Free Blood of War by Remi Michaud Page A

like a knife. Men and women, shouting encouragement and good-natured insults at him and his opponent, and wagers at each other, lined the inside of the walls finding seats wherever they could: the rim of a splendid stone fountain carved to form two leaping dolphins; a knee high stone wall that ran along the edge of a garden that was withering under the blasting sun; an old corral rail that had not seen use in at least a decade; even each other as they jostled and wrestled for a good vantage.
    Jurel smiled tightly as Gaven circled to his right, trying to get to Jurel's flank. A quick feint, and a few light steps back out of range kept his friend on his guard.
    “Come on now,” Gaven huffed. “Give a guy a break can't you?”
    “What would be the fun in that?” he smirked.
    With a lunge, a feint, and a sweep, he knocked Gaven's practice blade from his hand. Following through, he dropped as he spun and kicked Gaven's legs out from under him. Gaven landed hard on his rear and his eyes widened to the size of saucers as his breath blew out in a great wheeze.
    The spectators cheered and clapped, and coins changed hands as he took a laughing bow. At the back of the crowd, he saw a mane of raven hair. Below the hair, he saw eyes the shade of a summer sea roll. Shaking his head, he turned back to his gasping friend.
    Gripping Gaven's forearm, Jurel grinned and hauled his friend up.
    “You're getting better, Gav.”
    “Then why is it that I'm the only one covered in bruises?”
    Laughing, Jurel wiped the slickness from his forehead with a rag. “Just remember, three weeks ago, I didn't even break a sweat.” He paused, staring pensively as if trying to work something out. “Come to think of it, the weather was cooler three weeks ago.”
    Gaping, Gaven spluttered for a moment before breaking out in a deep laugh. “You're a bastard. Do you know that?”
    Jurel laughed and clapped Gaven on the back. “What do you say we go and grab a bite to eat and a nice cold ale. You still have to finish that story you started. The one about the farmer's daughter and those ruffians that your father arrested.”
    Gaven's eyes brightened. Having finally been given an afternoon off, he was more than happy to indulge. They made their way into the Abbey and to the dining hall where each downed a cold, foaming tankard of ale. After refilling, they sat at one of the few unoccupied tables where Gaven produced a deck of playing cards as he jumped back into his story.
    As they laughed over the outcome—who would have believed that a single maiden could best seven armed bandits with nothing more than a flash of her ample breasts?—an acolyte scurried by and deposited two steaming bowls in front of them. As they ate, and for some time after, they played cards and spoke of nothing of consequence.
    “Bones!” Gaven shouted triumphantly as he laid his winning hand on the table.
    Disgustedly, Jurel tossed his own hand, full of off cards, face down on top of the pile between them.
    “By the gods, Gaven can't you let me win one bloody hand?”
    Chuckling, Gaven raked in the small pile of coins. “By the gods, Jurel, can't you let me land one bloody blow at the practice yard? Besides, you're the god here. You should be asking yourself.”
    Grimacing, Jurel muttered something decidedly ungodlike and Gaven chuckled again.
    The bruised light of the setting sun bathed the dining hall, the small fire in the hearth doing little to dispel the gloom. With meal time over, the dining hall had nearly emptied and there were only a handful of people there.
    Gaven shuffled the deck and dealt them, counting quietly under his breath as he did, and when Jurel saw his cards, he barely managed to stifle a groan. Maybe Gaven was stacking the deck.
    Or maybe not. The game was exceedingly difficult to begin with, with a seemingly endless list of rules that boggled the mind. Gaven had analogized the game of Bones to be the card playing equivalent of Kings and Rooks; a clear mind