Deathan circled in a half crouch, happy to let the lad expend his energy. And the old knowledge stirred within him, ran out through his limbs and banished his weariness.
He did not know from whence this knowledge, this warrior skill came. But by all the powers, he began to rely upon it.
He blocked the lad’s hasty blows and ignored opportunities that would have allowed him to remove Tighe’s head. The men wanted a show, and that was what he needed to provide. He backed and backed, luring Tighe to think he had the advantage before dancing forward again.
Like training a youngster, this was. Surely he had done that long ago.
Only, he had not.
His muscles remembered. As did something in his head. His heart.
Round and round he half lured his opponent while the men, becoming invested in the contest, called encouragement.
Not till the lad began to tire did Deathan press his attack, like a turning of the tide, letting the skill that filled him burst forth. He made the strikes delicate so the boy could catch them before setting up for the finishing blow.
It connected, and the lad’s sword broke, clanging in two separate pieces at his feet.
Deathan withdrew immediately and stood back on his heels, breathing hard.
Tighe stared at the hilt of his sword still in his hands while the men all exclaimed in amazement.
“Ye ha’ some ability,” Deathan told the lad. “Ye need a better sword.”
The lad raised dazed eyes to Deathan’s face, and thence to his weapon. “Yours is magnificent. May I see it?”
Deathan passed it over, hilt first. As a second son, he did not possess Murtray’s finest, but it was a far cry from what was dealt out here.
“Aye so,” Ardroch said. “The lad has some ability. I will see can I find him a better weapon.”
Deathan nodded and accepted the return of his blade from Tighe. With the remnants of the battle knowledge still running through him, he found he did not want to return meekly to work.
He wanted to storm the house. And take what belonged to him by right of love.
Chapter Fifty
“So ye ha’aspirations, d’ye, to be a fine warrior?” Deathan asked Tighe.
The two of them sat together on a portion of half-built wall in the sunshine. Deathan had progressed from mucking out the stable and providing care to the ponies to helping with the building. And, he thought ruefully, his hands showed it.
To his surprise, Tighe had sought him out when they all paused to take what passed for a rest. The lad apparently felt no resentment over yesterday’s defeat.
“Wha’ are…aspirations?” he asked with a frown. “The same as wishes?”
“Wishes. Hopes, aye.”
“I do. I was born here and—and though I ha’ no claim, I can think o’ little better than to tak’ Ardroch’s place as head o’ the guard. After he steps down, that is.”
“Aye so.” The lad knew he was MacNabh’s by-blow. The chief doubtless knew it also. Yet Tighe lived in ignominy.
Tighe stole a look at Deathan. “D’ye think I ha’ the makings o’ a great warrior? I respect wha’ ye say. I ha’ never seen anyone fight the way ye do.”
“I think ye can mak’ a fine warrior and a good head o’ the guard here, if ye work to hone your skills. It takes work, ye ken.”
“Is that how ye got so good?”
Deathan supposed it was. He, like Rohr, had worked with a sword since he was twelve or thirteen. And yet that did notaccount for the skill he felt rise within him. That which came unbidden and felt very much like something learned on a turn of the wheel.
He suspected, so he did, from whence that came.
