the disability. I wasn't, but only because I had worked like hoolies to overcome the problem, and I knew what to expect of my grip. An opponent didn't.
Musa lunged. I met his blade with my own and realized at once what he meant to do. Instead of movements aimed at my body in hopes of breaking my guard, he now went for the sword itself. Whether he drew blood didn't matter; the point was to disarm me. And that he judged a simple enough matter. I wasn't so certain he was wrong.
There was no finesse, merely strength and tenacity. Musa banged at my blade again and again, smashing steel against steel. From above, from below; from either side. The angle he applied changed with every blow, so that I constantly had to alter my grip upon leather wrappings or risk having the weapon knocked out of my hands. Then Musa could kill me at his leisure. I was at a distinct disadvantage, since not only did I have to concentrate on hanging onto my sword, but I also had to remember to block any body blow he might attempt without warning.
Which in fact he did attempt, and indeed without warning; I managed to turn most of the impetus aside, but the point of his blade still nicked me along the ribs. It was no more noticeable a wound than the shallow slice I'd put in the flesh of his lower thigh. The most damage either of us had managed to inflict was to our wind; both of us were panting heavily, noisily sucking air to the bottom of our lungs.
Now I went at him. Musa blocked each blow, and with each block he threw in a slight twisting of his blade. It wasn't enough to place him in danger of losing contact with or control of the steel, which would give the advantage to me, but it did continue forcing me to shift my grip each time. At some point he expected my mutilated hands to betray me. It wouldn't require much; merely a subtle change in pressure on the hilt, a weakening of my grip, that he could exploit.
The rhythm of the dance had changed. We no longer held our places in the center of the circle or kept ourselves to one specific area a step or two away from that center point; now we used the entire circle. We smashed steel against steel; hammered at one another; locked up blades and quillons; spun, ducked, or leaped away, using the time apart to recover breath. Sweat ran down my face, tickled along my ribs and spine. Musa's dark hair dripped as he shook it back, sending droplets flying. Bare feet had scuffed the neatly raked sand into an ocean of foot-formed hummocks. I didn't doubt we'd blotted out in places the line Alric had drawn, but it didn't matter. Everyone knew where the boundary lay.
Musa's strategy was sound. The stumps of my fingers ached, and the edges of my palms felt abraded from the continuous movement of flesh against leather wrappings. So far the specialized strength training of my forearms had aided me, and what I'd learned from the fight against Khashi, but Musa was clever enough to find a way around such things. All it required was time.
I was aware the sun had moved in the sky. My body told me we had been at this longer than likely anyone had expected, including Musa and me. But Umir ought to be happy.
We stood at opposite edges of the circle, facing one another. Chests heaved, throats spasmed, breath ran ragged. A half-smile twitched briefly at his mouth. I saw it, met it with raised brows. In that moment we acknowledged one another as something more than mere opponents. We were also equals. He likely had never met one since attaining this level of skill, unless he'd faced Abbu. I didn't doubt Abbu could defeat him; though acknowledging that meant admitting the possibility that Abbu was better than I. We neither of us knew, having never finished a dance.
Then Musa came at me, running, and the moment was banished. My sword met his, screeching. Teeth bared, he jerked his sword back and swung it down and under, going for my legs. I dropped to one knee, trapped his sword, pushed it up, then shoved him back with the power of my parry.
Musa staggered backward, retaining his balance with effort. He had expected to have me with that maneuver. Now he was angry. Equality no longer mattered.
'Old man,' he said, 'I will outlast you!'
Possibly he could. But I merely got up from the sand, laughing, and gestured him to come ahead.
He did. And in that moment I was aware of the vision I'd experienced in my room before the dance: me free of the stone spire to soar over the valley, to look down upon the man who met the woman in the circle. The vision overlay reality as Musa came on. I saw him, and I saw myself as the man in the circle in the Stone Forest, facing Del. The man with four fingers in place of three.
The priest-mages had taught me discipline was the key.
And conviction.
That the choice, the power, was mine. To make, and to use.
Something in me broke loose, answering. It—no, I—was swept up and up, high overhead, looking down upon the circle as I had before. Looking down upon a man, down upon myself, as I had before, and my opponent. But this time, in this circle, the opponent was not Del.
Two men, one young, one older, met within three circles: one of smooth, white-painted adobe; the second a blade-thin etching in white sand; and the third, the circle drawn in their own minds.
The younger man charged. The older met him, his smile a grimace, a rictus of effort. Muscles knotted beneath the browned flesh of both bodies, tendons stood up in ridges from neck to shoulder. Sweat bathed them, running like rivers in the hollows of straining flesh. Hands gripped hilts: four fingers, two thumbs on each.
On each.
The older welcomed the younger, challenging every fiber of his strength, every whisper of finesse, every skill and pattern he had ever learned. Challenging his belief in himself. Challenging his certainty of the older man's defeat. And the older challenged as well his own inner fear that he was unable because he was no longer whole. In the valley, in the circle, in the shadow of stone spires, he had been whole.
And was again.
'Now,' the older man roared.
Back, and back, and back. Blow after blow after blow, the older drove the younger across the circle, forced him to stagger back, and back and back; shoved him over the line; smashed him down into the sand as the onlookers moved out of the way. The younger lay on his back, red-faced and gasping, sword blade in one hand feathered with sand. The older placed a callused foot upon the flat of the blade and stepped down. Hard.
Vision faded. Detachment dissipated. I blinked. Shook sweat away from my eyes. Was, abruptly, myself again, here in Umir's circle.
I was aware of silence. No one even breathed.
The tip of my own blade lingered at Musa's throat, pinning him with promise. I took my left hand off the grip and looked at it. Counted three fingers.
Three, and one stub.
There had been four on the hilt. I was certain of it. Four fingers and one thumb on each hand.
How in hoolies?—never mind. Time for that later.
I bent then, breathing hard, reaching down as I shifted my left foot. I pulled Musa's sword up from the sand, then flung it away hard to clang against the opposite wall. I flicked a glance out of the corner of my eye and saw what I had expected: Alric stood just behind Umir.
'Alric,' I said between inhalations, 'take that sword Umir's servant is holding.'
The big Northerner did so and quietly moved forward to place it across Umir's throat. 'Anything else?'
'Yes. Escort Umir into the house and have him give you a book.'
Alric blinked. 'A book?'
I smiled as I watched the color spill out of Umir's face. 'It's called the Book of Udre-Natha. Umir places great value on it. I'm going to hold it hostage.' I glanced briefly down at Musa, still lying beneath my sword. His breath was audible, chest heaving. 'In the meantime, Umir will also have our horses readied– packed with food, water, grain and, of course, the book—and waiting for us in the front courtyard.' Now I slid a glance over the assembled sword-dancers, swallowed, and raised my voice. 'It was promised to me if I won: no one would challenge me inside Umir's domain. Right, Umir?' No answer. 'Umir, if you ever expect to get your book back —'
'Yes,' he said sharply. 'I did agree. I will honor that agreement.'
'And I think no one here will argue over the results of this dance.' I glanced down. A thin line of blood trickled across Musa's neck, mingling with sweat. 'Will they?'
Musa said nothing. Neither did anyone else.
