposed to strike, for it had been my right ear that was taken. Gachin must have heard something, however, for his eyes narrowed and his lips peeled back in a snarl. He knew, as I’d known, that the only chance his people had of breaking the flanking attack would be a coordinated withdrawal of the left wing and a counterattack by the reserves from the right.
But with him trapped on a smoke-shrouded island, he couldn’t give the orders that would save his forces.
So he tried to kill me before his army died.
We became the stuff of smoke ourselves, save that we bled. Swords did not clang, but hissed. Parries misdirected, not deflected, and a blocking blade twisted up and around in a riposte before the tremor of its hitting the other blade had reached the wielder’s shoulder. We spun away from attacks, slid into others, gliding low and striking high, leaping higher and slashing downward. Unseen blades whispered past each other, cold metal seeking warm flesh, hunting a fluid sanctuary where all fighting would cease.
And then he did it. He feinted low with a slash and I leaped over it. Gachin lunged as I came down, then drew his elbow back and thrust again, a heartbeat after my left sword had swept past. His sword pierced my chest on the left side, halfway between my nipple and the other scar I’d long borne there. He slid it home to the hilt, and his face, contorted with hatred and matted with blood, color vivid around his amber eyes, emerged from the smoke and thrust straight at mine.
I know he meant to say something, something I could dwell on as he ripped his blade free, slashing it from between my ribs. He’d have taken my left arm off at the elbow as well, then spun, harvesting my head in one fluid motion. It would have been a thing of beauty, an ending to a duel that would have been sung of for generations, and might have earned me a monument at the foot of Deraelkun.
But such monuments have never been to my taste.
I snapped my head forward, driving my forehead into his face before he could yank his blade free. His nose cracked and blood gushed. His head jerked back and I drove mine forward again, smashing him in the mouth. Teeth broke and slashed my forehead bloody. Ivory chips sprayed over my face, and blood painted my lips and throat.
He started to twist his sword in my side, but my right knee rose and crushed his groin. It occurred to me that kwajiin might not be as men are-I’d not checked any of those I’d slain-but my fear was unfounded. I slammed my knee up again, as hard as I could. His breath exploded, spraying me with blood and saliva, then a third blow from my forehead into his face pitched him backward.
He staggered and tried to remain on his feet. He still clutched a sword in his left hand, but stabbed it into the ground in an attempt to stay upright. He caught a heel on a corpse and tumbled back. His sword sprang out of his grasp, and I pounced, stabbing one sword through his belly and deep into the ground.
And then, ruined though it was, I took his head as a trophy. I stood slowly, still transfixed by his sword. I raised his head by the hair, blood still dripping from the neck, and as the smoke parted, I displayed it to one and all.
Strike the head from a snake and the body will die.
By the end of the day, the kwajiin army had receded from the walls of Tsatol Deraelkun, and the mountain fortress remained unconquered.
Chapter Fifty-four
3rd day, Month of the Hawk, Year of the Rat
Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Voraxan
Ciras Dejote stood outside the circle between the fountain and the steps to the ruby tower, wearing his best robe. It had seen better days-though he had patched the white silk as best he could. The red embroidery that worked a flame pattern had faded a little, and the intensity of the red sash had been dulled. Still, it was the best he had to wear, and he would not disappoint the Empress by appearing in anything worse.
Tsirin Donitsa, the man they had first met in Voraxan, stood opposite him, at the bottom of the stairs. “Ciras Dejote, you have passed all examinations save this last. You have impressed us with your skills and your diligence. Your tales of adventure through the journey here have also pleased us. Pass this last test and you will surely be suited to joining our number and serving the Sleeping Empress.”
Ciras bowed to him, then to the half dozen men and women standing at the top of the palace steps. They had examined him and Borosan both, though the two men had been segregated so neither knew the nature of the tests the other had endured. For Ciras, it had been endless repetitions of fighting forms. Sometimes he was to move through a progression of forms as called out by his examiner. Other times he was called upon to strike and maintain a form, and once his examiner walked away for a time before returning and calling another.
They examined everything he did, from waking to sleep. Another time, all of that would have driven him utterly mad, but he reached inside and embraced the peace of Voraxan. So close to his goal, he did not want to do anything that would get him rejected.