Erias tried to block the swing, but he was too slow. Tavarre’s blade stopped an inch from his neck, and he slumped, defeated.
“Silonno,” he muttered, his voice thick with disgust.
Knowing what would happen next, Lord Barlan redoubled his attack on Cathan in the hopes of defeating him before Tavarre could join the fight. Cathan, however, refused to give him the satisfaction of landing a telling blow and concentrated on holding him off, parrying and blocking, without even a riposte to break the pattern. Barlan cursed in Solamnic as, Tavarre reached him.
Half a minute later he was on the ground, clutching his knee, his visor hanging from one hinge. Blood poured from his nose, turning his moustaches red. Tavarre and Cathan stood over him, their swords lowered side by side. Stubbornly, Barlan made one last try to stand, but his strength gave out and he collapsed, senseless.
The whole crowd was on its feet now, hands clapping, bracelets jangling, voices raised in jubilation. Cathan looked up at them, at the courtiers in the gallery. He felt as tall as the Udenso, shining in the moonlight above the arena.
“Well, then,” he said, turning to Tavarre. He tossed his shield away, kicked up a plume of sand from the ground, and shifted into a one-handed stance.
The Grand Marshal nodded, shrugging off his own shield. “Well.”
They began.
It was different from the previous battles, more like a dance than a fight. It had been Tavarre who taught Cathan sword-play, long ago, and the two of them had fought beside each other often since then. Each knew the other’s moves, and they swiftly fell into a rhythm, starting out slow with a few test passes, then their tactics coming faster and more daring with every instant. The crowd fell still, watching in awe as sword met sword, the music of steel filling the air. Even when the minotaurs ruled, the arena had never seen a battle so fierce and beautiful.
Half-blinded by sweat, his arms and lungs burning, Cathan pressed harder and harder.
He had no idea where his strength was coming from. He had been on the verge of dropping when he faced Lord Barlan, but against Tavarre all his exhaustion faded away, leading only the need to fight on, to win, to prove that he, an orphaned peasant from the hills of Taol, was the finest warrior in all of Istar.
Tavarre laughed as he fought, great bellowing roars of mirth. He dodged with the grace of a man one-third his age. His sword moved like a scorpion’s tail, nearly too swift to follow: parry, riposte, lunge, cut, feint, and cut again. He went for Cathan’s chest, his knees, his gut, his head. He shifted his grip from one hand to two, spun, kicked, came in close to bash with the hilt, then circled away, laughing all the while. Cathan found he was laughing too-howling with sheer exhilaration. He would sleep for a week when the battle was done, but it was worth it. He felt like a god.
It was still a battle, though. There had to be a victor.
The sword came in swiftly, starting high and arcing in, the air buzzing around it like a nest of angry wasps. Blade came up to meet blade, but did not stop it. So mighty was the blow, it sheared through the parrying weapon, sending two feet of steel spinning away in the moonlight. Barely slowed, the stroke struck hard. Had it been sharp, it would have sheared through armor, flesh and bone like soft cheese. As it was, it dented the armor, loosened the bone, and raised what would soon be a welt the color of bloodmelon.
“For Luciel!” Tavarre cried.
Groaning, Cathan sank to his knees. His strength gone, he let the hilt of his shattered sword drop to the ground, then stared up at the Grand Marshal, looming above him. His left arm was numb from shoulder to wrist. With his right he pulled off his helm, relishing the feel of the cool wind. The crowd tensed, waiting in rapt silence.
“Damn,” he wheezed.
Tavarre wrenched off his own helm, his face glistening. He flourished his sword, leveling it at Cathan’s breast. “Sorry, lad,” he murmured, then raised his voice for all to hear. “Do you yield?”
Cathan blew out a long breath. Maybe, if he grabbed Tavarre’s sword and pulled him down … but no. It was over, and he had lost. Sighing, he opened his mouth, his lips skinning back to speak the word that would end the tourney … and stopped, staring over Tavarre’s shoulder at the darkening sky.
There was something there, a black cloud where there had been none a moment before.
It was moving quickly, billowing as it came, coursing against the wind … no, not a cloud, but a mass. A mass of little, winged shapes, soaring over Lattakay’s harbor toward the arena. For a moment, Cathan thought they were a flock of bats. Then they got closer, and he saw they were something else. Cold horror sank into his bowels.
“Palado Calib,” he breathed.
Leciane watched Tavarre and Cathan fight in unexpected fascination, her hands twisting in her lap as the two knights danced. She groaned with disappointment when Cathan’s sword broke, cringed when the blow struck, and bowed her head as he fell. Now, though, something was truly wrong. She felt it settle into her stomach like a weight and saw it in Sir Cathan’s empty eyes, which had turned from the Grand Marshal to the sky. She looked, and in the distance she heard a fluttering whisper, as of countless leathery wings.
It all came back to her in a rush-what she had seen the previous night. The alleyway at the wharf, the dead rat, the hideous, blood-smeared creature that looked like a twisted child with a stinging tail … and wings. She stiffened, then rose, twisting to look behind her as people across the arena began to point and scream.
She did not cry out. She couldn’t draw breath. The sky was filled with monsters.
Amazingly, her first thought was for the Lightbringer. She had heard the stories of the shadow-demon Kurnos the Usurper had sent to kill him. Sir Cathan’s quick action and Paladine’s holy power had defeated the creature, but Cathan was far away, on the arena floor. He could not help Beldinas now.
“The Kingpriest!” she cried, lunging. “Protect the Kingpriest!”
His eyes wide, Quarath tried to throw himself in front of her. She shoved the elf aside, sending him staggering into several other hierarchs. Goblets of wine flew into the air, spraying red droplets. She hit Beldinas hard, knocking him back. All around her, priests and lords shouted in outrage. Hands grabbed her robes, hauling her back and holding her fast as Beldinas lay on the floor in a daze.
“She attacked him!” people were shouting. “The witch tried to kill the Lightbringer!”
“Not me, you idiots!” she shouted. “Let go of-” She never got the chance to finish. With a chorus of shrieks, the quasitas swarmed down upon the arena.
CHAPTER 12
“Get up!” Tavarre shouted.
He was on one knee beside Sir Barlan, who still lay senseless after the melee. The old Solamnic didn’t move. Sir Erias was staggering, weary, hurt, but managed to bring up his blunted sword all the same. A few other knights, Tithian among them, had come to the edge of the sands, drawn by the sounds of the crowd. The cheers had turned to shrieks, the stomping of feet into panicked flight as everyone leaped up from the benches and tried to get away. Children were crying, their parents shouting and cursing. A few fights broke out where the shoving got out of control. Up in the gallery, people were trying to drag Leciane away while Wentha bent down, helping Beldinas rise.
Just then the quasitas dove, wings tucked in close, clawed fingers flexed, jagged fangs jutting from their howling mouths. Cathan ran for his shield, scooping it out of the sand, then lifting it up. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tavarre do likewise. One of the little beasts hit his shield hard, talons scrabbling, long tail flicking drops of venom everywhere.