Royce muttered something and drew in air with a horrid gurgle. “I saved—I saved him.”
“Not yet you haven’t. It’s not over! Royce, listen to me.” Arista took his hands. “You can’t die, do you understand? Do you hear me?”
He jerked, his head twitching.
“Damn it!” she said, and placing her hands on his chest, she closed her eyes and began the chant. Immediately she felt the resistance, a solid separation, as if a wall stood between them. The Hand of Ferrol left no cracks or seams. The shield was perfect and impervious.
She opened her eyes. “I can’t help him,” she told the others. “Hadrian! Hurry! He’s dying!”
At the sound of her voice Irawondona smiled. “I don’t even have to fight to win. I’m faster than you are. I can avoid you until he dies. Then Mawyndul? will be king. But rest assured I will kill you then. You will be the first; then I will kill your woman, and that empress of yours, then every last man, woman, and child on the face of Elan.”
Hadrian nodded. “You could do that. And when your son and grandson ask about this day, you can tell them how in the fight that decided everything, you did nothing. You chose to run until time ran out, because you were afraid of being killed in a fair fight by a human—a fight ordained by your god, Ferrol. Then they will know that your race gained their dominance through cowardice and that mankind was truly the greater race.”
Irawondona glared.
“Go on, you can admit it. You’re afraid of me.” Hadrian raised his voice. “You’re afraid of me, and I’m only a human. I’m not even a noble or a knight. Do you know what I am? I’m a thief. Both of us are, Royce and I.” Hadrian pointed down the hill. “We’re nothing but a pair of common thieves. My father was a lowly blacksmith. He worked in a pathetic village not far from here.” Hadrian let himself laugh. “An orphan and a blacksmith’s son—two human thieves who terrify the invincible elven lords. It’s so pathetic.”
“I’m afraid of no human.”
“Then prove it. Don’t wait for him to die. Don’t be a coward. Have at me.”
Irawondona did not move.
“I thought as much,” Hadrian said, and turned his back on the elf.
There was no sound. Hadrian knew there would not be. Years with Royce had taught him so. It was the look on the faces of those who watched that let him know Irawondona had moved.
Hadrian had already shifted his grip on the two-handed pommel of the spadone. His fingers spread in the fashion his father had taught him. His knees bent as his back bowed and his arm moved. One minute he was on the hill at Amberton Lee and the next he was in Hintindar behind the forge as his father shouted instructions.
Don’t look! Danbury ordered, tying on the blindfold. Trust your instincts. Don’t guess; know what he is doing. Believe it. Act on it!
Hadrian swung outward to his right. The great sword of Jerish Grelad caught the morning sun on its worn blade and glinted, shining for one brief moment.
It’s more than fighting, Haddy, Danbury said. It’s what you are. It’s what you will be—what you must be. Trust in it.
Hadrian’s knees hit the snow, sending up a burst of ice crystals. He could see the shadow now, the rushing darkness of Irawondona running at him from behind. Pulling against the weight of the spadone, he started the pivot, the collapsing rotation.
It was a blind attack.
You don’t have to see your opponent to kill him, his father had explained. You just have to know where he will be. That’s the key to everything. And if you know, what good are eyes? What good is seeing? Trust in what I’ve taught you and you’ll hit him.
Hadrian continued the spin, one knee coming up, his shoulder twisting his waist as he put his full weight into the arc. He did not look. He did not need to. He knew. He knew exactly where Irawondona was and where he would be.
He felt metal kiss metal as Irawondona tried to parry. The force of the spadone, the weight behind it, was too much to deflect. The metal sang, but there was hardly a quiver to the stroke as it carried through the weak defense, driving the sword from Irawondona’s grip. The spadone continued in its stroke and Hadrian hardly felt the impact as it cut into the elf’s side. Irawondona’s body offered even less resistance than his blade, and Hadrian completed the swing as if he were performing it alone behind the blacksmith’s shop. The only difference was the splash of blood.
The blue torches flared brilliantly white, then went out with a loud snap.
“Ir a wondon,” the priest of Ferrol announced, and then, looking at Hadrian, added, “It is done.”
“No!” Mawyndul? cried, raising his arms. He looked as if he was trying to speak when he coughed and blood sprayed the front of his robes. To either side, his guards started to draw their weapons but disappeared with a loud pop.
Mawyndul? collapsed face-first. Behind him, Monsignor Merton stood holding the bloodstained Alverstone in both hands.
The elves did not move or react. Instead they stood silently, their faces solemn, their eyes downcast. No one looked at Irawondona and none bothered with Mawyndul?; instead they started down the hill toward Royce.
“Hadrian!” Arista screamed.
He pushed his way through the elves, then finally past Modina, the girls, and the boys to find Arista kneeling on the ground clutching Royce. The ground was soaked and his friend’s eyes were closed.
“Help him!” Hadrian told her.
“I can’t! I tried!” she cried, her eyes frightened.
“But I won,” he said, and looked to Myron. “The blessing is gone now, right?”
The monk nodded.
“There—see? Do it, do it now! Pull him back!”
“I tried!” she shouted at him. “Don’t you think I tried! I was waiting, and the second the wall was gone, I went in. But I still can’t reach him. Hadrian… he doesn’t want to be saved. I think he wants to die.”
Hadrian felt the strength at last go out of his legs and he collapsed to his knees.
“He sees her, Hadrian,” Arista cried, cradling Royce’s head on her lap. “He sees her in the light. He doesn’t even hear me. All he sees is her and he keeps saying he did it, he saved you.”
Hadrian nodded. Tears filled his eyes and he reached out and brushed the hair away from Royce’s face. “Damn it, Royce! Don’t leave me, pal. Com’on, buddy, you have to come back. I finally did it. I killed the bad guy, saved the kingdom, won the girl, and you’re ruining it all for me. You don’t want to do that, do you? Please, we still need you.”
“What happens if he dies?” Gaunt asked from above him.
“The elves will be without a king,” Myron said in a shaking voice. “The next elf to blow the horn will be king, unless there is another challenger and a fight. But either way, an elf will be crowned.”
“Do you hear that, Royce? It isn’t over. You have to live or we all die. You won’t have saved me after all. Com’on, pal.” He lifted him, cradling Royce in his arms. “You can’t leave now.”