to shift the battle’s pace to one that favored his strength over the smaller fighter’s speed. Ellasif pressed him, staying inside his reach and keeping her attacks coming so fast that he was forced into small, quick defenses.
Finally they broke apart and began to move in a circle, stalking each other while searching for an advantage.
Ellasif noted the amulet hanging over Gisanto’s heart. It was a small wooden disk upon which was painted a crude image of a firepelt cougar. There was no knowing what meaning the big man ascribed to it, but Varisians were a superstitious folk who felt strong affinities with totem animals. Ellasif smiled as a new ploy formed in her mind.
She began to sing, improvising words to the tune Timoteo played. Instead of the clever fox outwitting the farmer, she sang of a little mouse turning the tables on a fat, stupid cat.
“The cat is fat, and slow at that,” she sang, snapping Gisanto’s ample belly with the whip of his own hair. “The mouse is quick and cunning!”
Gisanto’s face darkened as he covered the distance between them with three long strides. Their swords met again and again in an angry metallic clamor.
“She hears his big old belly thump,” she sang, retreating. “And through the grass goes running.” Ellasif slapped Gisanto hard on the buttocks with his braid.
The big Varisian’s eyes blazed. He drew a long, curved knife from his sash. Sunlight glinted on the keen edge. The man’s sword was designed to thrust or bludgeon, so he’d need that curved knife if he planned to retaliate in the manner she expected. He would also need a free hand.
Sure enough, Gisanto thrust his sword point-down into the ground. He feinted low with the knife. When Ellasif parried, he reached over their crossed weapons and seized her braid with his sword hand.
Instantly he jolted back, staring with disbelief at his hand. The palm was bright red, and his fingers were already starting to swell.
“Swamp nettles,” Ellasif explained. “I hid a few in my hair when I braided it. Worse than hornets, don’t you agree?”
A few chuckles came from the watching Varisians, along with some angry muttering and one lone whistle of admiration. Ellasif nodded toward Gisanto’s sword. “Need more instruction?”
Gisanto tried to grasp the weapon, but his swollen fingers refuse to close around the hilt. He gave up the effort and brandished the curved knife in his off hand.
“Knives, then,” he said.
“That’s enough.” Balev strode between the combatants and put a restraining hand on Gisanto’s shoulder.
“You are the best fighter in the camp, even with one hand. Perhaps you want to know what other tricks the Ulfen knows, but I do not. Let them be a surprise for any who seek to waylay us on the road.”
“You’ve won your place,” said Balev, turning toward Ellasif. His eyes held some admiration, but no love for her.
Ellasif realized she might have flaunted her cunning too much. Taunting Gisanto was valuable, but humiliating him was a mistake if she wished to remain safe in this company. An apology would only make things worse here before all his peers, so she avoided his glowering stare and nodded at Balev.
“If you have business in Korvosa,” said the caravan captain, “conclude it quickly. We leave at dawn tomorrow.”
Chapter Five
The Unexpected Treasure
When he emerged from Geezlebottle Hall, Declan saw no sign of the impulsive Skywing. Probably the little drake was chasing imps again, or—considering the excitement of recent events—more likely he was curled up in a morning sunbeam, dreaming of hordes of field mice fleeing from his shadow as he swooped down out of the sun.
The market bustled with activity by the time Declan made his way back to Midland, the section of Korvosa where much of the city’s business took place. His weary horse pressed through the crowded streets, the slow clop of hooves a counterpoint to Declan’s troubled thoughts.
Silvana was in danger,
Finally they broke apart and began to move in a circle, stalking each other while searching for an advantage.
Ellasif noted the amulet hanging over Gisanto’s heart. It was a small wooden disk upon which was painted a crude image of a firepelt cougar. There was no knowing what meaning the big man ascribed to it, but Varisians were a superstitious folk who felt strong affinities with totem animals. Ellasif smiled as a new ploy formed in her mind.
She began to sing, improvising words to the tune Timoteo played. Instead of the clever fox outwitting the farmer, she sang of a little mouse turning the tables on a fat, stupid cat.
“The cat is fat, and slow at that,” she sang, snapping Gisanto’s ample belly with the whip of his own hair. “The mouse is quick and cunning!”
Gisanto’s face darkened as he covered the distance between them with three long strides. Their swords met again and again in an angry metallic clamor.
“She hears his big old belly thump,” she sang, retreating. “And through the grass goes running.” Ellasif slapped Gisanto hard on the buttocks with his braid.
The big Varisian’s eyes blazed. He drew a long, curved knife from his sash. Sunlight glinted on the keen edge. The man’s sword was designed to thrust or bludgeon, so he’d need that curved knife if he planned to retaliate in the manner she expected. He would also need a free hand.
Sure enough, Gisanto thrust his sword point-down into the ground. He feinted low with the knife. When Ellasif parried, he reached over their crossed weapons and seized her braid with his sword hand.
Instantly he jolted back, staring with disbelief at his hand. The palm was bright red, and his fingers were already starting to swell.
“Swamp nettles,” Ellasif explained. “I hid a few in my hair when I braided it. Worse than hornets, don’t you agree?”
A few chuckles came from the watching Varisians, along with some angry muttering and one lone whistle of admiration. Ellasif nodded toward Gisanto’s sword. “Need more instruction?”
Gisanto tried to grasp the weapon, but his swollen fingers refuse to close around the hilt. He gave up the effort and brandished the curved knife in his off hand.
“Knives, then,” he said.
“That’s enough.” Balev strode between the combatants and put a restraining hand on Gisanto’s shoulder.
“You are the best fighter in the camp, even with one hand. Perhaps you want to know what other tricks the Ulfen knows, but I do not. Let them be a surprise for any who seek to waylay us on the road.”
“You’ve won your place,” said Balev, turning toward Ellasif. His eyes held some admiration, but no love for her.
Ellasif realized she might have flaunted her cunning too much. Taunting Gisanto was valuable, but humiliating him was a mistake if she wished to remain safe in this company. An apology would only make things worse here before all his peers, so she avoided his glowering stare and nodded at Balev.
“If you have business in Korvosa,” said the caravan captain, “conclude it quickly. We leave at dawn tomorrow.”
Chapter Five
The Unexpected Treasure
When he emerged from Geezlebottle Hall, Declan saw no sign of the impulsive Skywing. Probably the little drake was chasing imps again, or—considering the excitement of recent events—more likely he was curled up in a morning sunbeam, dreaming of hordes of field mice fleeing from his shadow as he swooped down out of the sun.
The market bustled with activity by the time Declan made his way back to Midland, the section of Korvosa where much of the city’s business took place. His weary horse pressed through the crowded streets, the slow clop of hooves a counterpoint to Declan’s troubled thoughts.
Silvana was in danger,
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