Playing at the careless rogue—a role he’d adapted here—Deathan said, “A contest at arms, perhaps. To prove we are still men and no’ mere maids. I will tak’ on any o’ ye.”
He had told them he was a western mercenary fallen on hard times, which explained his good pony and his even better sword.
There was a collective groan. “Och,” said Ardroch, “who has the strength left to fight? If ye do, ye must be born o’ the gods.”
“Ye have turned into scrub women.” Deathan put scorn in his voice. “Is there no one who will face me as a man?”
Ardroch eyed him with some interest. As the head of MacNabh’s guard, he was reputed to be among the best of his fighters. “Wha’ do I get if I win?”
“The right to boast o’ it.”
“Och, well, that is naught.”
“If ye best me—that is, either disarm me or draw first blood—I will do some o’ your work as well as my own.”
Another of the guards, Nielan, sat up straighter. “Does that go for any o’ us?”
“Indeed it does. I will face all o’ ye, if ye like.”
“And do all our work after?” someone said, laughing. “That I would like to see.”
“I will perform some o’ your tasks, aye. No’ all.”
“If ye’d haul stone fro’ the quarry, I’d be grateful,” Nielan said.
“Face me, then.” Deathan got to his feet. “I will fetch my sword.”
“Ah, now,” Ardroch objected, “wha’ if MacNabh should find us all bleeding?”
“The chief need no’ ken. And the westerner canna best all o’ us.” Nielan likewise got to his feet. “Go on, then, mercenary. Fetch yer sword.”
Deathan did, his heart beating high up in his chest. He might have one chance to make this work—but one.
His sword felt good, if a bit foreign, in his hand. It had been a while since he’d trained with the members of Da’s guard back home. He’d spent far too much time with the handle of a shovel gripped between his fingers.
He grinned as he jogged back out. In his absence, MacNabh’s men had formed a rough circle, eager for a show.
He meant to give them one.
Nielan, too, had fetched his sword. A man of a score and some, maybe a few years Deathan’s senior, he wore shabbyMacNabh tartan and had tied his long brown hair back out of his eyes.
Not a complete stranger to combat, then.
Deathan measured him carefully, his thoughts racing. Could he best the man? Aye. For Darlei, he could do anything. But he would have to try to make it look convincing.
From the first the two swords met, Deathan knew he would have to be careful. Nielan possessed a wicked arm, and his lazy demeanor disappeared into a cool and calculating mien. He wanted to show off before his clansmen, against the boastful interloper.
He just might.
They circled and struck and circled, and the observers backed off a respectful distance, their bone-deep weariness quickly evaporating in enthusiasm. Like Gaels everywhere, they loved a show. Especially one that interrupted tedium.
Most of them called out encouragement for Nielan, but there were a few quips and cheers when Deathan got in a good blow. He felt better, stronger, as his muscles warmed. A measure of skill awoke inside, coming from so deep a place he barely recognized it. He grinned at his opponent.
The combat became a dance. Strike, step, turn, strike again from a different angle. Whirl. He was careful to measure his blows and make sure Nielan could block them.
Nielan began to sweat. Eyes narrowed in a face gone tense, he increased the pace, determined not to be bested by a hired sword. Him, one of MacNabh’s best.
Step, block, absorb the impact of Nielan’s strength, turn. Deathan let the inner knowledge arise and possess him.
