So she’d looked up at him and said, “I didn’t. I came to say my farewells. It was Hratt who saved your brother.”
Darric’s jaw tightened and his nostrils flared-hurt or anger, Hweilan could not tell. Her only experience with men had been her family. All much older than she.
“Why do you push me away?” he said.
“Because I see what you want, and I cannot give it.”
And that was how she’d left him. She’d hurt him. Of that she had no doubt. But it had been nothing but truth, and a cold truth was better than a warm lie. Her life was sworn to put an end to Jagun Ghen. Nothing beyond that. After …
She couldn’t bring herself to think of after. Not yet.
Hweilan sensed a ripple passing through the crowd, and she turned her attention to the path that led up the mountain. The crowd was parting to make way for three figures. The foremost was easily recognizable, much shorter than any around her. Maaqua, queen of the Razor Heart. She stopped to speak with a hobgoblin that Hweilan recognized as Hratt, then proceeded on, her two companions following. One was Buureg, the Razor Heart Warchief, and the other, towering above everyone in the crowd except for the bugbears, was Hweilan’s foe of the morning.
Unlike everyone else in the crowd, Rhan wore no armor and precious little else against the morning chill. He was bare above the waist, save for the belt of his scabbard, draping him from shoulder to hip. The hilt of his sword protruded from over his right shoulder, and despite the cheers of the crowd, his eyes were fixed on Hweilan.
She turned her back to him.
The crowd did not miss the insult, and they cheered and howled in anticipation of their champion’s wrath upon this human interloper.
Valsun shook his head, obviously disgusted at the foolishness of youth. Jaden closed his eyes and began muttering what Hweilan felt sure were heartfelt prayers. Darric scarcely moved. He blinked once, and that was all.
Hweilan turned. Maaqua stood holding her staff at the edge of the crowd, but Rhan and Buureg had come forward into the center of the open space. The warchief had donned his armor, and the gleam of the metal and the reek of oil wafting off him told Hweilan that some poor slave had spent the night polishing it.
A hush fell over the crowd, beginning behind her, then spreading until a tense silence had settled over the valley. It was time.
Buureg carried his helmet under one arm so that all might see his face. He raised his voice, “Razor Heart! Rhan, son of Goruun and Mileq demands the right of Blood Slake! Hweilan, Hand of the Hunter, stands ready! All bear witness!”
The crowd roared their approval. Warriors slapped spears to shields or clapped their swords on the top of their helmets.
“Blood for blood, let it be done!”
With that, Buureg turned on his heel and rejoined Maaqua.
The crowd continued their jeers and cheers, but a calm quiet descended over Hweilan. The noise in the valley continued, and she let it wash over her. They didn’t matter anymore.
Rhan shrugged his way out of the harness holding his scabbard, then grasped the hilt of the Greatsword of Impiltur. He held it in front of him with both hands, on display, giving the crowd what they wanted, then let his left hand fall to his side. His right hand, still holding the sword, whipped outward, freeing the blade and flinging the scabbard into the crowd. They roared their approval.
In that moment, when she hoped most eyes were on Rhan, Hweilan brought both her hands to her face, feigning a final prayer. But in her right hand was the bit of rabbit bone. She sucked out its contents-the drakthna and crushed root of white iruil, a few other things from her pouch, and a bit of water. She hadn’t been able to clean the bone thoroughly, and she hoped the remaining marrow and rabbit blood would have no ill effect upon her little concoction. She’d only done this once before, with Gleed. But he had taught her well. Still, while her hands were still in front of her face, she did offer a final prayer to Dedunan, Nendawen, and all her ancestors that this would work. Too much depended on it.
Rhan took one step forward, and absolute silence fell over the crowd. So quiet that Hweilan could hear the breeze cutting through the canyon and the heavy breathing of the crowd. The Razor Heart champion let his massive black sword fall, its point gouging the rocky floor of the canyon. He walked forward, every limb relaxed-but Hweilan saw that it was the looseness of an adder. His eyes were fixed on her. He was ready to strike at her slightest move. His bare feet made a scratching sound against the grit.
Hweilan didn’t move. She hadn’t even drawn her knife. Behind her, she heard Jaden whisper, “What in the unholy Hells is she doing?”
“Be silent,” said Valsun.
Rhan was only five paces away, and he still hadn’t raised the sword. Three more steps and he stopped, looking down on Hweilan. He raised his empty left hand, very slowly for the crowd, placed his palm on Hweilan’s forehead, and pushed.
Hweilan fell back three steps.
The crowd roared their approval at their champion’s insult.
Rhan stepped forward, raised his left hand, and did the same thing again.
Hweilan went back another three steps.
The crowd continued their jubilation, screaming and hooting. Their cries echoed off the mountainside. Hweilan was less than five feet from the nearest spectators now, her back to a wall of hobgoblins.
An insolent grin broke Rhan’s stony countenance, and he stepped forward again, his left hand coming up.
Hweilan smiled, and just before his skin touched hers, she twisted out of the way. Rhan tensed and had the tip of his sword a good foot or more off the ground when Hweilan’s right foot hit him in the gut.
The blow would’ve folded a human in half and sent him to the ground, but the hobgoblin champion only bent and staggered backward, a very surprised look on his face as all the breath he’d been holding came out in a surprised grunt. The force of kicking off an enemy that probably weighed fifteen stone sent Hweilan flying back into the crowd. The onlookers pushed her roughly back into the fight-Hweilan took the opportunity to drop the emptied rabbit bone into the dirt-and when she regained her balance in a guarded crouch, she held steel in her hand. The blade was still as red as the day Nendawen’s blood had slaked it.
With this in your hand, part of me will be with you. Always. Nendawen’s words to her. If he was with her now, though, she could not feel it.
Rhan raised the sword in both hands and tipped it toward her in salute. His smile was no longer insolent but impressed. “Well struck,” he said.
Hweilan flipped the knife, caught it in her left hand, then tossed it back to her right, blatantly showing off. “Do you know how to win a fight?” she asked.
Rhan’s only answer was a raise of his eyebrows.
“ ‘You must land a blow,’ ” said Hweilan, quoting Ashiin, “ ‘and to be able to withstand a blow.’ You’ve only got half the skills, friend.”
Rhan’s smile widened over his sharp teeth. “This night I will drink your blood by my fire and honor your memory.”
She beckoned him with her free hand. “Try it.”
He came at her, bringing the black sword down in a diagonal blow. It was quick but had little strength behind it, so Hweilan knew it for a feint. She sidestepped but did not lean in to counterstrike, instead flowing away so that when Rhan’s right foot swept up, the kick missed her midriff by well over a foot. She slapped his bare foot with her free hand as it passed and blew him a kiss.
The crowd cheered, those few who had bet in Hweilan’s favor punching the arms and backs of their fellows.
Rhan waded after her, swiping the black greatsword in wide swaths before him, Hweilan back-stepping all the while. She suspected that when he’d driven her all the way back to the crowd, he’d either jab or bring the sword round in a vertical swipe. Both would be easy to avoid, despite the crowd, but Hweilan knew she had to end this quickly. Her heart was beating far faster than her exertions warranted. It wouldn’t be long now before the drakthna began to take effect. No more time to dance.