Laurell Hamilton - Nightseer

Two fighters danced round each other. The wooden practice swords had been left behind for blunt steel—blunt steel that was two or three times the weight of most ordinary weapons. Tobin was one; the other was a blond guardsman.

Tobin was short, but at sixteen, he hadn’t yet attained his full height. His hair was a dark copper-red and his skin flushed with gold highlights. Somewhere back in his ancestry was a faerie of some sort. It was a common heritage in Meltaan. Only his amber eyes showed ordinary and young. His linen shirt trailed over a pair of bright red trousers. His boots were shiny black with polish, and since Zeln considered it an excess for the servants to do such things, Tobin had shined his own boots. He was heir to the entire province of Ferrian. He was a prince, and someday he would be a king.

The guardsman towered over Tobin; and his reach was twice the boy’s. The man possessed superior strength as well. Yet Tobin circled, feinting. The boy opened wide his arms, giving Darius his chest and stomach as a target. Darius reached forward with his long arm; it would be a gut slice. Snake-quick, Tobin’s sword slid under the arm and got in a heart blow with inches to spare for his own life. It was an elven thing, and Tobin had sweated and worked to acquire the strength of wrist to do it. His quickness was still not elven, but it was close.

Keleios made it safely to the group without being noticed by any except Belor. She quickly moved to take her place.

Carrick ignored her arrival and she slid in between Tobin and Belor. Tobin’s auburn hair clung in dark strands round his face. He smiled, and his eyes sparkled. He had never beaten Darius before.

Belor frowned at her. He seemed ready to speak but didn’t dare with the weapons master so close.

Five people down to the left sat Lothor, shirtless, sweating, and staring at her with his strange silver eyes.

She laid Luckweaver and the magic bracers on the ground beside her. Carrick did not allow any magic weapons at his practices. Those with magic weapons held a practice on their own in the afternoon or early evening. The guard had begun to come and watch and to use some of the magic weapons. Carrick had finally consented to let Bellenore, his second in command, direct the practice.

The next match finished early, one guard tripping and nearly getting his nose smashed. Carrick turned to Keleios like a great dark cloud. She felt that uncomfortable urge to shrink back. But she sat straight and met his angry eyes.

His voice was deep and thick with emotion, each word a whip. “Zeln forced me to let magic users in my training sessions. I said it would be a waste of time to train non guards. He countered with let them be part-time guards then. He willed it; I obeyed. But I told him that spell casters don’t make good soldiers; they distract too easily. Magic is more important than steel to them. But I take you magicmongers seriously. I will train you, and you will learn. You will learn that these practices are important and come first.”

He barked out her name.

Keleios stood.

He called out, “Bellenore to the circle.”

Bellenore was tall with wide shoulders. The braid of her brown hair was streaked with grey, though she couldn’t have been past her thirtieth year. She was dressed as Carrick was, brown sleeveless jerkin and trousers. Scars decorated her bare arms. Her face was plain until she smiled, and then it was beautiful. Pale brown eyes regarded Keleios without smiling.

Carrick handed them each a shield and sword. The shield was weighted for fighting, and the sword was edged. Edged weapons were not an uncommon punishment. It was a compliment of sorts. He trusted only the best of his fighters with edged weapons during practice. His glittering eyes challenged Keleios to protest. She did not, even though Bellenore was a better fighter than she was. They would fight with short sword and shield, Keleios’ own favorite method, and Bellenore would beat her. It was meant to be a humbling experience.

Carrick bawled out, “To third blood; a nick is as good as a wound.”

As they faced off, Lothor’s pale flesh seemed to glimmer, like carved alabaster. Keleios

shook her head to clear her vision and Bellenore withheld asking, “Are you fit for the circle?”

Keleios nodded, and they began the dance. They had fought before, and Keleios had even won twice, but not with an edged weapon, and not to draw blood. Even with blunt weapons Bellenore won nine out of ten times.

A lesson would have worked better on others because Keleios did not consider it embarrassing to be beaten in practice, by the guards’ second in command. Carrick knew this, but it was one of his standard punishments. He had not come up with a satisfactory punishment for the half-elf. Though he had found he could make her angry, he could not make her truly repentant.

They circled, wary, shields held close covering upper bodies and stomach, tensed to move up or down. Bellenore’s preferred weapon was the two-handed sword. She was one of only two women who Keleios had seen with the strength to use it properly. For that matter, she hadn’t seen many men who could use the two-handed well. More of them carried it but only a handful had the strength, stamina, and mind-set for the weapon.

They tested each other with some half-hearted feints, which neither fell for. Then Bellenore grinned, and Keleios did too. The fight began in earnest with a clang of steel. Bellenore rushed inward, sword slashing. The tension was not there; it was a ruse. Keleios let the blow go past but countered with a smash of shield against Bellenore’s body. It set the woman off balance, but before Keleios could bring sword into play, she had recovered.

As they circled, Keleios found her eyes drawn to Lothor. His hand as it swept up his arm fascinated her. Bellenore was upon her, blade flashing downward. Keleios threw her steel upward; the swords sang down each other, with a shower of sparks. As they broke from each other a thin line of crimson began to wend down Keleios’ forehead. The point of the blade had found her before she reacted. With the knowledge of blood, the cut began to sting.

Worse, the thin stream of blood dripped across her left eye, hampering her vision.

Blade met blade, blocking. Blade, shield, met straining against each other. Without magical aid, Keleios could not hold Bellenore. Knowing this, feeling it, she collapsed downward. It was a great gamble, and if she had been fighting for her life, she might not have done it. Bellenore staggered forward, and Keleios’ sword caught her across the stomach. Elven quickness allowed her to roll away and stand ready for the next rush.

Every time the circle showed her Lothor, her concentration wavered. Something was wrong. Keleios decided before the dance turned her to Lothor once more to try another dangerous move. It was a disarming technique more favored in elven circles than human. The blades met. Keleios forced her steel down the length of Bellenore’s and twisted point along the haft. It should have disarmed her and nicked the wrist. But this was Bellenore. She bled but kept her sword.

The blood welled out of the slice and would make the hilt slippery in a short time. Keleios moved away to give it that time. The woman knew that, too, and pressed the fight.

Keleios shook blood from her left eye, but the eye was useless until cleaned. Nothing bled like a shallow scalp wound.

For whatever reason she was being distracted, Bellenore had noticed and began moving her to gaze that way. It worked like a charm. Keleios’ eyes were drawn away to Lothor, and she found herself on the ground with Bellenore’s sword at her throat. She had not

dropped her sword. The point bit into her neck twice, one nearly atop the other.

Carrick strode forward. “Winner.”