Sword Sworn-Sword Dancer 6 (20 page)

immediately to try new angles the moment I halted his blade. As with Khashi, I let him take the offense,

judging foot placement, balance, strength, agility, blade speed. He had learned well, no question.

I was already at the edge of the circle because I had put myself there. One step, and I would be

outside. But I knew better than to expect that would stop the dance; I was meant to die, and I was no

longer honored among my peers. Musa would follow and continue the fight with no risk to his reputation,

because I was, well, me. Still, I wanted this to be a true dance at least in my own mind, so that if I died,

or if I won, no one could accuse me of cheating.

Well, they could. But I'd know better.

Musa brought more weight to bear, trying to push me beyond the line Alric had drawn. I dug in one

foot and stopped the motion with a braced leg, then trapped his blade, held it, let him have a taste of my

own weight as I pushed against him. Back, back, and back.

We were now once more in the very center of the circle. I yanked my blade free as Musa cursed,

and slashed beneath his. Tip kissed flesh. A thin line of blood sprang up against the skin above his left

knee.

My turn for offense, his to defend. And he did so admirably, blocking my blows as I had blocked

his. When we broke and backed away panting, considering other methods to find a way through

respective guards, we circled like wary street cats on the stalk, waiting for the most opportune moment

to attack.

The first series of engagements was completed; neither of us had won. In Julah, Khashi had been

dead by now. In fights too many to count, I had won by now. I suspected it had been the same for

Musa.

Usually, the first moments of any match are spent testing the opponent's skill. A sword-dance is, in

most cases, a
dance,
an exhibition of ability and artistry in pursuit of victory. But there were certainly

dances where defeating the opponent was all that mattered, not how it looked. Musa and I had both

chosen the latter, hoping to surprise the other, and neither of us had succeeded. Now the dance would

shift into the testing phase as we teased one another's skills and signature movements out into the

daylight, hoping to create openings we might exploit.

I saw Musa's eyes flick down to my hands wrapped around Alric's leather-strapped grip. There was

no hiding the missing fingers. He was likely somewhat surprised I had matched so well against him initially

in view of the disability. I wasn't, but only because I had worked like hoolies to overcome the problem,

and I knew what to expect of my grip. An opponent didn't.

Musa lunged. I met his blade with my own and realized at once what he meant to do. Instead of

movements aimed at my body in hopes of breaking my guard, he now went for the sword itself. Whether

he drew blood didn't matter; the point was to disarm me. And that he judged a simple enough matter. I

wasn't so certain he was wrong.

There was no finesse, merely strength and tenacity. Musa banged at my blade again and again,

smashing steel against steel. From above, from below; from either side. The angle he applied changed

with every blow, so that I constantly had to alter my grip upon leather wrappings or risk having the

weapon knocked out of my hands. Then Musa could kill me at his leisure. I was at a distinct

disadvantage, since not only did I have to concentrate on hanging onto my sword, but I also had to

remember to block any body blow he might attempt without warning.

Which in fact he
did
attempt, and indeed without warning; I managed to turn most of the impetus

aside, but the point of his blade still nicked me along the ribs. It was no more noticeable a wound than

the shallow slice I'd put in the flesh of his lower thigh. The most damage either of us had managed to

inflict was to our wind; both of us were panting heavily, noisily sucking air to the bottom of our lungs.

Now I went at him. Musa blocked each blow, and with each block he threw in a slight twisting of his

blade. It wasn't enough to place him in danger of losing contact with or control of the steel, which would

give the advantage to me, but it did continue forcing me to shift my grip each time. At some point he

expected my mutilated hands to betray me. It wouldn't require much; merely a subtle change in pressure

on the hilt, a weakening of my grip, that he could exploit.

The rhythm of the dance had changed. We no longer held our places in the center of the circle or

kept ourselves to one specific area a step or two away from that center point; now we used the entire

circle. We smashed steel against steel; hammered at one another; locked up blades and quillons; spun,

ducked, or leaped away, using the time apart to recover breath. Sweat ran down my face, tickled along

my ribs and spine. Musa's dark hair dripped as he shook it back, sending droplets flying. Bare feet had

scuffed the neatly raked sand into an ocean of foot-formed hummocks. I didn't doubt we'd blotted out in

places the line Alric had drawn, but it didn't matter. Everyone knew where the boundary lay.

Musa's strategy was sound. The stumps of my fingers ached, and the edges of my palms felt abraded

from the continuous movement of flesh against leather wrappings. So far the specialized strength training

of my forearms had aided me, and what I'd learned from the fight against Khashi, but Musa was clever

enough to find a way around such things. All it required was time.

I was aware the sun had moved in the sky. My body told me we had been at this longer than likely

anyone had expected, including Musa and me. But Umir ought to be happy.

We stood at opposite edges of the circle, facing one another. Chests heaved, throats spasmed,

breath ran ragged. A half-smile twitched briefly at his mouth. I saw it, met it with raised brows. In that

moment we acknowledged one another as something more than mere opponents. We were also equals.

He likely had never met one since attaining this level of skill, unless he'd faced Abbu. I didn't doubt Abbu

could defeat him; though acknowledging that meant admitting the possibility that Abbu was better than I.

We neither of us knew, having never finished a dance.

Then Musa came at me, running, and the moment was banished. My sword met his, screeching.

Teeth bared, he jerked his sword back and swung it down and under, going for my legs. I dropped to

one knee, trapped his sword, pushed it up, then shoved him back with the power of my parry.

Musa staggered backward, retaining his balance with effort. He had expected to have me with that

maneuver. Now he was angry. Equality no longer mattered.

"Old man," he said, "I will outlast you!"

Possibly he could. But I merely got up from the sand, laughing, and gestured him to come ahead.

He did. And in that moment I was aware of the vision I'd experienced in my room before the dance:

me free of the stone spire to soar over the valley, to look down upon the man who met the woman in the

circle. The vision overlay reality as Musa came on. I saw him, and I saw myself as the man in the circle in

the Stone Forest, facing Del. The man with four fingers in place of three.

The priest-mages had taught me discipline was the key.

And conviction.

That the choice, the power, was mine. To make, and to use.

Something in me broke loose, answering. It—no, I—was swept up and up, high overhead, looking

down upon the circle as I had before. Looking down upon a man, down upon myself, as I had before,

and my opponent. But this time, in this circle, the opponent was not Del.

Two men, one young, one older, met within three circles: one of
smooth,
white-painted adobe;

the second a blade-thin etching in white sand; and the third, the circle drawn in their own minds.

The younger man charged. The older met him, his smile a grimace, a rictus of effort. Muscles

knotted beneath the browned flesh of both bodies, tendons stood up in ridges from neck to

shoulder. Sweat bathed them,
running
like rivers in the hollows of straining flesh. Hands gripped

hilts: four fingers, two thumbs on each.

On
each.

The older welcomed the younger, challenging every fiber of his strength, every whisper of

finesse, every skill and pattern he had ever learned. Challenging his belief in himself. Challenging

his certainty of the older man's defeat. And the older challenged as well his own inner fear that he

was unable because he was no longer whole. In the valley, in the circle, in the shadow of stone

spires, he had been whole.

And was again.

"Now,"
the older man roared.

Back, and back, and back. Blow after blow after blow, the older drove the younger across the

circle, forced him to stagger back, and back and back; shoved him over the line; smashed him

down into the sand as the onlookers moved out of the way. The younger lay on his back,

red-faced and gasping, sword blade in one hand feathered with sand. The older placed a callused

foot upon the flat of the blade and stepped down. Hard.

Vision faded. Detachment dissipated. I blinked. Shook sweat away from my eyes. Was, abruptly,

myself again, here in Umir's circle.

I was aware of silence. No one even breathed.

The tip of my own blade lingered at Musa's throat, pinning him with promise. I took my left hand off

the grip and looked at it. Counted three fingers.

Three, and one stub.

There had been four on the hilt. I was certain of it. Four fingers and one thumb on each hand.

How in hoolies?—never mind. Time for that later.

I bent then, breathing hard, reaching down as I shifted my left foot. I pulled Musa's sword up from

the sand, then flung it away hard to clang against the opposite wall. I flicked a glance out of the corner of

my eye and saw what I had expected: Alric stood just behind Umir.

"Alric," I said between inhalations, "take that sword Umir's servant is holding."

The big Northerner did so and quietly moved forward to place it across Umir's throat. "Anything

else?"

"Yes. Escort Umir into the house and have him give you a book."

Alric blinked. "A book?"

I smiled as I watched the color spill out of Umir's face. "It's called the Book
of Udre-Natha.
Umir

places great value on it. I'm going to hold it hostage." I glanced briefly down at Musa, still lying beneath

my sword. His breath was audible, chest heaving. "In the meantime, Umir will also have our horses

readied— packed with food, water, grain and, of course, the book—and waiting for us in the front

courtyard." Now I slid a glance over the assembled sword-dancers, swallowed, and raised my voice. "It

was promised to me if I won: no one would challenge me inside Umir's domain. Right, Umir?" No

answer. "Umir, if you ever expect to get your book back—"

"Yes," he said sharply. "I did agree. I will honor that agreement."

"And I think no one here will argue over the results of this dance." I glanced down. A thin line of

blood trickled across Musa's neck, mingling with sweat. "Will they?"

Musa said nothing. Neither did anyone else.

I drew in a breath. "I made a choice that day when I stepped out of Sabra's circle and declared

elaii-ali-ma.
We all of us make choices. Some are good, some bad, some are right, some wrong. And

we all pay the price. I accept that I am dishonored, that I have no place among you. I made the choice.

And I make another now: to let this man live."

I backed away, taking my sword with me. Musa remained sprawled in the sand a moment longer,

then hitched himself up onto his elbows.

"Why?" he rasped.

I smiled. "Some day, when you meet yourself in the circle— and you will, because we all do—you'll

know."

I turned away. Musa's sword lay against the opposite wall, well out of reach. Though I meant what

I'd said, I wasn't entirely stupid; you don't leave a loser's weapon close at hand.

Of course, I had reckoned without the insanity of irrational pride.

I heard him move and knew, even as I spun. Musa was up on his feet again, charging at me. Time

slowed as he came: I saw the ripple of a tic in his cheek, the strain of tension reforming his facial muscles.

Oh no. No.

He came on. Despite the fact that he lacked a sword, and I did not.

Stop
now. Save yourself. . .

But he did not. He gathered himself. Took that fatal leap. Committed himself. So I committed as

well. I ran him through with my blade.

There was no triumph. I felt hollow. Empty. "You had the world," I told him, meaning it.

Musa's world—and his legs—collapsed. He knelt in the sand, choking on blood. I withdrew the

blade sheathed in his chest. Blood ran down steel and pearled in white sand.

I was aware of movement. I looked up, lifting the sword; saw men stirring. But no one spoke to

protest. Musa had effectively killed himself, though I had been the man holding the blade.

Alric, escorting our friendly host, came out of the house again. "Everything's ready."

I nodded. I cast a glance at the waiting sword-dancers. I couldn't help but smile at the irony. "I

expect I'll see some of you again," I said, "but not for a few days or so. Until then, why not avail yourself