Sacrifice: The Queen's Blade (11 page)

"No!" She caught up and tried to free one of his arms. The man who held him shoved her, causing her to trip and sit down in the mud. Blade kicked him in the shin, and the Vordan assassin hopped and cursed, another taking his place as he bent to rub his smarting shin. The new man twisted Blade's arm until his tendons cracked, making him grimace and grit his teeth.

Chiana picked herself up and hurried after the assassins, clearly determined not to let Blade out of her sight. Sting led them through a dingy building and out onto a less crowded common, where several stages had been erected for the benefit of performers. The assassins mounted the steps onto one of them and shoved off the four female dancers. The crowd that had been watching them hissed and spat, dispersing. Swift stepped up to Blade, who was shorter than him, but untroubled by this.

"I'm going to enjoy watching you fail, old man."

"You're going to do it here, in front of commoners? This is forbidden."

"Not where I come from."

"I have heard that you're quite the entertainer," Blade sneered.

Swift grinned. "At least I've stayed in shape."

"You may win, but you'll get no satisfaction from your victory."

Swift's eyes narrowed. "If you're planning on making a mockery of this, you'd better think again. Unless you give your best performance, I'll burn that mark from your hide anyway. If you want to keep it, you'll have to try to win." He gripped Blade's collar and ripped the shirt from his shoulders. "You even dress like a damned palace fop."

Swift swung away, and Blade's captors released him and quit the stage. Blade rubbed his arms, then stripped off the torn shirt and threw it down. The assassins formed a ring around the stage, settling down to watch, and Sting called up from their ranks, "The Trial will be according to the rules. The challenger dances first."

"And who will judge?" Blade demanded. "You're biased. I'm not from your guild."

"All assassins belong to the same guild. You'll be judged fairly," Sting averred.

Swift straightened from tying the metal pieces to his boots. "There will be no need for judging, since you won't be able to complete the Dance."

Blade walked to the edge of the stage and leant against one of the posts that marked its perimeter. Folding his arms, he waited while the Vordan assassin went through a few limbering up exercises, stretching and bending to touch his forehead to his knees. Swift grinned and raised his arms, leaping into the first twirling jump energetically and landing lightly, his feet tapping out the set steps of the Dance of Death. Blade scanned the crowd around the stage, hoping to glimpse a black-clad figure who might be one of his own guild. If word of the Trial reached Talon or Archer, they might be able to stop it.

The crowd, seeing a fascinating dance being performed, drew nearer, gathering just beyond the ring of assassins. Blade turned his attention to Swift, assessing the assassin's performance with critical eyes. If Swift stumbled or missed a step the Trial would be over, but this did not seem likely. The assassin performed the Dance with consummate ease and obvious enjoyment, using the whole stage. His steel-shod feet tapped out a perfect rhythm on the boards, his kicks reached above his shoulders and his leaps were high and perfectly timed, so his landing continued the rhythm of the dance.

The Dance was open to additions, but not subtractions, and Swift added in several moves to prove his mastery, which only the best could do and still complete it. It also meant that Blade would have to make additions, lengthening the ordeal that he already could not complete. If he was forced to do his best, however, he was determined to try to win, for nothing would give him more satisfaction now than defeating the Vordan assassin.

Blade glanced at Chiana, who stood beyond the ring of assassins, her eyes filled with worry. She shouted something, but he could not hear her over the drumming of Swift's feet. He shook his head, and she tried to push through the assassins, but they shoved her back, ignoring her protests. Blade turned his attention to Swift again, watching the assassin's unflagging energy, his skin now sheened with sweat. He moved around the stage, lifting his legs high to crack down on the boards in a flawless rhythm.

The Vordan assassin changed to a set piece of fast tapping, his feet drumming out the beat with unerring precision. Next he set off on a series of rhythmic stamping steps that sounded rather like a galloping horse, flicking his legs up behind him with each step. He stopped and flicked his legs sideways at knee level, stamping his feet in the ordered cadence of the Dance. Blade sighed and studied the proud faces of Swift's companions, Sting's smug smile filled with admiration. The people beyond watched with avid fascination, clearly having never seen a dance to rival this one. Indeed, the Dance of Death was a wonder to behold, its rigours beyond the ability of any man who had not practised it for many years.

By now, several minutes had passed, and sweat ran down Swift's gleaming skin. He gasped through an open mouth as he concentrated on the intricate steps. Blade watched closely, for if a misstep was to happen it would be when the dancer grew tired. Swift's performance continued perfectly, and, as he neared the end of the Dance, he spread his arms in a grand egotistical gesture that invited applause.

Swift executed the final steps and ended with the prescribed leap, falling to one knee with a sweeping gesture. Applause came from the growing crowd, and some coins rattled onto the stage, making Blade smile. Swift's chest heaved as he gasped like a man who had been underwater for too long. His eyes bulged from the strain and the veins in his brow and neck stood out. Clearly the Dance, with his extra steps, taxed him to the point of exhaustion, which was its purpose. Rising to his feet, he turned to Blade, a triumphant grin stretching his features. He bent and pulled off the metal toe and heel caps, throwing them at Blade's feet.

"Let's see you... do better... old man."

Blade buckled the steel caps on, his stomach tight with apprehension. Since he had been injured, he had not been able to complete the Dance even in its simplest form, and the memory of the pain that had prevented him burnt like a raw wound in his mind. It seemed unlikely that he would be able to beat Swift, yet his pride dictated that he must try. He stamped to test the metal caps, finding them a good fit despite Swift's larger feet.

Bending, he hugged his knees to stretch the muscles in the back of his legs, then straightened and shook them to loosen them. He tried to remember the time when he could complete the Dance of Death with greater ease than Swift. Younger days when his legs had been gifted with the eager bounce of youth, when the spring in his step had come naturally and his lightning reflexes had added a strange magic to his Dance. He would have to find that speed one last time, then his dancing days would be done. Closing his eyes, he summoned into his mind a cat's swift grace, reminding himself of his kin, and walked into the centre of the stage.

With a graceful gesture, he made the first leap and landed lightly, his muscles responding to his inner urgency with a snap that he had thought lost with age. He spun and leapt, keeping one leg stiff before him and landing in a sudden burst of speed that blended the tapping rhythm into a simple tune. This was his talent, which he had discovered during his training, a natural speed that had never been rivalled, not even by Swift. The vigour of the Dance was such that his heart started to hammer almost immediately, and he breathed deeply to try to prevent the gasping that would come later as he tired. He executed a series of complex steps with consummate style, then leapt high, striking his heels together in mid-air, one of his additions.

Chiana watched Blade with awe, her eyes riveted to him. He seemed to float in the air when he leapt, and his sweeping gestures added to the flowing beauty of his movements. The height of his jumps allowed him time to brush his metal-shod boots together in a flash of sparks. The rhythmic beat of his feet hammered on the boards, faster than Swift's, more precise and flamboyant. He swept into a series of whipping spins, his feet lashing out to slash the throats of invisible enemies.

Reaching the edge of the stage, he turned and switched to a high kicking run, his boots cracking down with each step. He followed the same routine as Swift had done, only better, faster and more graceful than his opponent. Everyone knew that Blade had more skill and speed than Swift, however, only his endurance was being tested here. Chiana found her nails digging into her palms as she willed him to have the strength to win and put the obnoxious Swift in his place. Already Blade's mouth was open to gasp, yet he had not completed half the Dance. Swift, standing at the edge of the stage, smirked.

Blade slowed as he reached a sequence of simple heel-toe tapping, which he performed at less than half of Swift's speed. Swift glanced at Sting, but the elder shrugged. The dancer could choose the speed of the dance, but he was not allowed to stop. At the same time, a slow dancer would win no Trials, but Blade's dazzling speed hitherto more than compensated for this slowing of the pace. Chiana smiled, understanding his tactics. He was pacing himself, using this respite to catch his breath, then making up for it with his greater speed later on.

As suddenly as he had slowed, he quickened the tempo again, performing the next complex sequence at more than twice Swift's pace. He made a prodigious leap, his stiffened legs crossing in mid-air, striking his boots together with a sharp crack and a shower of sparks. Swift's expression turned sour as Blade rendered a faster version of the stamping horse-rhythm routine, using the length of the stage to achieve it instead of remaining in one place as Swift had done. He executed the high backwards kicks with consummate ease and timing, his heels tapping out the beat, then the sideways leg flicks, crossing at the knee or even higher. Again he slowed, performing a simple series of steps at half Swift's speed. His chest heaved and sweat sheened his skin.

The burning in Blade's left lung warned him of the onset of exhaustion. The slight respite of the slower steps allowed him to regain a little strength, and he set off on an extra set of spinning kicks, his feet hammering out the rhythm. He ended with his leg crossing high kick, sparks flashing from his feet, then settled into the prescribed routine of fast tapping, his right foot blurring as he beat out the tattoo, his left adding a slow heel tap.

Although this was performed while almost stationary, except for the slow turn that Blade used, it sapped the strength with its speed and precision, especially since Blade performed it at more than twice the speed of which Swift was capable. His lung burnt, pain lancing through it each time he drew breath, and he fought the urge to clasp his ribs. This was the stage where he usually stopped, unable to bear the pain, but now he could not. He forced himself into the next part of the Dance, a series of leaping, leg crossing high kicks, his arms outstretched.

The energy ebbed from his muscles and his vision became red-tinged as he forced his legs to obey, his last kick so low that he almost did not get his foot back under him in time. Again he slowed the Dance on the next set of steps, but it did little good, they were complex and strenuous. Still he forced himself to go on, aware that the grace had gone from his dance. His feet were heavy and slowing, his jumps lacked the height required.

Even so, he did not miss a beat, nor, by some miracle, did he stumble, although his knee came close to buckling a number of times as he landed. He concentrated only on completing the Dance without error, unable to add anything more to it. His vision darkened and his lung seemed to be filled with hot coals, a metallic taste invading his mouth. He performed a set of low kicking jumps, all else fading but for the rhythm of his feet, which remained perfect.

Chiana watched with tears in her eyes and a lump blocking her throat. Blade's half closed eyes were glazed with exhaustion, his steps heavy, yet still precise. He leapt and spun, lashing out with legs that lacked any kind of spring, the jarring visible as he landed. Swift grinned, his eyes bright with delight as he waited for the inevitable collapse that seemed certain to come at any moment.

Blade no longer slowed, he seemed oblivious to everything but the Dance. His feet hammered out the cadence and his arms hung at his sides. His skin was flushed, veins stood out on his brow and neck, and his mouth was open wide to gasp. The end of the Dance came at last. Blade executed the final leap without vigour, barely managing it, and fell to one knee. He held the position for only an instant, then slumped to the ground.

Swift swung to glare at Sting, who looked chagrined and ashamed, avoiding Swift's eyes.

"Well?" Swift demanded.

Sting shook his head. "He's completed it."

"And?"

The elder rubbed his brow with an air of frustration. "I can only declare him the winner. To do anything else would be a travesty. He's better than you, there's no doubt in my mind. He's faster and more precise. He can't be faulted."

"He grew clumsy at the end. That last leap -"

"Yes, yes, I saw it, but the rest of his performance outmatched yours utterly. You've only made a fool of yourself, I'm afraid. He keeps your belt in my opinion. You've compounded your humiliation, and will be stripped of your status." Sting glanced at the rest of the assassins, receiving sullen nods and angry growls. "Your only consolation is that you might have killed him."

Swift glanced at Blade, who lay gasping, his eyes closed. "I hope so," he muttered. "He was not fit to complete the Dance. His pride has killed him."

Chiana pushed through the assassins and darted onto the stage as Swift turned away from his fallen opponent. Kneeling beside Blade, she lifted his head, alarmed by the rasping wheeze with which he breathed and his skin's unnatural pallor.

"Call a healer!" she shouted, but the Vordan assassins ignored her, melting away into the crowd. The commoners muttered and turned away as well, unmoved by an assassin's plight. Chiana wiped Blade's brow with her sleeve, then looked around for help. The assassin coughed, a fine spray of blood reddening his lips, and opened his eyes.