Blade glanced at Chiana, who stood beyond the ring of assassins, her eyes filled with worry. She shouted something, but he could not hear her over the drumming of Swift's feet. He shook his head, and she tried to push through the assassins, but they shoved her back, ignoring her protests. Blade turned his attention to Swift again, watching the assassin's unflagging energy, his skin now sheened with sweat. He moved around the stage, lifting his legs high to crack down on the boards in a flawless rhythm.
The Vordan assassin changed to a set piece of fast tapping, his feet drumming out the beat with unerring precision. Next he set off on a series of rhythmic stamping steps that sounded rather like a galloping horse, flicking his legs up behind him with each step. He stopped and flicked his legs sideways at knee level, stamping his feet in the ordered cadence of the Dance. Blade sighed and studied the proud faces of Swift's companions, Sting's smug smile filled with admiration. The people beyond watched with avid fascination, clearly having never seen a dance to rival this one. Indeed, the Dance of Death was a wonder to behold, its rigours beyond the ability of any man who had not practised it for many years.
By now, several minutes had passed, and sweat ran down Swift's gleaming skin. He gasped through an open mouth as he concentrated on the intricate steps. Blade watched closely, for if a misstep was to happen it would be when the dancer grew tired. Swift's performance continued perfectly, and, as he neared the end of the Dance, he spread his arms in a grand egotistical gesture that invited applause.
Swift executed the final steps and ended with the prescribed leap, falling to one knee with a sweeping gesture. Applause came from the growing crowd, and some coins rattled onto the stage, making Blade smile. Swift's chest heaved as he gasped like a man who had been underwater for too long. His eyes bulged from the strain and the veins in his brow and neck stood out. Clearly the Dance, with his extra steps, taxed him to the point of exhaustion, which was its purpose. Rising to his feet, he turned to Blade, a triumphant grin stretching his features. He bent and pulled off the metal toe and heel caps, throwing them at Blade's feet.
"Let's see you... do better... old man."
Blade buckled the steel caps on, his stomach tight with apprehension. Since he had been injured, he had not been able to complete the Dance even in its simplest form, and the memory of the pain that had prevented him burnt like a raw wound in his mind. It seemed unlikely that he would be able to beat Swift, yet his pride dictated that he must try. He stamped to test the metal caps, finding them a good fit despite Swift's larger feet.
Bending, he hugged his knees to stretch the muscles in the back of his legs, then straightened and shook them to loosen them. He tried to remember the time when he could complete the Dance of Death with greater ease than Swift. Younger days when his legs had been gifted with the eager bounce of youth, when the spring in his step had come naturally and his lightning reflexes had added a strange magic to his Dance. He would have to find that speed one last time, then his dancing days would be done. Closing his eyes, he summoned into his mind a cat's swift grace, reminding himself of his kin, and walked into the centre of the stage.
With a graceful gesture, he made the first leap and landed lightly, his muscles responding to his inner urgency with a snap that he had thought lost with age. He spun and leapt, keeping one leg stiff before him and landing in a sudden burst of speed that blended the tapping rhythm into a simple tune. This was his talent, which he had discovered during his training, a natural speed that had never been rivalled, not even by Swift. The vigour of the Dance was such that his heart started to hammer almost immediately, and he breathed deeply to try to prevent the gasping that would come later as he tired. He executed a series of complex steps with consummate style, then leapt high, striking his heels together in mid-air, one of his additions.
Chiana watched Blade with awe, her eyes riveted to him. He seemed to float in the air when he leapt, and his sweeping gestures added to the flowing beauty of his movements. The height of his jumps allowed him time to brush his metal-shod boots together in a flash of sparks. The rhythmic beat of his feet hammered on the boards, faster than Swift's, more precise and flamboyant. He swept into a series of whipping spins, his feet lashing out to slash the throats of invisible enemies.
Reaching the edge of the stage, he turned and switched to a high kicking run, his boots cracking down with each step. He followed the same routine as Swift had done, only better, faster and more graceful than his opponent. Everyone knew that Blade had more skill and speed than Swift, however, only his endurance was being tested here. Chiana found her nails digging into her palms as she willed him to have the strength to win and put the obnoxious Swift in his place. Already Blade's mouth was open to gasp, yet he had not completed half the Dance. Swift, standing at the edge of the stage, smirked.
Blade slowed as he reached a sequence of simple heel-toe tapping, which he performed at less than half of Swift's speed. Swift glanced at Sting, but the elder shrugged. The dancer could choose the speed of the dance, but he was not allowed to stop. At the same time, a slow dancer would win no Trials, but Blade's dazzling speed hitherto more than compensated for this slowing of the pace. Chiana smiled, understanding his tactics. He was pacing himself, using this respite to catch his breath, then making up for it with his greater speed later on.
As suddenly as he had slowed, he quickened the tempo again, performing the next complex sequence at more than twice Swift's pace. He made a prodigious leap, his stiffened legs crossing in mid-air, striking his boots together with a sharp crack and a shower of sparks. Swift's expression turned sour as Blade rendered a faster version of the stamping horse-rhythm routine, using the length of the stage to achieve it instead of remaining in one place as Swift had done. He executed the high backwards kicks with consummate ease and timing, his heels tapping out the beat, then the sideways leg flicks, crossing at the knee or even higher. Again he slowed, performing a simple series of steps at half Swift's speed. His chest heaved and sweat sheened his skin.
The burning in Blade's left lung warned him of the onset of exhaustion. The slight respite of the slower steps allowed him to regain a little strength, and he set off on an extra set of spinning kicks, his feet hammering out the rhythm. He ended with his leg crossing high kick, sparks flashing from his feet, then settled into the prescribed routine of fast tapping, his right foot blurring as he beat out the tattoo, his left adding a slow heel tap.
Although this was performed while almost stationary, except for the slow turn that Blade used, it sapped the strength with its speed and precision, especially since Blade performed it at more than twice the speed of which Swift was capable. His lung burnt, pain lancing through it each time he drew breath, and he fought the urge to clasp his ribs. This was the stage where he usually stopped, unable to bear the pain, but now he could not. He forced himself into the next part of the Dance, a series of leaping, leg crossing high kicks, his arms outstretched.
The energy ebbed from his muscles and his vision became red-tinged as he forced his legs to obey, his last kick so low that he almost did not get his foot back under him in time. Again he slowed the Dance on the next set of steps, but it did little good, they were complex and strenuous. Still he forced himself to go on, aware that the grace had gone from his dance. His feet were heavy and slowing, his jumps lacked the height required.
Even so, he did not miss a beat, nor, by some miracle, did he stumble, although his knee came close to buckling a number of times as he landed. He concentrated only on completing the Dance without error, unable to add anything more to it. His vision darkened and his lung seemed to be filled with hot coals, a metallic taste invading his mouth. He performed a set of low kicking jumps, all else fading but for the rhythm of his feet, which remained perfect.
Chiana watched with tears in her eyes and a lump blocking her throat. Blade's half closed eyes were glazed with exhaustion, his steps heavy, yet still precise. He leapt and spun, lashing out with legs that lacked any kind of spring, the jarri
ng visible as he landed. Swift grinned, his eyes bright with delight as he waited for the inevitable collapse that seemed certain to come at any moment.
Blade no longer slowed, he seemed oblivious to everything but the Dance. His feet hammered out the cadence and his arms hung at his sides. His skin was flushed, veins stood out on his brow and neck, and his mouth was open wide to gasp. The end of the Dance came at last. Blade executed the final leap without vigour, barely managing it, and fell to one knee. He held the position for only an instant, then slumped to the ground.
Swift swung to glare at Sting, who looked chagrined and ashamed, avoiding Swift's eyes.
"Well?" Swift demanded.
Sting shook his head. "He's completed it."
"And?"
The elder rubbed his brow with an air of frustration. "I can only declare him the winner. To do anything else would be a travesty. He's better than you, there's no doubt in my mind. He's faster and more precise. He can't be faulted."
"He grew clumsy at the end. That last leap -"
"Yes, yes, I saw it, but the rest of his performance outmatched yours utterly. You've only made a fool of yourself, I'm afraid. He keeps your belt in my opinion. You've compounded your humiliation, and will be stripped of your status." Sting glanced at the rest of the assassins, receiving sullen nods and angry growls. "Your only consolation is that you might have killed him."
Swift glanced at Blade, who lay gasping, his eyes closed. "I hope so," he muttered. "He was not fit to complete the Dance. His pride has killed him."
Chiana pushed through the assassins and darted onto the stage as Swift turned away from his fallen opponent. Kneeling beside Blade, she lifted his head, alarmed by the rasping wheeze with which he breathed and his skin's unnatural pallor.
"Call a healer!" she shouted, but the Vordan assassins ignored her, melting away into the crowd. The commoners muttered and turned away as well, unmoved by an assassin's plight. Chiana wiped Blade's brow with her sleeve, then looked around for help. The assassin coughed, a fine spray of blood reddening his lips, and opened his eyes.
Chiana groaned, "Oh, God, you are bleeding."
Blade struggled to sit up, his chest heaving. Tremors shook him in spasms as he looked around, clearly puzzled. "What happened? I must have... passed out."
"You won. They have gone, but you are hurt."
He pressed a shaking hand to his ribs. "My lung..."
"You have opened the wound again." She scanned the dwindling crowd, and relief washed through her as she spotted Lirek hurrying towards them. He clattered up the steps onto the stage and knelt beside Blade.
"What's happened, my lady?"
"There is no time to explain. Go and find a horse, we must get Lord Conash back to the palace at once."
"Right." Lirek ran off, leaving them alone once more.
Blade coughed again, wiped the blood from his lips and studied it. A slight, rueful smile twisted his mouth, and the sadness of his expression tore Chiana's heart. "I guess my dancing days are done."
"At least you are still alive. You might have died."
He shrugged. "No great loss."
"You should have refused."
"Then they would have burnt off my tattoo. I would have been disgraced."
"Is that all you care about, your pride?"
He shot her a hard glance. "What else do I have?"
Chiana bit back the hot words that leapt onto her tongue, longing to tell him that he had a wife who loved him with every ounce of her being, a friend in Jayon who would lay down his life for him and a queen who idolised him, to say nothing of a king who respected him immensely. "You are a legend, Blade. You changed history when you slew the Cotti King and one of their princes. No one else could have achieved that feat, and many tried. You cannot hold your life so cheap."
He grimaced, glancing at the crowds that wandered past. "I'm no hero, nor will you convince me that I am. I, at least, have no illusions about that."
Blade tried to rise to his feet, but sank down again with a curse. The effort made him gasp and cough afresh, and bright blood flecked his lips.
"Sit still," Chiana admonished. "Lirek is bringing a horse for you, then we will take you back to the palace."
He rubbed his ribs. "I seem to have little choice."
Lirek returned with a hired horse and Jayon, whom he had found outside a taproom. Blade required their aid to quit the stage, and they helped him onto the beast. The young commander demanded to know what had happened, and Chiana explained on the way to the palace. Blade closed his eyes, his face lined with exhaustion, and she watched with deep concern as he clung to the saddle. Jayon swore to find the guilty parties and exact vengeance, at which point Blade roused sufficiently to tell him to mind his own business, which silenced the commander's growls of outrage.
At the palace, the men half carried Blade to his bed, where he slumped against the pillows, breathing in a painful wheeze. Jayon summoned Verdan, who examined Blade with a grave expression, shaking his head when he turned to Chiana.
"Lord Conash has torn open the wound in his lung again, filling it with blood. That is why he is short of breath. He must remain sitting up, so the blood does not fill his other lung, or he will drown."
Chiana nodded. "But he will recover?"
Verdan shrugged, his expression disapproving. "In time I daresay he will, but now that lung will be even weaker than before. Lord Conash should have avoided such strenuous activity in the first place. It was extremely ill advised. I trust he will not make the same mistake again."
"What can you do for him?"
"Nothing. All he needs is complete rest. He should not rise from his bed for two, maybe three tendays. If he develops a fever, I can treat it, but I can do nothing for him now."
Blade said, "I'm not lying about for half a moon phase."
Chiana turned to frown at him. "You will, even if I have to tie you to the bed."
"I'll help," Jayon volunteered.
Blade shot him a frigid glance. "I'd like to see you try, once I have some strength back."
Jayon chuckled. "That should be interesting."
"No strenuous exercise," Verdan ordered, "and that includes fighting."
"It won't be a fight," Blade muttered, looking away.
Chiana smiled and bit her lip, her eyes stinging. Jayon coughed and turned away, clearly discomfited by her distress. Verdan shot the assassin a martyred look and left to attend his other duties, followed by Lirek. Chiana glanced at the hovering Arken and quit the room before her tears overflowed. In the corridor, she wiped her eyes, looking embarrassed when Jayon joined her, and he cast her a sympathetic grimace.
"I know how you feel, my lady. Don't weep."
His empathy brought more tears, and she pulled out a handkerchief. "It is all he has, his infernal pride."
"I know."
"You should have seen him, Jayon."
"I wish I had."
She dabbed her eyes and forced a weak smile. "The Queen will be furious, but not with him. Not really. And it is not just because she needs him, as he thinks. She loves him."
"As we do."
"Yes."
"Although I can't for the life of me think why we care so much for such a cold, unfeeling bastard." He rubbed his chin. "It's odd. When I found him in the desert, I felt compelled to save him."
"He is special. I think he is destined for greatness." She hesitated, glancing at him. "But that is not why I love him."
The young commander smiled, brushing back the truant lock of hair that flopped over one eye. "Me either."
A terrific crash came from Blade's room, followed by his voice bellowing insults at Arken. Moments later the red-faced servant emerged and slammed the door behind him. He spied Chiana and Jayon and came over to them.
"He wants a damned bath! I told him he can't have one, he's too sick." Arken folded his arms to show the finality of his decision.
Jayon smiled, then put out a hand to stop Chiana as she headed for Blade's doo
r. "No, leave him to me, my lady. He will only shout at you, and you don't deserve that."
"He is my husband, I have to deal with him."
"Not when he's ill."
Arken nodded. "He's definitely ill, he has the temper to prove it."
Jayon cast Chiana a reassuring smile. "I will deal with him."
Chiana sighed and walked off. Arken rolled his eyes and marched away in the opposite direction, leaving Jayon to enter the lion's den alone. He found the assassin seated on the edge of the bed, removing his boots. Blade glanced up at him with a frown.
"Where's that fool, Arken?"
Jayon shrugged. "I think he went to tend to his other duties."
"I told him to fill me a bath!"
"I know. He feels that you're too ill to risk a chill."
Blade snorted. "What does he know?"
"The healer told him this."
"And he knows even less! I'll wash even if I have to carry the damned water myself."
Jayon shook his head. "That won't be necessary, I'll fetch the water for you."
Blade glowered at him. "Good."
A knock on the door made Blade glance around and call out for the applicant to enter. A mud-splattered messenger came in and bowed.
"Lord Conash. I bring a message from your estate to the north."
"What is it?"
The messenger glanced at Jayon, his expression grim. "It is fallen, My Lord, as have all the lands to the north."
Blade looked away, and Jayon paid the man, who bowed again and left. Jayon studied the assassin's downcast features.
"Is something wrong?"
Blade scowled. "No. It was to be expected."
"Was there someone you cared about...?"
The assassin looked up. "No. I care about no one, boy. Don't ever forget that."
"How could I? You just seemed... unhappy for a moment, but I expect that's because you've lost your recently acquired wealth and lands. All your hard work for nothing. It must be galling."
The Queen's Blade II - Sacrifice Page 9