Larson retreated, tensed for violence. Bramin's taunts fueled his already excessive anger. His fist tightened around his haft, but he made no reply.
Bramin went still. "You want my sister, Futurespawn? You want to bed her? Well, perhaps I'll have her first!"
Larson's self-control shattered, plunging him into a darkness deeper than Hel. He drew his sword and charged.
Bramin met the attack with a lunge. His shield crashed into Larson's chest and face. Pain exploded in ribs scarcely healed from Larson's battle with Fenrir, and Bramin's superior weight and strength sprawled Larson. He struck the ground with a force which jarred the breath from his lungs. It took him desperate seconds to regain enough balance to move. He cringed as he rolled, certain Bramin's sword would take him. But as Larson gained his feet, he realized Bramin had not pressed his advantage. The dark elf had taken only enough time to draw his broadsword and then waited for Larson to recover.
Bramin's laughter rang between the pines, mocking and filled with ancient evil. "Trained by the most capable swordmaster in existence, and you have learned nothing."
Inflamed, Larson sprang. He feigned a straight cut, then spun backward and delivered a strike to Bramin's opposite side. His sword thunked against the shield. He back-stepped as Bramin's riposte slashed a line through his cloak.
Larson bore in, blood lust hot within him. Repeatedly, he hammered his long sword at Bramin's head. Each time, his strokes slammed against the shield. On the fourth attempt, Bramin tipped his shield. Larson's sword bit into the wooden edge and stuck fast. Bramin flung his shield arm outward drawing Larson's sword and arm with it and opening Larson's defense. Realizing his mistake, Larson ducked as he leaped backward. His sword wrenched free. Bramin's blade whistled inches above his head.
Larson retreated, fighting off the fury which had made him careless. He forced himself to concentrate on Gae-linar's words. Anyone who attacks an equal opponent in
anger is doomed to failure. You must willingly commit everything to your goal. When you can calmly accept your own death as a means to your end, you become unbeatable. The familiarity of a sword lesson settled over him, and he raised his sword with a new and deadly peace.
"You bore me," Bramin baited. "I'm tired of playing with such a child. This time, I think Til kill you."
Larson adopted a defensive pose, allowing Bramin's words to flow past, unheard. He let the dark elf make the first move.
Bramin approached, taut as a stalking cat. They attacked simultaneously. Larson's sword rattled from the shield. He spun off the wood as Bramin's sword stabbed through the air where he had stood. Larson jabbed his heel behind Bramin's leg and rammed his shoulder into the shield. The dark elf tumbled to the ground and rolled. Larson pursued. Bramin rose to a crouch as Larson's sword slashed down upon him. Bramin met the strike with his shield and gained just enough time to shift his weight before he was forced to block Larson's side cut. Again, Bramin sacrificed his opportunity to strike to improve his footing.
Larson undercut. A quick descent of the shield saved Bramin's abdomen but opened his upper defenses. Larson drove his hand into the dark elf's face. Bramin fell again, then rolled. Larson chopped for Bramin's head in silent fury. Bramin twisted. He raised a hand, as if to block the killing stroke with his bare fingers.
Larson howled, drawing all his strength into the final cut. Inches from Bramin, his sword struck something solid. Light flared and splintered with the sound of breaking glass. Orange sparks streaked Larson's vision. Power surged through him, hurling him into a tangled copse of brambles. Branches jabbed painfully into his back, and his own scream rang in his ears. He ripped himself free, tearing his hands on thorns, and pulled his sword from the brush with a force which scattered sticks across the battleground.
Bramin stood, still and straight, awaiting Larson's next attack. Darkness hid the half man's features, but Larson knew the angular face held a smile of cruel triumph. He also knew his only chance to survive was to engage Bra-min in swordplay so rapid the dark elf would not have the chance or energy to work his magic. Dizziness wrapped Larson in a fog of whirling spots, and the moon transformed the forest into a blur of trunks. His legs felt as unsteady as rubber. He stumbled forward. Gathering strength and determination, he raised his sword and rushed down upon Bramin.
Bramin held a stance of casual indifference. He let the edge of his shield rest on the ground, leaning the remainder against his leg. He gripped his sword in a lax hand, its point scraping the dirt. When Larson narrowed the distance between them, Bramin raised his arm to reveal a sunbright ball of sorceries blazing beneath his dark fingers.
Too late to rework his strike, Larson made an urgent dive for Bramin. Magics sheeted through the air. White light burned Larson's eyes, and a shimmering web entangled him. He crashed to the ground. His limbs felt detached, as if they belonged to someone else. He could not gather enough strength to lift his head. Through aching eyes, he watched Bramin's booted feet shuffle toward him.
Larson struggled against the spell which held him immobile and helpless. He managed only to roll his gaze to Bramin's face, as cold and evil as death. Red eyes flashed through the gloom, alive with blood sickness and savage joy. Sudden fear swept a chill through Larson, but he felt only the numbing power of the magics which held him. If Bramin delays his killing stroke until his spell wears off enough for me to notice pain, I may yet have a chance.
Bramin granted Larson no quarter. He stood and raised his sword above Larson's neck.
Larson fought to flinch away. He attempted speech, but the spell did not allow even these simple movements. He caught a glimpse of motion beyond Bramin, a shadow moving silently through darkness. He blinked uncertainly.
All malice left Bramin's voice. "It is over. This time, the better man won." His hand tightened on his sword hilt.
Larson resisted the urge to close his eyes against the coming blow. He watched in fascination as a small, pink hand snaked around Bramin's shoulder and closed on the dark elf's chin. Moonlight flashed off the steel of a drawn sword.
From the woods, light flickered at the corner of Larson's vision. The tree line seemed to dance with the white flame of Bramin's hidden staff and rankstone. Abruptly, Bramin disappeared.
Taziar staggered out of the darkness, stamping on Larson's hand before regaining his equilibrium. "Sorry," the Cullinsbergen mumbled.
I can't feel it. Larson discovered he still could not speak. And don't apologize for saving my life.
Taziar sat beside Larson and rested a reassuring hand on the elf's shoulder. "Too bad Gaelinar wasn't the one who followed you from the tavern. A better swordsman than me might have killed that creature before he could escape. Bramin, I assume?"
Larson nodded habitually and noted his head moved slightly. Pain fuzzed through his body, like the pins and needles sensation of blood flow returning to a limb. If Bramin had caught even a glimpse of Shadow, he would have killed him and me before departing.
Taziar studied Larson. "Feeling better?"
Larson nodded again, more successfully this time. Grass prickled his arms and legs. His ribs and fingers throbbed. Taziar's grip felt warm through his cloak. As slowly as Hel's queen, Larson worked to a sitting position.
Taziar watched Larson's clumsiness without comment. "You shouldn't have left the tavern alone. Many lives depend on you, and your enemies are too strong to face alone."
Larson met Taziar's gaze but did not attempt speech.
"You have many more enemies than you know. You have to trust someone. Despite his unusual ethics, Gaelinar has your best interests in mind." Taziar's face held a solemnity which suggested a deeper awareness.
But Larson felt too ill to question further. The fiery anger which had driven him for the last several hours had died, and he felt as spent as a used match.