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manifest for those gathered to bear witness and be reminded of their own end。
It was because of this more than anything else that when Blaise drew his sword the screaming stopped。 In the dining halls of the sanctuary retreats of Corannos； where men and women sometimes withdrew from the world as they felt their endings draw near； there were always tapestries or paintings hung upon the walls； and in every sanctuary at least one of these works would show the gaunt； laughing figure of Death； bearing the mace with which he ground the life from men； leading a winding procession over a wintry hill to the west where the sun was going down。 And always； by long tradition； the first figure in that procession； even before the crowned kings and queens of earth； hand in hand with Death himself； would be a tall coran in the prime of his days； his sword useless in its scabbard as Death led him away。
Quzman di Perano； with a smile； reached up and pulled his curved blade from the sheath on his back。 He drew upon a clasp and let the scabbard fall behind him on the grass。 One of his appointed squires from Miraval quickly knelt and picked it up。 The Arimondan moved forward； light on his feet as a tumbler for all his size； and Blaise； watching closely； saw that his first steps carried a little west。 As expected。 He had seen this manoeuvre before； the last time he'd fought a challenge with a man from Arimonda。 He had almost died that day。
Moving to meet the man whose brother he had slain； Blaise regretted； not for the first time； that he knew so little about his foe and how he fought。 For all Valery's words about the propensities of those using curved swords…tendencies Blaise knew well…they had little actual knowledge of Quzman beyond what was obvious。 He was a big man； cat…quick； and brave； with a longing for revenge and nothing at all to lose today。 I could； Blaise thought； be dead before the sun rises much higher。
It had always been possible。 There was no honour to be sought or found in a meaningless challenge； no elevation in the eyes of the gathered world beneath the banner of Gorhaut's kings…which was； of course； the point of all of this。
Moving forward； Blaise found what he was looking for。 His small round shield rested on his left forearm； leaving his fingers free。 He transferred his sword to that hand and stooped quickly。 In the same motion； as Quzman came straight towards him； he seized and hurled a clump of earth squarely at the Arimondan's gleaming shield。 Quzman stopped； surprised； and Blaise had time to rattle another dulling handful of mud against the shield before straightening and reclaiming his sword in his fighting hand。
Quzman was no longer smiling。 It was Blaise who grinned now； with deliberate mockery。 〃Too pretty a toy；〃 he said。 It was quiet now； he did not have to raise his voice。 〃I'll have it cleaned when you are dead。 How many men have you killed by blinding them first like a coward？〃
〃I wonder；〃 said Quzman after a short silence； his beautiful voice thickened by passion； 〃if you have any idea how much pleasure your death will bring me？〃
〃I probably do。 Blood ants on the plain。 You told me already。 By contrast； though；〃 Blaise replied； 〃your life or death mean almost nothing to me at all。 Wele to the dance。 Do you want to talk all morning or are you actually able to use that blade you carry？〃
He was。 He was more than able； and sorely provoked。 The first stroke； exactly as Valery had predicted； was a downward angled slash on his backhand。 Blaise parried smoothly； guiding it short of his body…but then was only barely quick enough； even with the anticipation； to block the vicious return sweep of the curved blade along the level of his knees。 The impact； a grinding collision of weapons； was almost enough to numb his wrist。 The man was strong； enormously so； and his reactions were even quicker than Blaise had guessed they would be。
Even as he thought this； Blaise was twisting desperately and dropping； guided only by reflexes of his own； an utterly instinctive movement shaped by years of bat in tournament and war； the primitive drive for survival letting him react to the curved sword abruptly planted； quivering； in the earth； to Quzman's gloved hand reaching for the back of his calf and the knife blade flung in a blurred motion for his throat。 It went by； almost。 Blaise felt a searing pain at the side of his head。 He brought his sword hand quickly up to his ear and it came away soaked with blood。 He heard a sound from the pavilions then； deep and low； like wind on a moor。
Quzman； his sword recaptured before it had even stopped vibrating in the ground； was smiling again； the white teeth gleaming。 〃Now that；〃 he said； 〃is pretty。 Why don't you throw some mud on it like a peasant？ You do seem to enjoy scrabbling in the earth。〃
The pain was bad and would probably get worse； but Blaise didn't think his ear was gone。 Not entirely； at any rate。 He seemed to still be hearing sounds from that side。 He thought of Bertran suddenly； with his own missing ear lobe。 He thought of how much depended on his walking alive from this field。 And with that his anger was upon him fully； the familiar； frightening daemon that came to him in battle。
〃Spare your breath；〃 he said thickly； and surged up from the ground to engage the other man。 There were no words then； no space for words and indeed no breath； only the quick chittering clatter of blades glancing and sliding from each other； or the harder； heavier clang as sword met blocking shield； the controlled grunting of two men as they circled each other； probing with cold metal and cold eyes for an avenue along which they could kill。
Quzman of Arimonda was indeed good； and driven by the fierce pride of his country and his family； and he had a sworn vengeance to claim。 He fought with the fluid； deadly passion of a dancer and Blaise was wounded twice more； in the forearm and across the back of his calf； in the first three engagements。
But Quzman's thigh was gashed； and the leather armour over his ribs was not quite equal to the scything blow it took on a forehand slash from an Aulensburg sword wielded by a man with a passion and rage of his own。
Blaise didn't stop to gauge how badly he had wounded the man。 He drove forward； attacking on both sides； parried each time with impacts that sent shocks up his elbow and shoulder。 He registered the welling of blood at Quzman's left side； ignoring as best he could the stiffening protest from his own leg as he pushed off it。 He could easily have been crippled by that low blow； he knew。 He hadn't been。 He was still on his feet； and before him was a man who stood in the path of 。。。 what？ Of a great many things； his own dream of Gorhaut not least of all。 Of what his home should be； in the eyes of the world； in the sight of Corannos； in his own soul。 He had said this two nights ago； words very like this； to King Daufridi of Valensa。 He'd been asked if he loved his country。
He did。 He loved it with a heart that ached like an old man's fingers in rain； hurting for the Gorhaut of his own vision； a land worthy of the god who had chosen it； and of the honour of men。 Not a place of scheming wil