Read Online A Strange and Ancient Name by Josepha Sherman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Josepha Sherman
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you are still my kinsman, reluctant though I am to admit it. I . . . couldn’t see you hunted down like a stag.”
“Such scruples.” Serein’s eyes glittered. “But here we are, alone. Tell me, cousin, what’s to stop my escape after I kill you?” There was the faintest, subtlest trembling of the air. “I’m of the blood royal, more so than you. And you have no heir—save me.” The trembling heightened ever so slightly, became a barely perceptible glowing. “With you slain, how long do you think it would take our oh-so-practical people to forget the past and welcome me to the throne? With you dead, how long before they come to prefer my rule to that of a mongrel? With you dead!” The glowing was a surge of raw Power that came crashing fiercely down—
Against a suddenly upthrust wall of force. Power broke apart like a wave against rock, and flowed harmlessly aside.
“Oh, well done, cousin!” Serein gasped, unable to hide the drain from that wild waste of strength. “But the force-wall must have cost you dearly.”
It had, but Hauberin was hardly about to admit it. “You never would admit the truth.” He managed to say that in an almost-steady voice. “There’s no lack of magic in my blood.” (True enough; I never would have ruled if I hadn’t inherited it from both sides of the family. Though what Power was doing flowing through a human woman’s veins . . .) “And—Swords, now, is it? So be it!”
That first savage clash of blades almost threw Hauberin off his feet. He stumbled back, nearly falling, wishing he hadn’t been so hasty to agree to this, painfully aware that he was at a disadvantage of height, of weight, of reach. A flash of memory raced through his mind, of himself as a boy, and the royal master of arms saying bluntly to his disheartened charge: “You’ll never have your sire’s height. Accept it. You’re likely to be smaller than most of the swordsmen you may have to meet. Accept that, too. But you’re quicker than most, light on your feet. There’s your edge — use it!”
Use it, indeed. With a hiss, Serein attacked. But his sword only shrieked against rock. Hauberin had twisted out of the way, gaining firmer footing with a sideways leap—daring, on so perilous a ledge—trying to find enough room to make use of his supple speed, cutting and cutting at Serein dazzlingly, both of them knowing he must end the fight quickly or burn himself out.
And so Serein braced himself, feet planted firmly, forcing Hauberin to bring the fight to him, waiting with inhuman patience.
Stalemate! Hauberin could still move too quickly to be cut down, but he just could never pierce his cousin’s guard. His side was beginning to ache now, too; he really had been straining that only half-healed iron-burn. The royal physician would be furious with him. If he lived that long.
As though he’d overheard the prince’s thoughts, Serein slashed out at him, connecting with Hauberin’s injured side. The good dwarven mail absorbed most of the blow, but even so, the sudden blaze of pain forced a gasp from Hauberin and sent him stumbling helplessly back. Serein gave a soft, delighted laugh.
“You’re tiring, little cousin. Oh yes, there’s no doubt of it.”
Without warning, Serein slashed out again with all his strength behind the blow, fierce enough to cut through helm and head alike, but Hauberin desperately brought his blade up, two-handed, to parry. The sword held true, but the shock of impact upset his already-shaken balance. He went sprawling.
Ae, and here came the death blow!
Frantic, Hauberin rolled, slipped, fell right off the ledge, twisting about blindly in mid-air, sure he was about to die—
And landed with jarring force on his feet, on a ledge a man-length below. Struggling to catch his breath, he saw Serein spring down to the far end of the ledge with a light chiming of mail, ready, wary, deadly. And in that moment, Hauberin accepted with true Faerie fatality what he hadn’t
“Such scruples.” Serein’s eyes glittered. “But here we are, alone. Tell me, cousin, what’s to stop my escape after I kill you?” There was the faintest, subtlest trembling of the air. “I’m of the blood royal, more so than you. And you have no heir—save me.” The trembling heightened ever so slightly, became a barely perceptible glowing. “With you slain, how long do you think it would take our oh-so-practical people to forget the past and welcome me to the throne? With you dead, how long before they come to prefer my rule to that of a mongrel? With you dead!” The glowing was a surge of raw Power that came crashing fiercely down—
Against a suddenly upthrust wall of force. Power broke apart like a wave against rock, and flowed harmlessly aside.
“Oh, well done, cousin!” Serein gasped, unable to hide the drain from that wild waste of strength. “But the force-wall must have cost you dearly.”
It had, but Hauberin was hardly about to admit it. “You never would admit the truth.” He managed to say that in an almost-steady voice. “There’s no lack of magic in my blood.” (True enough; I never would have ruled if I hadn’t inherited it from both sides of the family. Though what Power was doing flowing through a human woman’s veins . . .) “And—Swords, now, is it? So be it!”
That first savage clash of blades almost threw Hauberin off his feet. He stumbled back, nearly falling, wishing he hadn’t been so hasty to agree to this, painfully aware that he was at a disadvantage of height, of weight, of reach. A flash of memory raced through his mind, of himself as a boy, and the royal master of arms saying bluntly to his disheartened charge: “You’ll never have your sire’s height. Accept it. You’re likely to be smaller than most of the swordsmen you may have to meet. Accept that, too. But you’re quicker than most, light on your feet. There’s your edge — use it!”
Use it, indeed. With a hiss, Serein attacked. But his sword only shrieked against rock. Hauberin had twisted out of the way, gaining firmer footing with a sideways leap—daring, on so perilous a ledge—trying to find enough room to make use of his supple speed, cutting and cutting at Serein dazzlingly, both of them knowing he must end the fight quickly or burn himself out.
And so Serein braced himself, feet planted firmly, forcing Hauberin to bring the fight to him, waiting with inhuman patience.
Stalemate! Hauberin could still move too quickly to be cut down, but he just could never pierce his cousin’s guard. His side was beginning to ache now, too; he really had been straining that only half-healed iron-burn. The royal physician would be furious with him. If he lived that long.
As though he’d overheard the prince’s thoughts, Serein slashed out at him, connecting with Hauberin’s injured side. The good dwarven mail absorbed most of the blow, but even so, the sudden blaze of pain forced a gasp from Hauberin and sent him stumbling helplessly back. Serein gave a soft, delighted laugh.
“You’re tiring, little cousin. Oh yes, there’s no doubt of it.”
Without warning, Serein slashed out again with all his strength behind the blow, fierce enough to cut through helm and head alike, but Hauberin desperately brought his blade up, two-handed, to parry. The sword held true, but the shock of impact upset his already-shaken balance. He went sprawling.
Ae, and here came the death blow!
Frantic, Hauberin rolled, slipped, fell right off the ledge, twisting about blindly in mid-air, sure he was about to die—
And landed with jarring force on his feet, on a ledge a man-length below. Struggling to catch his breath, he saw Serein spring down to the far end of the ledge with a light chiming of mail, ready, wary, deadly. And in that moment, Hauberin accepted with true Faerie fatality what he hadn’t
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