‘Good odds,’ Caldason said, his gaze flicking from the paladin to the meld and the young officer.
‘They’re under orders to leave this to me,’ Bastorran told him.
‘Ah. I meant only the three of you. Good odds.’
‘I’m going to enjoy shutting that mouth of yours so much.’
‘Then perhaps it’s time you stopped flapping yours and got on with it.’
Kutch was still gawping at the uniformed stranger, and Wendah was staring perplexedly at him.
Bastorran took the lure and came at Reeth, sword swinging. Their blades collided, giving off a peal that echoed through the empty stable.
The opening rash of strokes and counterstrokes should have determined top dog. Instead it showed there was little between them in terms of prowess. But that initial few seconds reminded Reeth of something he had observed the last time they met. Their skills might be more or less equally matched, but their fighting styles differed. Like all paladins, Bastorran had been trained in the classical tradition. Caldason was more of a street fighter. He put a greater emphasis on instinct, and less on standard combinations and textbook passes.
Not that classical meant fair. Fencing as the paladin employed it was no less ruthless in intent than the actions of the lowliest back alley vagabond. Bastorran may have wielded his blade with grace, even a certain elegance, but still the object was to drive steel into his opponent’s gut.
‘Not so easy this time, is it, Caldason?’ he mocked. ‘No speeding wagons to hurl your victim from. No gangs of traitors to spirit you away.’
‘Whereas you’ve only brought a pair of back-ups. Or should that be three, counting the grotesque?’ Caldason nodded at Kordenza. The meld, acting as a lookout at the door, glared back.
Bastorran went on the attack again. They slashed at each other, probing defences, seeking a breach. But the intensity of their blows was rising in direct inverse ratio to the speed at which they moved. Most duels were short, intense affairs, settled quickly in passion. When two swordsmen of like stature met, stamina was often the deciding factor.
Wanting to avoid the descent into a messy slog, Caldason put on a spurt in hope of finishing things. Bastorran tried to match him, and for the first time looked to be faltering.
As they battled, Caldason shot a glance at the unnamed officer, who remained to one side, motionless, as though a mere bystander. His function was presumably to prevent Kutch or Wendah joining the fight, though he had no blade drawn. In fact, Caldason thought he saw him wink at Kutch, but realised that was absurd.
Now a fresh burst of energy infused their clash and it turned frantic again. Thrusts and parries, blows delivered and offset. The pace was feverish. Neither man would relent, but there was no disguising Bastorran’s growing uncertainty. He seemed to struggle just that little bit more to drive home his strikes. Blocking Caldason’s passes seemed just as much of an effort.
Despite his boast that he would take Caldason alone, the reality was proving too taxing for the Clan High Chief. His eyes conveyed as much, and the signals were directed at his aide and Kordenza.
The gestures were subtle, but Kutch picked them up. The young officer remained immobile, giving no hint that he’d comprehended his master’s tacit summons. In any event, Kutch no longer seemed interested in him. His covert attention was on Aphri Kordenza. The meld had understood Bastorran’s command, and was readying herself for a move.
Kutch was nearest to her. When she transferred her weight from foot to foot, presumably limbering before action, he noticed something strange. As one foot lifted slightly from the floor, there was a glow from under her heel. It was a distinct purplish light, and it appeared, bizarrely, to have the characteristics of a gummy substance. Strands of incandescence linked foot and ground for a second, like miniscule lightning bolts.
Kutch knew magic when he saw it. And now, with his spotter talent kicking in, he saw into the heart of it. Wendah surreptitiously followed his gaze, and she saw, too.
Slipping a hand into his coat, Kutch fingered the handle of the knife Serrah had given him just before they escaped Bhealfa. She seemed to have forgotten about it, but he’d kept it close ever since. It frightened him, as most weapons did, but what he saw in the meld frightened him more.
Caldason and Bastorran continued to fight. The paladin battled with an air almost of desperation, his swipes becoming wilder and his aim less sure. But there were still flashes of brilliance. He put together a mix of passes and feints that wrong-footed Caldason. For a second, everything was in flux.
Kordenza took her chance and moved. Too fast for Kutch to react, but not Wendah. The girl scooped a handful of tiny green pellets from her pocket and tossed them into the meld’s path. Hex cracklers were at the milder end of the barrage glamour spectrum, more or less toys, but they detonated with an impressive report.
Caldason and Bastorran were probably as startled as everybody else, but too seasoned to be put off their stroke. Their battling didn’t waiver. On the other hand, Kordenza recoiled and hastily drew back, a stunned expression on her face.
Wendah had acted instinctively. Her deed had prevented Kordenza from aiding Bastorran, but it also triggered the meld’s anger. Enraged, Kordenza went for the girl and swiped her savagely across the face, hard enough to knock Wendah to the ground. The meld reached for her sword.
Kutch was there, pointing his dagger at her, hand trembling. ‘Leave her alone,’ he said.
The meld sneered. ‘Think you can stand up to me, little boy? Let’s see, shall we?’ She swept up her blade.
Another barred its arc. It belonged to the silent young officer.
‘How dare you stay my hand?’ Kordenza flared. ‘Whose side are you on anyway?’
‘Certainly not yours,’ he said, speaking for the first time. ‘You want Kutch, you go through me.’
‘I’ll enjoy it.’
Their swords came together and another fight broke out.
‘What the hell are you doing, Meakin?’ Bastorran yelled.
‘Looks like you don’t inspire quite as much loyalty as you thought,’ Caldason chided.
They fenced on.
Still clutching the knife, Kutch backed away from the violence and helped Wendah up. Her lip was bleeding and she looked shaken, but not seriously hurt. He embraced her protectively.
In Kordenza, Meakin had chosen an opponent far more skilled than himself. But he acquitted himself well, bravely even, knowing that he faced a professional killer. The meld chose to increase her advantage yet further. She retreated a few steps and began the repugnant process of disgorging her twin.
‘Don’t let her do that!’ Kutch cried, for he’d seen what she was, and what she could become.
Meakin dashed forward, evaded the meld’s sword and encircled her in a bear hug. Their struggle took them to the ground, limbs thrashing.
That particular distraction was poorly timed for Caldason. He deflected a blow imprecisely, then took a second hit at an awkward angle. The upshot was that his sword, the only one he wore this day, was knocked clean out of his hand. It landed tip down, quivering, in the impacted earth of the stable floor. He dived for it, sprawling full-length, a finger’s length short.
Bastorran was nearer. He contemptuously kicked the blade away. It bounced beyond reach.
Caldason was at his mercy. The paladin loomed over him, lifting his sword for the killing blow. ‘You don’t know how much I’ve longed for this,’ he announced sardonically, relishing the moment.
The blood pounded in Reeth’s ears. Kutch yelled something that sounded like, ‘The sword, Reeth!’ He looked to the weapon. It was tantalisingly near but past hope of recovering.
Bastorran’s blade was raised high.
Wendah gave a shrill little scream of horror.
Caldason’s gaze returned to his sword. An indescribably powerful surge of wanting rose in him.