by Cheryl Dyson
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
CLASH
There was an instant of stunned silence throughout the chamber and Toryn used the moment of surprise to his advantage. He leaped upon Reed, who was hampered in his effort to rise by the heavy ermine cloak. Toryn locked his left arm around Reed’s neck and dragged him forward into the open space before the dais; at the same time he drew his dagger with his right hand and pressed it against Reed’s throat hard enough to draw a thin line of blood. A shout went up and the archers drew their bows in the gallery above.
“Loose a single arrow and he dies!” Toryn shouted. Everyone froze and the music jangled to a discordant halt.
“Very good. Now throw down your weapons. All of them. Bows, daggers, swords. You, too, priest,” he barked, spying movement behind him. A hail of weapons rained down from the gallery above, causing the nobles to shriek and scurry out of the way. Several audience members shouted angrily, unlucky enough to be hit by the falling arsenal. Nice folk, Reed’s soldiers, Toryn noted absently. The officiant scuttled away, hands concealed beneath his robes. When Toryn was satisfied that most of the weapons had been disposed of, he flung Reed away and drew his sword. He tossed the dagger aside and backed toward the dais, leading Reed into the open area before the pedestal, not trusting the wedding guests. Any number of them might be loyal to Reed and would happily join the fray
“Now verminous dog,” Toryn snarled. “Fight me as a man, if you can.”
Reed seemed only mildly surprised. “The little Redolian pup,” he said with a slight smile. “I expected you to be fully cooked over the fires of Shaitan by now.”
“They found me not to their taste. Shall we begin?”
Reed drew his sword and saluted mockingly. Toryn sneered. They both stepped forward as one and their blades met with a force that almost snapped the blades in two. They measured each other over the next few moves, feinting and thrusting carefully and parrying each other’s attacks easily. Toryn smiled after a flashing attack scored a red gash on Reed’s right thigh. The spreading red stain showed clearly upon the white material. Reed’s eyes spat rage.
“You know, of course, that I am better than you,” Toryn said conversationally.
“I will try to remember that as I skewer your heart,” Reed snarled.
Toryn grinned. He pounced forward, his sword a blur of silver. He beat aside Reed’s defenses easily and only a panicked leap kept Toryn’s blade from impaling him mortally. Reed parried desperately, but Toryn’s sword penetrated his side and then flicked back to lay open one cheek. Reed staggered back as blood poured down his face, spattering red across his shoulder and chest. He clutched his side, rapidly stained with the same crimson. The wound was deep, but it would not kill the bastard. Panting, he circled the man, still grinning like a hunting wolf. Reed was, he had to admit, very good with a blade. But not good enough. He attacked again. Reed roared with anger, fighting for his life.
“This ends now!” Reed bellowed. He gripped the red crystal that dangled from his neck and held it tightly, then spat a curse at Toryn, who pulled his blade back for a deadly thrust. The blow never fell. Toryn howled and clutched at his head. He reeled backward and barely kept a grip on his sword. His balance was gone; he staggered two short steps before the polished tile floor rushed up to meet him.
Toryn rolled over, struggling to lift his sword and block out Reed's mental invasion. His vision was blurred and he could barely see Reed standing over him, staring malevolently with his brow furrowed in concentration. Toryn shrieked in pain and arched his back, clapping both hands to his head, sword and everything else forgotten as pain such as he had never experienced overwhelmed him.
Before he clamped his eyes shut against the agony, he saw Reed smile.