“Yes, it is odd, isn’t it?’’
“I don’t know if he’s going to try to kill you or not, m’lord, but there is something very strange about him. He hasn’t moved in an hour.”
“Perhaps he’s asleep.’’
Pasko said, “Then he has nerves of iron.’’
A shout from the hall informed Tal that the bout was over, and he watched the door to see who entered and how he carried himself. A minute later the door flew open and in strode Count Vahardak, clutching his left arm. Blood ran through his fingers. One of his attendants was trying to console him. “—a close thing, my lord. It could have gone either way, I’m certain. It was . . . luck, nothing more.’’
The Count appeared unwilling to be mollified and just barked, “Stop talking and bind this damn thing.’’
Into the room came Lieutenant Campaneal, a slight smile of satisfaction on his face. He glanced first at Tal, then at the Keshian, as if saying silently, I will see one of you in the palace tonight, but he kept silent. He acknowledged each of them with a slight nod, then went to say something to Count Vahardak.
A Master of the Court entered and announced, “Talwin Hawkins, Kakama of Kesh, places, please.’’
The Keshian carried his sword wrapped in a long black cloth rather than in a scabbard. He knelt and unrolled it, and Tal’s eyes widened at the sight of it. “That’s not the long sword he’s been using. What is it?’’
Pasko swore. “It’s a katana; they’re used either one-or two-handed and they are sharper than a razor. You don’t see many of them around, because the bad ones can’t stand against armor, and the good ones are too expensive for any but the richest noble to buy. But for cutting flesh, they’re wicked. He’s about to show you a style of fighting you’ve never encountered.”
“Talk to me, Pasko. What must I do?’’
As they rose to answer the call of the Master, Pasko said, “Whatever you saw from Nakor in his openhanded fighting, think of that. Misdirection and sudden strikes. You’ll probably get only one look, then he’s going to be coming at you. If there was ever a time to choose luck over skill, this is it.’’
Tal took a slow, deep breath, then let it out as they walked to the door leading to the main court.
They entered to loud applause and cheers, and each man was directed to an end of the room. Markers had been placed at the corners of the largest rectangle on the floor, so Tal knew he had a lot of room to work with.
When the din quieted, the Master in charge spoke. “My lords, ladies and gentleman. This is our final match of the Tournament of the Masters’ Court. The winner of this bout will fight tonight in the palace for the Office of the Golden Sword and be acknowledged as the greatest swordsman in the world. On my left, I give you Kakama, from the village of Li-Pe, in the Empire of Great Kesh.’’
The applause was thunderous. Kakama was the long shot who had earned his way in from the first round, and many who had no other cause to cheer him on did so for that reason alone.
“To my right, I give you Talwin Hawkins, Squire of Morgan River and Bellcastle, Baronet of Silverlake of the Kingdom of the Isles.’’
He motioned for the two men to come to the marks on the floor which showed their starting positions. Then he said, “My lord, Master Kakama, this is a fight to first blood. Obey the instructions of the masters and defend yourself at all times. Upon my command . . . begin!’’
Tal saw Kakama take a single step back, raising the sword with his right hand, his left hand outstretched, palm outward. Then suddenly he took a spinning step forward, much like a flying kick Nakor had shown Tal several times, his left hand coming up to join his right and the sword swirling around in an arc at incredible speed, aimed at Tal’s head.
Tal ducked and rolled, a move not seen in the tournament before, but one common to alehouse brawls. Several men in the audience hooted and laughed, but most cheered, for it was clear that the Keshian had intended to take Tal’s head from his shoulders.
“Kakama!” cried the Master of the Court. “First blood only!’’
The Keshian ignored the instruction and with three little steps made a running charge at Tal. Tal didn’t retreat, but leapt forward himself, his own blade coming around as quickly as he could execute the blow.
Steel rang out against steel and the crowd gasped, for even the slowest among them realized that this was no exhibition match, but two men attempting to kill one another.
“Halt!” came the command from the senior judge, but neither man listened. Kakama spun again and leveled a blow that would have gutted Tal had he paused to obey the command.
Tal shouted, “Pasko, dirk!’’