Free The Dark Queen by Michael Williams Page B

martial skill to survive. It was all
     for Vincus, these weekly combats and humiliations. The lad could not help that his father
     had been an unfaithful weapons-master to an unfaithful ruler, that instead of teaching the
     King- priest the form of the broadsword prohibited to clerical orders, old Hannakus had
     tried to skip town, taking with him a hundred of the Kingpriest's treasured glain opals.
    The Istarian Guard had caught Vincus's father before he reached the walls. They had
     arrested old Hannakus, tried him, and executed him. But they had never found the opals.
     The Kingpriest had maintained that the son, at the time a mere boy of twelve, should work
     off the father's debt in the opal mines beneath the city.
    It was a death sentence. Vaananen intervened, promising his services in Hannakus's old
     role. And promising his silence as the Kingpriest, in a sacrilege older than the faith,
     took up the edged blade that was forbidden to all who served the gods in holy orders. Now,
     that service, that silence, was almost over.
    The Kingpriest turned his head at last and paced to the farthest point in the practice
     circle, examined the blade of his sword, and placed a booted foot against one of the
     smooth white shells that marked fair ground for the fight. Vaananen dropped to a crouch
     and balanced in his right hand the light pole, which was actually a living tree, its roots
     bundled tightly and its branches pruned away. The Kingpriest never played by the rules;
     there would be no salutation. Vaananen drew a long breath, loosened his legs, and waited.
     The Kingpriest pretended to adjust his grip for a moment, then charged the druid on the
     right. Vaananen stood his ground until his attacker's blade whistled through the air in a
     long, deadly down-stroke, then pivoted exactly six inches aside to catch the Kingpriest
     lightly in the back of the head with the pole and knock him to his knees.
    Before the Kingpriest could regain sight, breath, and footing, Vaananen threw himself to
     the ground and lay still. Long ago, he had learned that never a blow was dealt to this
     sovereign that was not repaid tenfold outside the arena; it was best to ungracefully
     sprawl in the appearance of one cut down by the mighty swipe of the monarch's blade.
    The Kingpriest rose, furious and wild, only to find his fighting partner in seemingly
     worse condition after the clash. He laughed smugly and kicked the druid until he “regained
     consciousness.” And so it went for an hour and more, Vaananen spinning, dodging, rolling,
     and feinting, always adjusting cooly to the attack, and only occasionally dealing the
     Kingpriest a gentle tap with the length of the bound tree. Vaananen kept it interesting,
     but never, to the Kingpriest's utter frustration, did he seem to become angry or lose
     control.
    “You willow-heart!” the Kingpriest taunted. “It is our last roundhave you no more spirit
     left than this? Did you leave your manhood in a grove of rotten oak?” It is not my fight,
     Vaananen would say to himself. This is for Vincus's freedom, so that he will never inhabit
     the darkness of the mines. Then Vaananen would smile and think of another way to turn the
     Kingpriest's forbidden blade, never allowing it to touch him.
    At last, just before the round was meant to be over, the Kingpriest, seething with anger,
     stopped the exchange. “Come over here,” he panted. “Stand exactly here.” He pointed to the
     outside of the ring of shells. The sea-blue eyes shone with rage and cunning.
    Vaananen knew if he left the sparring ground before the round was over that it would be a
     foul, and would give the Kingpriest an opportunity to deliver an undefended blow. The
     blade glistened in the noonday sun, its edge razor-sharp and lethal. The Kingpriest did
     not care for blunted weapons. Vaananen moved to the center of the ring and stood his
     ground. It was a show of trucethe most vulnerable