Without warning the blade twirled in her hands and came down flat against the water with a deafening crack. Water jetted up high. Torilane vanished behind it.
Ryle frowned in confusion as water sprayed across his face, then Torilane exploded through the cascade.
He dodged back, to the side. She was on him, sword flashing, dark metal teeth gleaming. His sword was out of position. He threw himself backward.
Too late. Cold seared across Ryle’s hip as metal teeth tore into him. He stumbled, and fell to one knee. His center spun away.
A lilting roar went up around the arena. The stone roof threw back a mad legion of sound. Hot blood joined the cold water soaking his pants. He had scarce moments before the wound flamed to life.
With gritted teeth, Ryle lunged back to his feet and lashed out with a rising strike. He caught only air, but he managed to off balance his opponent enough to press the attack for a few seconds.
Her alien blade flickered through an intricate pattern, and Ryle was retreating again. A dozen, sloshing steps. Ryle grasped for that calm center between blows, but found nothing. Her strikes showed no sign of slowing. He barely kept up. The sword hilt slipped in his grip, the unbalanced blade dragged at his hands. His throat burned for air as fire kindled to life in his hip.
It was a matter of time before she caught him again. He’d be lucky if the next blow didn’t end him. He had to take a chance.
Give ground to take ground. The Professor’s words filled Ryle’s skull as he eyed her weapon. They sparked an idea. A suicidal one. He went with it.
They engaged again. Torilane’s sword dropped, caught his blade, twisted. This time Ryle leaped with it. The jagged teeth whispered past his ribs. He spun through and rammed his elbow back into her face.
Blood exploded from her nose, spraying across his arm as she stumbled away.
Gasps erupted across the audience.
Ryle leapt after her. That was a mistake.
Even blinking and snorting blood, the swordswoman turned every strike without hesitation. She smacked his final strike down hard, and swept her jagged weapon at his head.
Ryle hit the water flat on his back to avoid the blow. Waves lapped at his ears, cutting out sound, covering his face. Fear roiled in his chest. He kicked over backward, blinking water from his eyes as he landed in a crouch. Torilane was mid charge, sword overhead. He lashed out with a desperate lateral cut.
Somehow he caught her across the stomach. Just. She paused and fingered the cut fabric, then nodded and stepped back.
Ryle gasped in relief and wiped the water from his eyes.
Torilane tore the hem of her shirt free. Underneath her stomach now bore a thin cut, barely more than scratch. But that wasn’t what caught his eye. Below her skin, the iron cables of her muscles were still. She wasn’t breathing hard. Ryle’s own breath roared in his ears.
She blew blood from her nose and mouth, then wiped both with the scrap of shirt and tossed it aside.
The wound in Ryle’s side throbbed with every pounding heartbeat. He grasped for his center, but it was scattered to the four pillars of the arena and he had no time to search for it.
The swordswoman leapt to the attack.
She’d been toying with Ryle before. In the blink of an eye, her blade was everywhere. High and low, and falling from impossible angles. With every passing blow, his blasted sword trailed further and further behind. He slipped into the first, then the second unknown defenses. Without a calm mind, her strikes blew past his defenses.
Pain tore through his left arm. Ryle gasped and stumbled back until he had space to glance down. A handful of ragged tooth marks leaked blood across his forearm. He spat and gritted his teeth. The audience stomped and roared their approval.
Long minutes remained in the match. She had plenty of time to finish him. Torilane spun her sword and smiled. The crimson tattoo along her jaw gleamed.
Ryle shivered at the sight. He circled and back peddled, trying to keep his distance. Water splashed around his ankles, and he noted with disgust, that it had taken on a pink tinge in his wake.
Her blasted blade. Such a strange weapon, so impossibly fast. Part of him wondered what it was like to wield a weapon so light. What it would feel like in his hands. He guessed at the balance and its heft. Its wide blade.
Now there was an idea—his second crazy one of the night, but the first had worked out. Kind of. And seeing as how he was filling the pool with blood, he saw no other options.
Ryle flexed his left hand, everything in his arm held through the pain, the cuts weren’t too deep. He took a deep breath and pushed it out slowly, fighting his body’s demand for more air. Did it again. On the third slow breath, he found his lost kenten. His pulse slowed as he slipped into his center. He brought his sword up into second.
Torilane nodded and advanced. Blows rained down once more. He ignored positions, and relied on instincts to meet them. With his mind clear, they were fast, but not as fast as moments before. While his sword moved, he looked for a movement, a certain shift of the weight.
There.
He went with it.
Her blow came high, the setup clear in movement of Torilane’s right hip. Ryle turned the first strike, but left his torso open for a lateral cut. She twisted her blade over, and brought it around in a blur.
Now!
Ryle leapt away, sweeping his sword through third position and drove it down hard with both hands. The timing had to be perfect.
Their blades met vertical to horizontal in a screeching crack. Ryle’s weapon shook but he held on. The impact sent them both stumbling, but neither could go far. Their blades were locked together. Ryle’s sword was driven halfway down the length of her wooden blade.
Someone in the crowd gasped. Ryle’s chest heaved, and he eyed Torilane over her ruined sword. She looked down at the split wood, back up. Nodded.
“Impressive,” she said in an accent he’d never heard, before yanking her blade free.
So much for the great idea. Ryle brought his sword back up into second. His hands ached, his arms wanted to shake.
Torilane eyed her split sword, then slapped the flat of the blade with her palm. One of the metal teeth tumbled free and splashed into the water. She stared at it, then she looked right at Ryle. He kept his sword up.
She appeared as strong and calm as when they’d begun the fight. The blood smeared across her cheeks and lips had merged with her tattooed jaw and turned her face into a fierce crimson mask.
After a drawn out moment her bloody lips twisted into a smile.
Ryle frowned.
Touching her fingers to her chin and then to her forehead, she gave a small bow, turned, and walked away with her broken sword draped over her shoulder.
Ryle couldn’t believe his eyes, but he wouldn’t argue.
He let his sword arm drop to his side. Blood slid warm across his knuckles. Torilane slipped into the crowd, and disappeared.
Two dow—
A boom echoed through the cistern. Balrod raised his club from the arena floor. Waves of water and steam rolled away from the huge warrior. His brows dropped into an ugly frown, and he strode toward Ryle.
Well, muck.
CHAPTER 35
Pain ground in Ryle’s hip. Dregs of adrenaline rattled his limbs. He sucked in air for his starving lungs.
A roar burst from the crowd as their hero entered the fight.
Ryle felt smashed, hollowed out. His chest heaved. His hands shook freely now, he couldn’t still them. His blood ran everywhere. If he was lucky, he had seconds to recover.
The behemoth that was Balrod wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and came on. Each of his pounding steps geysered water to his knees. His club trailed behind him, and steam rose in his wake.
Ryle backed away, buying time. The crowd favorite followed, in no hurry, every step covering two or three times as much ground.
Balrod gave Ryle a long drawn out moment of desperate useless movement, then his tree tru
nk-sized club whipped around in an iron blur.
Muck.
Ryle threw himself into a roll through the water. When he came back up, Balrod was already there. He gasped a quick breath and spun to the side. An ear splitting crash exploded through the arena as the giant’s club slammed into the stone floor. Heated water poured across Ryle. Cries of awe rolled from the crowd. And a new sound filled his ears, a rough, deep whir. It came from the duelist’s club.
The weapon was definitely oldcraft.
Ryle shuffled back, eyes on the weapon. It was constructed of tightly stacked metal rings, and if the enormous chunk of iron wasn’t bad enough, those rings were moving. Each one spun in a different direction, faster than his eyes could follow, blurring the entire length of iron.
Rancid muck.
Balrod closed the distance without trying. He wasn’t fast, so much as huge. But between Ryle’s exhaustion and blood loss it resulted in the same thing.
Ryle brought his sword back up to second. It was no use. Balrod’s club fell and he dove away. Water filled his eyes and mouth. He got his good arm under him and came up spitting. Blood filled the water. Steam rolled across his face.
Balrod snorted and turned to the crowd. They roared in response. When he pointed at Ryle and shook his head, they screamed all the louder.
Ryle dragged his sword back up in both hands. The weapon grew heavier by the moment. His left arm throbbed from wrist to shoulder. His left hand shook on the grip. Balrod glanced back, sneered, and swung.
The club was an iron avalanche. Ryle rolled away, and heat seared his skin as the weapon passed. He scrambled back to his feet with the impact shaking his bones. The water hissed around the weapon’s touch. New sounds erupted from the crowd: cheers, and some laughter.
This was ridiculous. Whether Ryle was bleeding out or not, the Professor would have his hide. Hex, he was disgusted with himself. Only this big bastard stood between him and his father, and he was flopping around like a dying fish.
Ryle sucked in a huge wet lungful, and brought his sword up, forcing his body to move through the pain. His center was there, wavering, but intact. He seized it and focused as some calm surrounded him.
The giant shook his head, and his club crashed down. This time Ryle had seen the twitch in the man’s shoulders before it fell. He slipped past, gaining an angle on the huge duelist. His blade flashed out and nicked his opponent’s shoulder before the spinning rings intercepted the blow and threw Ryle’s weapon aside in a shower of sparks.
It wasn’t much, but it was a start. He skipped back, and dropped deeper into his kenten. The pain faded. Ryle spun and struck low, then reversed the spin and struck high. Balrod stepped clear of the first strike, but the second caught him across the wrist. His face might’ve actually twitched in response.
The warrior countered by smashing forward, but Ryle saw his movement in time. He spun past and laid a shallow cut across Balrod’s shoulder blade.
Ryle felt the tide shift. Balrod’s eyes were angry. He glared and lashed out.
There was no way to meet such an attack. Ryle ducked away, gathered himself, and fired off another combination, faster than the last.
Steel clanged off hot iron, the impacts vibrated his bones. The giant’s club was everywhere, burning the air, vaporizing the water.
Fear tried to bubble up, cold and quivering. Ryle shoved it away. He was too close.
He angled away, searching for space to think, to plan. Balrod pressed forward, dragging his club behind him in one massive fist. Water hissed and spat in his wake. Steam billowed behind him like some ancient demon.
The giant looked exposed but Ryle had seen him move. He’d never reach Balrod head on, and they both knew it. As if to prove this point, the duelist gestured for Ryle to attack.
Ryle retreated. Huge or not, Balrod was making a mistake by playing to the crowd and not forcing the fight to a conclusion. If Ryle had any chance it would be there, in the man’s arrogance. It was a slim hope at best. Thus far, the crowd favorite backed up every bit of his bravado, but there were no other options.
Ryle took a breath and darted forward just far enough to draw a reaction. The club swept around, and Ryle leapt back from his feint an instant before, and stone exploded beneath the impact.
He feinted again, left, then right. Each time, throwing himself back as Balrod lunged to splatter him across the floor. Balrod’s attacks were devastating.
Balrod gave the crowd another salute. Their cries were boos and laughter now. Jewel encrusted fingers waved Ryle away. His blood dripped into the water. His vision wavered, blurred around the edges. His lungs heaved.
He almost agreed with the crowd. This was useless. Almost but not quite. His opponent was huge and devastating, he’d give them that. But he wasn’t perfect. There was a gap between his blows. If Ryle timed it perfectly, he might get a shot. But only one.
Ryle growled to himself. That meant one thing. Desperate times and all that. He was in no condition to try it, but once again, he was out of options.
He visualized the soft spot at the base of Balrod’s throat, and drawing his kenten for perhaps the last time, he let the blade drop along his side.
The sword was unfamiliar in his hand. He wished again for a proper weapon, but there was nothing for it. His wet fingers slid along the slick hilt until they found a good grip. He just needed one perfect moment. He could still finish this. Ryle pulled himself as deep into his kenten as he could manage and let Balrod come for him.
One huge step, two. The giant’s club pulled back, his huge arm straining with tension. Ryle felt the edge of the duelist’s striking range slide past like a cold breeze. Balrod’s hand twitched. Ryle lunged, angling left. Balrod struck, and Ryle darted right instead. The club swiped so close, his eyelashes fluttered in its wake. For a single heartbeat, as stone exploded and the cistern shook, Ryle was inside his opponent’s defenses.
He twisted and whipped his sword up into the final strike the Professor had taught him. The unique expression, the Singularity. Absolute exposure and absolute finality in one blow. His sword lanced for Balrod’s throat, all his weight behind it, all his speed. Every bit of technique he possessed was compressed into this one movement.
Maybe it was fatigue, or blood loss, or every little wound Ryle suffered along the way, but his left foot slipped on the bottom of the cistern. He barely stumbled, but it slowed the strike for a fraction of an instant, and in that gap, Balrod moved.
Ryle’s sword drove in, blood spurted. The world twisted about him, graying in and out.
Ryle’s sword had entered Balrod’s chest just below his collarbone. The giant’s hand grasped the blade and blood leaked from between Balrod’s fingers.
The crowd was silent. Then a single voice gasped, and it was like a switch had been thrown.
Balrod’s brows drew together, his face hardened, and he growled. The rank, rotting, burning stench on the man’s breath slammed Ryle across the face, yanking him from the edge of unconsciousness, back to the world beneath the city. This close he could see the black stains across Balrod’s lips, usually concealed by his beard.
Balrod was chaff-eating sauced.
Before he could do anything Balrod tossed Ryle aside, heedless of the spray of blood as Ryle’s sword yanked free of his muscled torso.
Ryle landed with a splash and scrambled up just in time for the duelist’s iron club to whip around off the floor. Metal sought his skull.
He ducked, twisted. There was nowhere to prepare another attack. The club fell again and again, faster than should’ve been possible. Heat and steam washed over him in endless waves. He slipped and stumbled, avoiding the brutal attacks.
Balrod’s free hand caught Ryle across the jaw out of nowhere. Lights exploded in his vision as he came off his feet.
Ryle rolled over and over through the water until he landed on his back. His center collapsed. Blood and water ran over his face and pooled in his mouth. Lights flashed on and off across the stone ceiling. A
thousand screaming voices echoed around him. Pain, unmuted, latched onto his bones.
He shook his head then slowly raised it. Balrod pounded toward him, his face cast in a terrifying glare. Ryle rolled over and managed to crawl away. A spray of water and bits of stone pelted his bare back as the huge club exploded the floor where he’d lain a moment before. Hartvau’s guests gasped and screamed. Ryle climbed to his feet, spat blood, and turned to face the duelist.
He slipped Balrod’s first strike, ducked the second, but his head was ringing, his balance off. He tried to launch an attack and almost caught another fist to the skull. He spun away and brought his sword back up. His injured arm trembled, his wounded side cramped with every heaving breath. Remaining upright was fast becoming a struggle.
Balrod thrust his club at Ryle’s head, but he understood the giant’s feint too late. Balrod’s real blow swept in from the side.
Ryle flicked his sword toward it, but had no chance. His blade was smashed from his grasp and the feeling in his right arm with it. Ryle back peddled, trying to keep his feet.
Balrod’s blows fell harder. These were no longer playful strikes. Each impact shook the air. Ryle’s bones itched and leapt every time the iron crashed down.
He spit blood, but more welled up, filling his mouth. The arena tilted around him. The roaring masses cried for his soul.
You failed. Again. Kilgren’s rough voice echoed amidst the pain. Anger flickered inside, but not enough to make a difference. He was too tired, too wounded. His body was shutting down.
Ryle’s back fetched up against something hard.
Balrod’s free hand closed around his throat, pinning him against the pillar. Ryle gasped for breath, gagging and choking as the giant slid him upward until he looked Ryle in the eyes. His feet hung loose in the air. The cold stone pressed against his skin.
Balrod could’ve ended him right then by simply squeezing. The huge duelist’s grip was an iron vice, and Ryle couldn’t do anything to stop him. But he turned to the crowd instead, and raised his massive weapon. The mob roared their approval, but the sound was fading.
Gearspire: Advent Page 31
