The Sunset Warrior - 01 by Eric Van Lustbader Read Free Book Online Page B

block thrust forward and down. All in one motion. Return to position. This one will never make it, he thought, as his opponent bent to retrieve the sword he had just flicked out of his hand. No more than a blur.
    Not far away Nirren posted , a deceptively slow movement, which his opponent reacted to, making him vulnerable to the difficult solenge , which Nirren executed with terrifying speed. The point of his blade hooked, bit and thrust, and it was over. Ronin wiped his forehead with the side of his wrist as he watched Nirren step back and bow to his opponent.
    Black shadows moving slowly around a table, orange flame flickering, sending shards of light glinting from deadly dagger hilts.
    The din of two hundred men boomed off the walls of the Hall of Combat. The place reeked of sweat, hanging heavily on the hazy air. Ronin could not allow himself to miss practice, although he wanted to see Stahlig. He felt instinctively that he must maintain his routine as much as possible. He did not take Freidal’s warning lightly.
    All eyes on the table in the centre of the room: lines drawn in a familiar pattern. But there had been no time. He had just a split second and he had not been looking directly at the tabletop. The pattern had registered on the periphery of his vision, so that now he could not force it, it would have to surface on its own.
    Nirren walking over, very little sweat on him. He grinned. ‘How about a real workout?’ Ronin smiled, bowed to his opponent, turned to face Nirren. They took up position, searching for an opening.
    On the other hand, he had no more doubts as to his course of action. In fact it was the Saardin’s warning that had decided him. Not that he had ignored his friend’s plea. But in the end it was because this very powerful and dangerous man with the false eye and the smile of a cold animal had warned him away, that he was going to find out all he could about Borros, the mad Magic Man. The authority principle: it rankled.
    Nirren found it first, and Ronin, his reaction time down because his mind had been elsewhere, was hard pressed to turn the attack aside: the faeas , low thrust, blade extended far forward, flicking up at the last instant, ready to disembowel, and if it was successful, that was the end. Ronin did the only thing he could, turning sideways and plunging his blade straight down just in front of his forward thigh. It was instinct and speed. The inexperienced Bladesman would retreat and that would be it. Attack the faeas. Their blades clanged sharply and Ronin swung immediately out and up, attempting to take advantage of Nirren’s extension—the drawback of the faeas if it does not work—but the Chondrin countered.
    By the end of practice, Ronin had disadvantaged Nirren twice, but, as usual, neither had gained a decisive victory. But then neither was looking for victory. They had been trained differently and thus had vastly individual styles. In practice they learned from each other, keeping their reflexes sharp and their minds ready for the unexpected. Ronin knew many tricks that he simply would not use during a practice; he supposed Nirren had some too.
    Into the Corridor and on the way Upshaft, the tarred reeds fitfully illuminating the scarred and cracked concrete walls of the Stairwell. Patterns of lines rippling past him, and he had it, the latent image impressed through the retina on to the brain suddenly giving meaning.
    When Nirren had asked him to have a drink after practice he had declined, thinking of Stahlig and Borros. Now he wanted a talk with the Chondrin.
    His quarters were much like Ronin’s several Levels Upshaft: two sparsely furnished cubicles. ‘Sirreg’s not in, so we need not worry about what we say,’ Nirren told him, reaching out a flagon and goblets from a cabinet. They drank the deep red wine, their sweat drying, muscles relaxing. Ronin sat back in the cushions of the divan, feeling the spreading warmth within him. ‘I have never asked you this, but