away.
Surely I can use that against him.
Garn tensed, aware Mar Lon had every other advantage: familiarity, support, and a longer weapon that would soon tip the odds completely in his favor.
I have to move fast. Have to do something unexpected or I’m dead for sure.
Mar Lon slashed for Garn’s chest. Garn shuffled backward. Risking his fingers, he surged in with the dagger. His shorter blade scratched down the longer one, locking the sword against his cross guard. Twisting, Garn threw off the weapon, driving a foot into Mar Lon’s leg.
Mar Lon dodged, saving his knee. For an instant, he lost control of the sword’s direction.
Garn seized the moment. Flipping the dagger to his left hand, he sprang into extension, reversing his direction. The knife hovered at Morhane’s throat. “Don’t move.” He used the trading tongue, gaze flicking from Morhane to Mar Lon.
The king went rigid.
Mar Lon regained control of his weapon, then stopped. Sweat trailed strands of dark hair across his forehead. Hazel eyes swiveled to the king, requesting guidance and receiving none. He lowered the sword but did not sheathe it.
Garn knew he stood in a tenuous stalemate. Clearly, his capturing King Morhane was no longer a possibility. His options had narrowed to three. He could try to use Morhane as a hostage to slip from the castle, though he doubted he would get far, considering Morhane’s retinue of guards. He could surrender and hope curiosity or cruelty would goad the king to keep him alive for information or torture. The third possibility seemed the mostuseful to Garn, one he once would have chosen without the need to consider. With a single stab, he could kill King Morhane, opening the way for Sterrane’s rule, but guaranteeing his own death on Mar Lon’s sword. Only one dagger cut lay between Garn and completing his mission, if not in the most ideal fashion, at least in a successful one.
Garn choked on the irony. Now that he had a wife he loved, a child that was a part of him, and a safe haven in a town that had once kept him a slave, he was about to die for a king who had, so far, shown little interest in reclaiming his throne. Garn recalled sitting before a campfire at the end of the Great War, remembered Shadimar telling Sterrane that the time had come. He recalled how a look of terror had crossed the heir’s gigantic features and how he had refused the Wizard like a child on the verge of a tantrum.
Mar Lon shifted ever so slightly, studying Garn, seeking an opening.
“Be still.” Garn’s grip tightened, and he despised his own pause. The dagger poked Morhane’s flesh, indenting the swarthy flesh. Rache had taught Garn never to hesitate, that battlefield decisions should be instantly made and executed as quickly as the thought rose to mind. But Garn had little experience with strategy. Always before, his only decision had been to kill or to be killed. Never had he held so much more than his life at stake. He pictured Mitrian, large-boned, with masculine hands and feet, yet beautifully slender and graceful. The Renshai sword maneuvers that Colbey and the elder Rache had taught had granted her a skill any warrior would envy, but it had only enhanced the arcs and curves that, to Garn, made the female body seem so perfect. Mitrian had paid a price for her skill. Since Garn had gained control of the temper that had committed him to life as a gladiator, he noticed that the Renshai training had claimed Mitrian’s gentleness, replacing it with a savagery that Garn hoped she would learn to control, as he had.
Suddenly, Morhane stiffened.
Cued, Garn whipped his attention to the king, too late. Steel flashed from the king’s sleeve. A needle sharp blade gashed Garn’s wrist, severing part of the muscle. Theknife toppled from his hand. Pain speared through his arm, sparking rage. The familiar primal desperation overcame him, throwing him into blind, murderous rage. He slammed his fist into the king’s head, feeling flesh
Surely I can use that against him.
Garn tensed, aware Mar Lon had every other advantage: familiarity, support, and a longer weapon that would soon tip the odds completely in his favor.
I have to move fast. Have to do something unexpected or I’m dead for sure.
Mar Lon slashed for Garn’s chest. Garn shuffled backward. Risking his fingers, he surged in with the dagger. His shorter blade scratched down the longer one, locking the sword against his cross guard. Twisting, Garn threw off the weapon, driving a foot into Mar Lon’s leg.
Mar Lon dodged, saving his knee. For an instant, he lost control of the sword’s direction.
Garn seized the moment. Flipping the dagger to his left hand, he sprang into extension, reversing his direction. The knife hovered at Morhane’s throat. “Don’t move.” He used the trading tongue, gaze flicking from Morhane to Mar Lon.
The king went rigid.
Mar Lon regained control of his weapon, then stopped. Sweat trailed strands of dark hair across his forehead. Hazel eyes swiveled to the king, requesting guidance and receiving none. He lowered the sword but did not sheathe it.
Garn knew he stood in a tenuous stalemate. Clearly, his capturing King Morhane was no longer a possibility. His options had narrowed to three. He could try to use Morhane as a hostage to slip from the castle, though he doubted he would get far, considering Morhane’s retinue of guards. He could surrender and hope curiosity or cruelty would goad the king to keep him alive for information or torture. The third possibility seemed the mostuseful to Garn, one he once would have chosen without the need to consider. With a single stab, he could kill King Morhane, opening the way for Sterrane’s rule, but guaranteeing his own death on Mar Lon’s sword. Only one dagger cut lay between Garn and completing his mission, if not in the most ideal fashion, at least in a successful one.
Garn choked on the irony. Now that he had a wife he loved, a child that was a part of him, and a safe haven in a town that had once kept him a slave, he was about to die for a king who had, so far, shown little interest in reclaiming his throne. Garn recalled sitting before a campfire at the end of the Great War, remembered Shadimar telling Sterrane that the time had come. He recalled how a look of terror had crossed the heir’s gigantic features and how he had refused the Wizard like a child on the verge of a tantrum.
Mar Lon shifted ever so slightly, studying Garn, seeking an opening.
“Be still.” Garn’s grip tightened, and he despised his own pause. The dagger poked Morhane’s flesh, indenting the swarthy flesh. Rache had taught Garn never to hesitate, that battlefield decisions should be instantly made and executed as quickly as the thought rose to mind. But Garn had little experience with strategy. Always before, his only decision had been to kill or to be killed. Never had he held so much more than his life at stake. He pictured Mitrian, large-boned, with masculine hands and feet, yet beautifully slender and graceful. The Renshai sword maneuvers that Colbey and the elder Rache had taught had granted her a skill any warrior would envy, but it had only enhanced the arcs and curves that, to Garn, made the female body seem so perfect. Mitrian had paid a price for her skill. Since Garn had gained control of the temper that had committed him to life as a gladiator, he noticed that the Renshai training had claimed Mitrian’s gentleness, replacing it with a savagery that Garn hoped she would learn to control, as he had.
Suddenly, Morhane stiffened.
Cued, Garn whipped his attention to the king, too late. Steel flashed from the king’s sleeve. A needle sharp blade gashed Garn’s wrist, severing part of the muscle. Theknife toppled from his hand. Pain speared through his arm, sparking rage. The familiar primal desperation overcame him, throwing him into blind, murderous rage. He slammed his fist into the king’s head, feeling flesh
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