Spoiler
Show
Steel clashed against steel: once, twice, three times. A blade slipped in its wielder's hand, just an inch, and quick as a serpent the other found its way past its guard and struck. The point of the blade halted a mere inch away from unprotected skin.
"Again," said the victor in a voice like two stones grinding against one another.
"This isn't fair, you know," his enemy laughed, stooping to retrieve her fallen sword. Her voice was musical, merry despite defeat. "You have six hands! I am quite overmatched; if you struck all at once I could not possibly defend against them all."
"There are creatures on the Disk which possess a thousand hands, and a thousand legs, and a thousand eyes," said the spirit imperturbably. It stood nearly ten feet high, with a muscular frame and a thick golden hide, and it did indeed have six arms, five of which held lean blades. (The last held a shield.) It was called Umori, and it stood high among the Spirits of War. "They will not relent because you say the match is unfair, child of Baz'Auran. Nor will—"
"I know, I know," she interrupted. "It was a joke. I asked for this, didn't I? I'm not about to complain."
"Then we shall begin again. And keep hold of your sword this time. You may survive making a single mistake, but not if you give up."
She nodded, and the unmelodical rasp-and-ring of clashing swords filled the practice field once again. To an onlooker the duel would have been difficult to follow: they watched one another warily for seconds on end, occasionally feinting or shifting back and forth, then one would move in for the attack and for a moment all would be confusion, blades darting about like deadly hummingbirds as the two struck and counterstruck. Then one or the other would fall back, and all would be still for a moment as they regained their balance and prepared their next attack. But it was soon clear that the god-child was outmatched: she was exceedingly swift and not without skill, but Umori was tireless and strong, and his skill was greater. This time it was the edge of the blade which found his pupil's skin, coming to rest against a bare arm.
There were some uncharitable souls who felt that Nieve only came so often to the sparring grounds because the shine of exertion and the skintight practice garb favored her looks. And there was a grain of truth to this; but it said something about her character that hard work brought out her beauty instead of her petulance. The restless energy that filled her spirit was allowed to run free at such times, and she positively shone for it. And today there was more behind her visit than the sheer joy of physicality. She was here for a purpose. Soon they would be journeying to the Great Disk far below, and though she knew she would not grow to equal Shirvan or Frellon or Contragh in skill in the short time they had left, she was determined that she would be neither helpless or a burden.
On the third round the spirit bested her again, but the fourth time a clever feint found its way past Umori's guard, and she flicked the point of her blade across his lower leg before dancing backward to evade his riposte. She laughed with pleasure, and the spirit nodded gravely. "Fairly struck. That was not a killing blow, but you did not sacrifice your life for it either. Were I truly your foe, you would now hold the advantage."
"But not the victory, I fear," she said, wiping your forehead. "I'm too spent to press my advantage. I'm afraid I must beg leave to depart the field. I should like to rest a little while, and then perhaps face - a different opponent." Silence."Surely, dear Umori, not every menace on the Disk has a thousand arms?"
Umori was still a moment longer, then nodded his permission. Only then did she lower her sword and turn her back. Once, she would have assumed that a fight was over just because somebody had struck a blow. The Spirits of War had corrected that mistake harshly.
She walked to the edge of the field and leaned against a wall there, the white stone blessedly cool against her cheek.