Every other blow came slightly lower than its predecessor. Rhan was right-handed, and his strikes showed it.
On her back-step, as the point of the black iron swept past, rather than continuing her step, Hweilan planted her back foot and bent the knee, coiling her muscles to strike.
Rhan saw it coming. His pleased smile tightened into a feral grimace, and he took a step back himself. Then he brought the sword point forward, stabbing for her stomach. Hweilan twisted in perfect timing, allowing the sharp point to slice through her shirt. Her twist continued, her torso rolling along the blade that sliced a fine line of blood along her skin. Her own blade, now held point down in her left hand, came forward at the same moment she leaped to give herself just the right amount of height. Rhan’s sword came with her, cutting deeper, but she ignored the pain and buried half her knife in the soft flesh where Rhan’s shoulder met his neck.
She twisted and tumbled away, Rhan’s blade tearing a deep gash down her back as she heard his surprised grunt.
Hweilan came round, crouched low, her blade up and ready even before the first gout of blood spouted like a geyser out of Rhan’s neck. Every hobgoblin surrounding them gasped at once, so strongly that Hweilan actually felt the change in air pressure along her skin. Blood, hot and wet, was coursing down her back, her accelerating heart rate pouring it out all the faster. For just a moment, the world wobbled before her, but she took in a deep breath, steadying herself.
Rhan roared in anger and desperation. He had a death wound and knew it, but it was not an instant kill. He clamped his left hand over the wound. It would buy him a few moments before he blacked out.
Now all Hweilan had to do was get that damned sword out of his hands.
Rhan charged, blade raised, heedless as a charging bull. For a moment, seeing the bloody wide-eyed hobgoblin coming for her, Hweilan was almost afraid.
But then she smiled and leaped for him, hoping to cause him to strike too soon.
It worked.
Rhan brought blade down, enough strength behind it to cut her in half.
Hweilan slid under it, raising her knife edge as she did so. The force of Rhan’s own blow made the steel cut deep, severing veins and tendons in his arm. Cut off from the cords giving them strength, the muscles of Rhan’s right hand spasmed, and the black sword flew from his grip.
Now! Hweilan urged Rhan in her mind.
Rhan proved himself a warrior to the end. Weaponless and dying, he refused to give in. He removed his left hand from the neck wound and brought it down in a clenched, bloody fist.
When Hweilan was thirteen years old, the horse of a visiting dignitary had broken its stall. Hweilan-whom horses seem to like as much as mice like cats-had unfortunately been standing in the way. In its desperation to get away, the war-horse had turned and kicked her.
This hurt worse.
The hobgoblin champion’s fist hit behind her left shoulder. She was quite sure that spectators fifty feet back probably heard her bones snap, but she couldn’t. A high screech filled her ears, and lights danced before her eyes.
Still, she managed to keep her feet and back away.
Which lost her the fight.
Rhan brought his fist around again.
Hweilan had just enough presence of mind to lean away. Still, she caught a great deal of the blow in her temple and went down.
The lights before her eyes faded as darkness swallowed them. The high-pitched screech died away, and through the roar of the crowd she heard two things-
Jaden screaming, “No! No! Sodding no!”
And Maaqua crying, “Kaad! Kaad you halfwit, bring the gunhin! Quick, damn you! Rhan’s-”
And then darkness and silence joined, becoming one, and swallowed Hweilan whole.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rhan had no mate. his life was battle and blood. For the past four winters he had contemplated changing that. He was not getting younger, and in truth, a glorious death in battle was his dearest wish. Still, he did not want his blood to be gone from the world. It would be good to have children through whom his fury and prowess would haunt the mountains for generations to come-and if the gods blessed him, perhaps a strong son to wield the Greatsword of Impiltur when he was long gone. But he had done no more about it than contemplate. His cave was his alone.
But Rhan was no dotard. Gunhin affected him the same way it did anyone else. After he had felled the human girl in the arena-not even with the Greatsword of Impiltur but with his bare hands!-he managed to keep his feet. Barely. A loud whine had filled his ears, bringing the first hint of fear that Rhan had felt in a very long time. A thousand black spots were beginning to cloud his vision. Then that old meddler Kaad had rushed forward and upended a skin into his mouth.
Rhan drank down the bitter liquid eagerly, still swallowing even as he felt the first of its effects. Fire flooded his muscles and seemed to sizzle just under the pores of his skin. The whine in his ears faded, replaced by the ecstatic cheers of the crowd and cries of the few dozen fools who had dared bet against him. His vision cleared so that he actually had the clarity to watch the deep gash in his arm knit back together.
He threw back his head and roared. The crowd joined him.
Only then did he notice that Maaqua and Buureg had come forward with Kaad. The queen was beaming up at him, and the warchief kneeled beside the human, his fingers probing her neck, the back of his other hand held in front of her mouth and nose.
“Well?” said Maaqua.
Buureg stood and looked up at Rhan. “No breath. No beat to her veins.”
“She’s dead?” said Maaqua.
Buureg nodded.
Maaqua laughed, a short bark, then patted Rhan’s arm. “Well done, Champion of the Razor Heart. Killed the little chit with your bare hands.” She turned to the crowd and raised both fists over her head. “Killed her with his bare hands!”
The crowd roared, drowning out all other sound. Rhan saw a few fights breaking out here and there. A few of the losers in the wagering seemed to be reluctant to pay up.
Maaqua leaned in close to Buureg to be heard, but Rhan picked up her words.
“Have the Damarans thrown back into their hole until I make up my mind about how to deal with them.”
“And the condemned?” said Buureg.
Maaqua shrugged and laughed. “Condemned. To the Stone of Hoar with him.”
“And her?” Buureg pointed down at Hweilan’s body.
“A feast!” said Maaqua.
“No!” The nearest hobgoblins who were able to hear Rhan were stunned into silence by the vehemence in his tone.
Maaqua looked up at him, confused and angry. “Eh?”
Rhan pointed down at her with his newly healed hand. “She fought for her friend and fought with courage. She is the first warrior to strike me since I picked up the Greatsword. We will treat her as such.”
Maaqua scowled up at him. “You still insist on going through with that?”
“I do.”
She sighed and waved it away. “As you wish. Buureg, have her body placed with the other. Let Rhan finish his foolishness.”
Buureg did not follow Maaqua as she walked away, the crowd parting for her. The warchief held out a hand to Rhan. It held Hweilan’s knife.
“Yours now,” said Buureg.
Rhan took it with a nod of thanks. Even stained with his blood, it was a beautiful thing in its own way, if strange and inelegant. Not a princeling’s weapon. The runes along the blade had obviously come from a master craftsman, but the hilt was bound in plain leather, well-worn and loved. A fine weapon. But no matter how he wiped at it, the steel never lost its look of being coated in fresh blood. He tucked it into his belt.