Tahyang sat at the very top of the stands, but with eyesight several times keener than a human’s, distance was no difficulty. He had left Huka behind the seats. For some time, the snowlion had kept growling as though tense, and nearby spectators were quietly retreating.
Do not think of the audience. Gene had told himself that before the start. This was far from his first fight surrounded by onlookers, yet their presence grated strangely today. He could not shake the feeling that all this was an entertainment, and he had become an acrobat.
Shaking his head, he looked forward. Before he knew it, Nikephoros’s sword was before his nose. Gene instinctively raised his own blade and pivoted half a turn on his right foot. Though made of stone, the floor had worn smooth and slick, allowing him to turn faster. It was almost slippery. Nikephoros’s sword slid along his, and Gene came behind him. It was the technique he had used most often. Without breaking motion, he drove his sword toward the man’s lower back.
No, he thought he had.
Nikephoros leaped three paces forward, then spun around and looked at Gene with blazing eyes. In disbelief, Gene blinked several times. At the same time, the setting sun stung his eyes. Had the light blurred his sight?
Reddinus, witnessing nearby, began to cheer, then quickly covered his mouth with one hand and tilted his head. An aspiring painter, he had quick eyes and keen powers of observation, which was why he had volunteered to witness. To his eyes, Gene’s sword had clearly struck Nikephoros’s back. Yet nothing seemed to have happened.
Gene steadied his breathing. He had to forget what had happened quickly. Keeping their distance, the two circled about three paces. Then he suddenly accelerated and rushed forward. In the blink of an eye, he was before Nikephoros’s face. Bringing down his sword as though to cut, he twisted left and aimed for the shoulder. Nikephoros withdrew quickly. Gene’s blade merely touched the elbow guard and swung back behind him.
Without pausing for breath, he went for the neck. Before Gene could get behind him, Nikephoros lowered himself, turned, and attacked again. As if he already knew what stance Gene would take, his greatsword aimed for Gene’s right arm. Calmly, Gene drew back his arm, angled his sword downward, and let the force of the greatsword run away. Then he retreated half a step and slashed upward.
Nikephoros twisted, but the sword tip grated loudly across his chain mail.
“Did you see that exchange? Truly, a speed difficult for the eye to follow! So far, neither seems injured!”
At Quissus’s shout, Gene’s hard-won concentration broke. Nikephoros too frowned. Spectators nearby could see both men’s momentary reaction clearly. At the same time, the people who had held even their breath until then began to murmur. The noise swelled into a wave and crashed onto the stage. Gene wished he could cover his ears, but that would look absurd. He heard Hal swearing.
“Damned tea-drinking fool. Shut your mouth.”
Elsewhere in the audience, Luke too was cursing Leonis for insisting they bring in Quissus. Leonis was a master of dressing any spectacle attractively, but had paid no attention to the fighters’ position. Any disadvantage would affect them both, he said, so it did not matter. Feeling a little guilty, Luke looked down at the stage. If Gene were injured today, he did not think he could shake the feeling of owing a debt. Everything he had done had been for Gene, but if Gene did not win, none of it would be any use, and no one would know it.
Unable to continue his attack, Gene withdrew three or four steps. They faced each other again and circled half a turn. Only the scrape of footsteps sounded. The setting sun moved over their faces in turn. In its dark red light, Gene had red cheeks like Mempholis, god of victory, while Nikephoros wore black-rimmed eyes like Arnusthe, god of vengeance.
Their standoff was brief. Nikephoros attacked first. Gene knocked aside the sword descending toward his left shoulder. His wrist tingled. Even in middle age, Nikephoros had strength to match a young man’s. Gene did not show it, but used that strength, thrusting out from the parry. Passing dangerously close beneath the neck, he instantly changed direction and stabbed at the chest.
It was so swift Nikephoros could not even bring his blade down. Gene’s sword seemed to enter to a depth of two finger joints, then struck something hard. Not armor. He had already passed the armor. Was the inside lined with steel plate?
What was it? To pull his sword free, Gene kicked Nikephoros in the knee. The greatsword already before his eyes cut empty air by a hair’s breadth. Nikephoros stumbled back. Gene did not wait, but rushed in and slashed. He clearly felt the tip bite deep into the upper arm, and saw a wound appear, first narrow, then spreading wider.
“Heh heh heh…”
With that low laugh, it all vanished. Gene could not believe it. This time, he had seen it without a doubt. Yet Nikephoros gripped his sword in two wholly uninjured hands and cut into Gene’s shoulder while he stood bewildered.
Drops of blood scattered on the stage.
Barely recovering himself, Gene retreated. He stared hard at Nikephoros’s arm. Had there been a sleeve, some torn mark would have remained, but beneath his armor the man wore a sleeveless shirt. The wound Gene himself had received was worse than expected. Holding back the pain, he adjusted his grip. Now he truly had to finish quickly. Just as he tried to concentrate, Quissus shouted again.
“Oh dear, our first blood! The Shadowhawk has injured his left shoulder!”
The spectators’ murmurs rose. They had not expected him to bleed first. Clenching his back teeth, Gene threw the confusion aside. He remembered what Rosa said when they met at Hawk House in the rain. In case you die. Yes, that fear was now real. A little laugh escaped him at his own absurdity. What had he been worrying about then?
He had probably been boasting when he thought that day that he would stake his life. His feelings now were nothing like his feelings then. He must have grown too accustomed to battles he fought from the stronger position. It had been a long time since he had met an enemy worthy of the name. Yet it had not always been like that. Three years earlier, without intending it, he had staked his life. He had done his best, knowing that the narrowest margin might turn all his efforts to nothing.
What had he been like then?
Gene adjusted his grip and extended his sword at his opponent, as though identifying his enemy. Sunset fell on its tip. Beyond it stood the general, seeming almost immortal. Gene did not know what scheme lay behind this, but now that he had chosen to accept the fight, only one thing remained to do. If once was not enough, then twice. If twice was not enough, ten times.
If ten times was not enough, a hundred!
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