master’s arms. Marcus was surprised that Avshar favored a long, straight sword, not the usual scimitar of the westerners. His shield was round, with a spiked boss. The emblem of Yezd, a leaping panther, was painted on a background the color of dried blood.
Moments later, Adiatun was back with the tribune’s
scutum
. “Cut him into crowbait,” he said, slapping Scaurus on the shouder.
The Roman was drawing his blade when something else occurred to him. He asked Taso Vones, “Will Avshar not want me to shed my cuirass?”
Vones shook his head. “It’s common knowledge he wears mail himself, under those robes. He’s not the envoy of a friendly country, you know.”
Marcus spent a last second wishing he had not drunk so much. He wondered how much wine was in Avshar. Then it was too late for such worries. There was only a circle of eager, watching faces, with him and the Yezda in the middle of it—and then he forgot the watchers, too, as Avshar leaped forward to cut him down.
For a man so tall, he was devilishly quick, and strong in the bargain. Marcus caught the first slash on his shield and staggered under it, wondering if his arm was broken. He thrust up at Avshar’s unseen face. The Yezda danced back, then came on again with another overhand cut.
He seemed to have as many arms as a spider and a sword in every hand. Within moments Marcus had a cut high up on his sword arm and another, luckily not deep, just above the top of his right greave. His shield was notched and hacked. Avshar wielded his heavy blade like a switch.
Fighting down desperation, Marcus struck back. Avshar turned the blow with his shield. It did not burst as the Roman had hoped, but at the contact Avshar gave back two startled paces. He swung his blade up inderisive salute. “You have a strong blade, runagate, but there are spells of proof against such.”
Yet he fought more cautiously after that and, as the hard work of combat helped banish the wine from Scaurus’ system, the Roman grew surer and more confident of himself. He began to press forward, blade flicking out now high, now low, with Avshar yielding ground step by stubborn step.
The Yezda, who had kept silent while all around him voices rose in song, began to chant. He sang in some dark language, strong, harsh, and freezing, worse even than his laugh. The torchlight dimmed and almost died in a web of darkness spinning up before Marcus’ eyes.
But along the length of the Roman’s blade, the druids’ marks flared hot and gold, turning aside the spell the wizard had hurled. Scaurus parried a stroke at his face.
The episode could only have taken an instant, for even as he was evading the blow, a woman in the crowd—he thought it was Helvis—called out, “No ensorcelments!”
“Bah! None are needed against such a worm as this!” Avshar snarled, but he chanted no further. And now the tribune had his measure. One of his cuts sheared away the tip of Avshar’s shield-boss. The Yezda envoy’s robes grew tattered, and red with more than wine.
Screaming in frustrated rage, Avshar threw himself at the Roman in a last bid to overpower his enemy by brute force. It was like standing up under a whirlwind of steel, but in his wrath the Yezda grew careless, and Marcus saw his moment come at last.
He feinted against Avshar’s face, then thrust quickly at his belly. The Yezda brought his blade down to cover, only to see, too late, that this too was a feint. The Roman’s sword hurtled at his temple. The parry he began was far too slow, but in avoiding it, Scaurus had to turn his wrist slightly. Thus the flat of his blade, not the edge, slammed into the side of Avshar’s head.
The Yezda tottered like a lightning-struck tree, then toppled, his sword falling beside him. Scaurus took a step forward to finish him, then shook his head. “Killing a stunned man is butcher’s work,” he said. “The quarrel was his with me, not mine with him.” He slid his blade back into its
Moments later, Adiatun was back with the tribune’s
scutum
. “Cut him into crowbait,” he said, slapping Scaurus on the shouder.
The Roman was drawing his blade when something else occurred to him. He asked Taso Vones, “Will Avshar not want me to shed my cuirass?”
Vones shook his head. “It’s common knowledge he wears mail himself, under those robes. He’s not the envoy of a friendly country, you know.”
Marcus spent a last second wishing he had not drunk so much. He wondered how much wine was in Avshar. Then it was too late for such worries. There was only a circle of eager, watching faces, with him and the Yezda in the middle of it—and then he forgot the watchers, too, as Avshar leaped forward to cut him down.
For a man so tall, he was devilishly quick, and strong in the bargain. Marcus caught the first slash on his shield and staggered under it, wondering if his arm was broken. He thrust up at Avshar’s unseen face. The Yezda danced back, then came on again with another overhand cut.
He seemed to have as many arms as a spider and a sword in every hand. Within moments Marcus had a cut high up on his sword arm and another, luckily not deep, just above the top of his right greave. His shield was notched and hacked. Avshar wielded his heavy blade like a switch.
Fighting down desperation, Marcus struck back. Avshar turned the blow with his shield. It did not burst as the Roman had hoped, but at the contact Avshar gave back two startled paces. He swung his blade up inderisive salute. “You have a strong blade, runagate, but there are spells of proof against such.”
Yet he fought more cautiously after that and, as the hard work of combat helped banish the wine from Scaurus’ system, the Roman grew surer and more confident of himself. He began to press forward, blade flicking out now high, now low, with Avshar yielding ground step by stubborn step.
The Yezda, who had kept silent while all around him voices rose in song, began to chant. He sang in some dark language, strong, harsh, and freezing, worse even than his laugh. The torchlight dimmed and almost died in a web of darkness spinning up before Marcus’ eyes.
But along the length of the Roman’s blade, the druids’ marks flared hot and gold, turning aside the spell the wizard had hurled. Scaurus parried a stroke at his face.
The episode could only have taken an instant, for even as he was evading the blow, a woman in the crowd—he thought it was Helvis—called out, “No ensorcelments!”
“Bah! None are needed against such a worm as this!” Avshar snarled, but he chanted no further. And now the tribune had his measure. One of his cuts sheared away the tip of Avshar’s shield-boss. The Yezda envoy’s robes grew tattered, and red with more than wine.
Screaming in frustrated rage, Avshar threw himself at the Roman in a last bid to overpower his enemy by brute force. It was like standing up under a whirlwind of steel, but in his wrath the Yezda grew careless, and Marcus saw his moment come at last.
He feinted against Avshar’s face, then thrust quickly at his belly. The Yezda brought his blade down to cover, only to see, too late, that this too was a feint. The Roman’s sword hurtled at his temple. The parry he began was far too slow, but in avoiding it, Scaurus had to turn his wrist slightly. Thus the flat of his blade, not the edge, slammed into the side of Avshar’s head.
The Yezda tottered like a lightning-struck tree, then toppled, his sword falling beside him. Scaurus took a step forward to finish him, then shook his head. “Killing a stunned man is butcher’s work,” he said. “The quarrel was his with me, not mine with him.” He slid his blade back into its
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