The Skull of the World by Kate Forsyth Read Free Book Online Page A

move more swiftly to avoid being struck. Sighs or soft groans came from the crowd, a sign of their intent involvement.
    The warrior detached the head of the mace from its handle and swung it round her head till it was a blur, then sent it whizzing toward her opponent. Isabeau ducked and it flew over her head and into the crowd, out of the fighting circle. Quickly the warrior dived toward Isabeau, trying to take advantage of her weak stance, the skewer flashing down. Isabeau rose from her crouch into a somersault that took her high into the air, over her enemy's head. The warrior crashed into the floor and lay for a moment winded. Isabeau waited patiently, both hands resting on her staff.
    This time the warrior rose slowly, her face twisted with hate, and circled Isabeau warily. She no longer underestimated the apprentice witch. They feinted for some minutes, the warrior unhitching her eight-sided reil from her belt. Isabeau breathed deeply and calmly, her eyes fixed on her opponent's. She did not bother to watch her hands or her body, knowing her enemy's intentions would be signaled in her eyes. Suddenly the warrior flung the eight-sided star and it came curving toward Isabeau's throat with a faint hissing sound. In the same instant her enemy lunged forward, the skewer held low. Isabeau arched backward, the skewer sliding along her back without breaking the skin, the reil missing her throat by a whisker. The crowd gave an involuntary gasp for it had seemed impossible that Isabeau could have avoided both. She took her weight on her hands and flung her body over, landing again on her feet. Again her enemy stumbled off balance and again Isabeau took no advantage, waiting for the Khan'cohban to regain her equilibrium. The First Warrior smiled grimly.
    The warrior picked herself up and looked at Isabeau with some puzzlement. She weighed the long skewer in her hand and called out gruffly, "Why do you not strike a blow? Do you not wish to prove yourself?"
    Isabeau said gently, "You are my kin. I do not need to strike a blow to prove myself." Despite herself, there was a stress of pride in her intonation and the warrior flushed redder than ever and hefted the skewer over her shoulder, throwing it with deadly accuracy. Isabeau had to fling herself to one side to avoid being spitted, and she heard the wicked hiss of the reil as it spun toward her. She flung up her hand and caught it, and there was a gasp of astonishment, for such a thing was near impossible, given the shape of the weapon and the speed with which it spun. Isabeau tossed it out of the fighting circle and got to her feet without haste. Her enemy was standing staring at her with her mouth open in disbelief. Of all a Scarred Warrior's weapons, the reil was the most prized, for it returned to the warrior's hand as if it had a life of its own. It took great skill to throw and catch the reil, and no one had ever known it to be caught by its target.
    There was fear in the warrior's eyes now, and consternation. Isabeau bowed to her, leaning lightly on her staff, and slowly her enemy unhitched her little axe and approached her warily, almost reluctantly. They engaged again, though this time both were on the defensive. Isabeau used her staff to block a blow, then heaved it upward so her enemy fell backward. The skewer clattered out of her hand, and Isabeau turned and pointed at it, and it slid across the floor and out of the fighting circle. Now her enemy had only the little axe, a tool more often used for hacking firewood and ice than for fighting. She got to her feet slowly, gathering together her will and her courage, and attacked Isabeau again. There was no rage or bravado left in her face or her stance now, only a sort of puzzlement. It took only a few seconds for Isabeau to disarm her and toss the axe out of the circle, then they stood, watching each other, Isabeau's hands at rest on the head of her staff.
    Without rancor, the red-haired warrior said, "You could have killed