The Silver Serpent Read online

  Chapter 6|Blind

  Hierm swept the sodden mass of hair from his forehead. He mopped has brow, then retied the cloth around his temple. Taking a moment to rest, he leaned against a nearby wagon, and tried to catch a glimpse of Shanis. He had seen little of her, but he was able to follow her progress by the roaring of the crowd. He had watched the beginning of Shanis’ first match. It was not a pretty sight. He had agonized as he watched her struggle. He knew that she was better than what she displayed. But somehow, almost magically, the old Shanis had emerged. Even knowing her capabilities as he did, Hierm was amazed at the progressive ease with which she dispatched her opponents. As her performance improved, so did the crowd’s reaction to her. She quickly became the favorite. From then on, every eruption told Hierm that Shanis had again emerged the victor.

  Things had not been as easy for Hierm. His first opponent had been a young man obviously of moderate experience, and Hierm had make quick work of him. Since then, each match had grown increasingly difficult, each opponent more skilled. In fact, he had scarcely managed to win his last match. Only a foolish slip by his opponent had allowed him to claim the victory.

  He stole a glance at the dais. No one was looking at Hierm. They were all waiting for Shanis’ next match. His mother noticed him, and waved. Alongside her, Hiram looked at him and nodded. Strange, that simple gesture from his father meant more to Hierm than all of his mother’s smiles and waves. His reverie was broken by the sound of his name being called.

  “Van Derin! To the circle.”

  He made his way back toward the circle. As he walked, a soldier clapped a meaty hand on his shoulder. Hierm looked down at him.

  The man looked like a walking tree stump. His arms were as thick as Hierm’s thighs, and his legs were so muscular that the man seemed to step to-and-fro in order to keep his thighs from touching. A broad scar, puckered and faded with age, ran across the back of his thick neck. Despite his intimidating physical appearance, the soldier wore a relaxed smile, and his clear, brown eyes matched his pleasant demeanor.

  “This is it, boy. Win this and you fight for the championship!” Hierm could not stifle a grin. Surely that would make his father proud. The soldier noticed his smile, but misunderstood the thought behind it. “Want a crack at that redhead, do you? She’s a good one.”

  Hierm missed a step. In all of the excitement leading up to this day, it had not occurred to him that he might face Shanis. He should have considered the possibility, he supposed, but he had not truly expected to make it this far. Shanis was the crowd favorite. If he fought her and won, he would be reviled. And if he lost, his father... What was he thinking? If he won? The way Shanis was fighting today the whole of the White Fang could not beat her.

  “I don’t want to fight Shanis,” he muttered. “This is not good. Not good at all.”

  “Not good, you say?” the soldier laughed. “Win this one before you worry about the next.” They arrived at the circle. The soldier removed his hand from Hierm’s shoulder, and gestured across the ring. “Watch this one. He’s as bad as she is good.” With that, he turned and walked away.

  Hierm watched his bulky form recede into the crowd. Odd that the fellow had taken an interest in him. Hierm didn’t recall having ever seen him before. Too bad he had not gotten the man’s name. Regardless, it was now time for the business at hand. He stepped into the ring, and looked across at his opponent. He stifled a curse when he saw whom he was to face. Beady black eyes stared at him from a frame of ink black hair. Karst! Hierm had completely forgotten the ill-disposed young noble. His surprise must have showed. Karst’s lips curved back in a wicked smile. The whiteness of his teeth and the pallor of his skin made his lips appear to be the color of blood.

  The two contestants were called to the center of the circle. Hierm stared dispassionately into Karst’s eyes as they were given the same instructions they had received before each match. The surprise at seeing Karst had faded quickly. Hierm forced himself to regain his focus. This was simply another opponent. Hierm sized him up. Slightly taller than himself. Perhaps a slightly longer reach. Lanky, probably strong and quick. He tried to remember what he had seen when Karst had fought Natin. It had all happened so fast. The only things he could glean from the memory were that Karst was skilled and wicked.

  Everything seemed to accelerate as Hierm analyzed his opponent. His heart pounded, and his senses seemed heightened. He felt the warmth of the sun on his scalp, the track of a single bead of sweat as it traced a path through the dust on his cheek. The roar of the crowd thundered in his ears, yet it seemed that he could pick out each individual voice. A fly buzzed past his face. Somewhere nearby, someone was roasting meat. The green expanse of the field, the deep blue sky, and the white cloaks of the Prince’s guard took on a striking clarity. Objects seemed to rush toward him, then instantly recede. All of these things flashed through his consciousness in an instant. He took a deep breath, and fought to regain control of himself.

  The instructions were nearly finished. Think! Think! Hierm told himself. Everyone has a weakness! Shanis’ weakness was anger. Hierm had his weaknesses. What was Karst’s weakness?

  The instructions were completed. Hierm and Karst were ordered to step back and make ready. As they moved apart, Karst spoke to him softly enough that no one else heard. “I can’t wait to see what passes for nobility in this cow pasture of a town.” Hierm looked at Karst’s sneering face and laughed. How had he not seen it before?

  Shanis wondered what Hierm’s laugh could mean. Her last match had been as easy as the rest. Not that her opponents weren’t good. Today, she was better than she’d ever been in her life. Now, only one match remained. Her opponent would either be Karst or Hierm. She felt torn. She didn’t want Hierm to lose to Karst. On the other hand, she would relish beating Karst. And she would beat him. He was good, but she believed that today, no one could beat her. Everything was flowing perfectly. This was the day that she would finally show everyone that they had been wrong to have discouraged her from pursuing the sword. She would hate to have to beat Hierm, but if that were what it took to win, she would do it. She was a swordsman. Swordsperson, Khalyndryn used to say, half-teasingly. Swordsman sounded just fine to Shanis. Anything else cheapened it, made it sound second-best. She was the best swordsman on the field today, and soon she would prove it.

  She watched as Hierm and Karst made ready. At the signal, the two leapt together, swords meeting in midair with a resounding ring. They parted as quickly as they had come together. They circled one another nimbly, thrusting and parrying. Karst twisted his upper lip in a dismissive sneer as he crossed blades with his opponent. His footwork was smooth and his reflexes quick. He did not miss a step when Hierm stepped up the attack. He was better than Shanis had thought.

  Hierm, for his part, wore a look of intense concentration. Shanis thought that was strange. Hierm normally kept his face blank, regardless of what he might be feeling on the inside. He was fighting well, but seemed to need every mental faculty to match Karst. Shanis watched as Hierm slowed his attack, and slid to his right, drawing Karst to him. Karst continued to smile as he pursued Hierm around the circle. Gradually, the dark-haired young man began to increase the pace of his attack. Stroke by stroke, Hierm’s defenses began to fail.

  Hierm parried awkwardly. Each stroke from Karst came increasingly closer to striking home. Shanis clenched her fists. His form was all wrong. Everything was slightly off. The angle of his elbow, his grip, and his footwork were those of a beginner; an experienced one, perhaps, but still a beginner. He was better than this. Karst noticed too, and pressed his attack with a reckless ferocity. Hierm wavered under the attack. He stumbled, ducked under a vicious two-handed strike that would have parted his head from his body, tournament sword or no, then thrust desperately.

  “Point!”

  A cheer went up from the crowd. It seemed that Karst had not endeared himself to the onlookers. Shanis smiled. It had appeared to be a lucky blow, but she
now realized exactly what her friend was up to. Hierm looked winded, confused. A glance at Karst revealed that a mixture of rage and contempt had replaced his knowing grin. Right then, rage appeared to be winning. His black eyes glistened with intensity. His entire body quivered.

  As they were again called to start, Karst leapt to the attack. Hierm fell back quickly. Desperately he fended off blows. Shanis bit her lip as she watched Hierm stumble as he retreated. Seeing his opponent off-balance, Karst prepared to deliver a crushing blow. Shanis wanted to cry out in glee when a sudden transformation took place in her friend. Hierm, who had been stumbling awkwardly, regained his feet. Nimbly he ducked under Karst’s strike. He spun to the side, bringing his sword around as he pivoted. The blade landed solidly across the dark haired boy’s stomach with a sickening thud. Karst’s sharp exhale of breath could be heard over the hushed onlookers, who appeared to be shocked at this turn of events. Karst crumpled to his knees, the wind knocked from him. Lucky for him this was a tournament, Shanis mused. With a real sword, and without the protective padding, he’d have been dead. As it stood, the boy would have a nasty bruise by this evening.

  The surprise began to wear off, and a smattering of applause arose, accompanied by a few hurrahs from the local boys. Karst stared up at Hierm, his face a mask of shock and disbelief. Spittle ran down his chin. His breath was returning to him in deep rasps. He no longer wore his haughty expression. Instead his eyes bore mute testimony to more unadulterated hate than Shanis had ever seen. Hierm’s face was serene. His poise had returned. He glanced in her direction, and their eyes met briefly.

  “Finish it,” she whispered.

  Hierm had fed Karst’s illusion by pretending to be exactly what Karst expected him to be; an awkward country boy who couldn’t handle a blade. Karst had foolishly left himself open for the first point. Even after surrendering a point, it had not registered with Karst that he faced a capable opponent. He had waded in recklessly and had been made to pay. Hierm knew that he could no longer fool his adversary. Now would come the test. Who was the better swordsman?

  When the match resumed, Karst was no longer the overconfident opponent Hierm had faced. He circled Hierm, trading blows not cautiously, but carefully. Around they went. Hierm called upon all of his skill, whirling feinting, slashing. Karst faltered, but before Hierm could take advantage, he leapt at Hierm, driving his shoulder into the shorter boys face. Hierm fell flat on his back.

  “Halt!” the soldier called. “That’s a warning Karst!” Karst did not respond. The soldier offered his hand, but Hierm leapt quickly to his feet. His cheekbone stung from the blow, and his left eye felt puffy. He might have a blackened eye when this was over.

  Karst seemed to have regained his self-assuredness, and came at Hierm with a determined assault. Hierm parried, but could not return the attack. He could only defend himself. His head rung a bit from the collision, and his eye seemed to be swelling already. Karst whirled, struck low, then high.

  “Point!”

  Hierm cursed under his breath. He hadn’t been focused, and Karst had taken advantage. Sweat dripped into his eye, making it sting. He swiped at it with his sleeve, and sucked in his breath sharply. Fire seemed to scorch the left side of his face. He reeled from the pain. What was wrong? He felt a firm hand clamp his shoulder.

  “Come on boy!” the soldier barked at him. “He barely touched you. Make ready!”

  Hierm gritted his teeth and tried to regain his calm. Things happened too fast. He had scarcely taken up his position when the match resumed. Karst attacked quickly, thrusting and dodging to his right. He kept Hierm pivoting toward what was fast becoming his blind side. The eye was swelling closed. This can’t be happening! Hierm thought to himself. He didn’t hit me that hard! It quickly became a losing battle. Karst kept up the pressure, dancing to Hierm’s left before Hierm could strike. If this keeps up much longer he’ll have me. Hierm had to try something.

  Deflecting a slash, Hierm spun hard to his right, bringing his blade around in a vicious backhand swipe. From the corner of his good eye, he saw Pedric circling directly into the blade’s path. A whirl. A heavy thud.

  “Point!”

  Hierm looked down to see the tip of Karst’s sword pressed into the center of his stomach. Karst was balanced on the balls of his feet and the fingertips of his left hand. He had rolled under Hierm’s swipe, and struck before Hierm could recover. Two points apiece. The next point would decide the match.

  A stinging heat rose up along the side of Hierm’s face. His eye was nearly swollen shut now, and the burning sensation had not subsided. He raised his hand to rub at it again, but thought the better of it. The memory of the last time he had tried that was still fresh in his mind. He shook his head vigorously, as if that would somehow solve the problem. He made ready.

  At the signal, Karst again attacked quickly. He struck fast and bounced away, always staying to Hierm’s left. Karst did not try any looping strokes that might open his defenses. He stabbed quickly, then pulled away. Hierm feinted a thrust of his own. The attempt was so feeble that Karst did not even react, but drove another lightning quick attack into Hierm’s defenses. Hierm barely deflected it. Another. Then another. Karst was now a shadow just out of the sight of Hierm’s good eye.

  Hierm was now so blind that he was fighting mostly on instinct, anticipating where each next stroke would fall. A sense of desperation welled up inside of him. He felt an icy cold in the pit of his stomach. I can’t last much longer, he thought. A moment’s panic flashed through his mind as, in his mind’s eye, he saw Karst’s sword slicing off Natin’s hand. These were only tournament swords, but they could still do some damage. He threw his blade up, and felt the force of Karst’s stroke all the way up to his elbow. He struck back awkwardly, and danced away, his sword raised to fend off the next attack. So far he had guessed correctly. But how much longer?