broken my bloody arm. How do you expect me to—”
Max let out a roar and swept the practice weapon at Tavi’s head.
Tavi barely threw himself back in time to avoid the stroke and he struggled to regain his feet, balance wavering because of the pain and the heavy shield on his left arm. “Max!” he shouted.
His friend roared again, weapon sweeping down.
Magnus’s rudius swept through the air and deflected the blow, then the old p. 39 Maestro shouldered into Tavi’s shield side, bracing him long enough to get his balance underneath him.
“Stay in tight,” Magnus growled, as Max circled to attack again. “Your shield overlaps mine.”
Tavi could hardly make sense of the words for the pain in his arm, but he did it. Together, he and Magnus presented Max with nothing but the broad faces of their shields as a target, while Max circled toward their weak side—Tavi.
“He’s faster and has more reach than me. Protect me or neither of us will hold a sword.” Magnus’s elbow thumped swiftly into Tavi’s ribs, and Tavi pivoted slightly, opening a slender gap in the shields through which Magnus delivered the quick, ugly chop Tavi had been less than enthused about learning.
Max caught the blow on his shield, though barely, and when his reply stroke came whipping back, Tavi stretched his shield toward Magnus, deflecting the blow while the Maestro recovered his defensive balance.
“Good!” Magnus barked. “Keep the shield up!”
“My arm—” Tavi gasped.
“Keep the shield up!” Max roared, and sent a series of strokes at Tavi’s head.
The boy circled away, staying tight against Magnus’s side, and the old Maestro’s return strokes threatened Max just enough to keep him from an all-out assault that would batter through Tavi’s swiftly weakening defenses. But Tavi’s heel struck a stone, he misstepped, and moved a little too far from Magnus’s side. Max’s rudius clipped the top of Tavi’s skull, hard enough to send a burst of stars through his head despite the heavy leather helmet he wore for their practice bouts.
He fell weakly to one knee, but some groggy part of his brain told him to keep his shield close to Magnus, and he foiled a similar strike Max directed at the Maestro on his return stroke. Magnus’s rudius flashed out and tapped Max hard at the inner bend of his elbow, and the large young man grunted, flicked his rudius up in a salute of concession, and stepped away from the pair of them.
Tavi collapsed, so tired that he felt he could barely keep breathing. His wounded wrist pounded in agony. He lay there on his side for a moment, then opened his eyes to stare at his friend and Magnus. “Through having fun?”
“Excuse me?” Max asked. His voice sounded tired as well, though he was barely panting.
Tavi knew that he probably should keep his mouth shut, but the pain and the anger it begat paid no attention to his reason. “I’ve been bullied before, Max. Just never figured you’d do it.”
p. 40 “Is that what you think this is?” Max asked.
“Isn’t it?” Tavi demanded.
“You aren’t paying attention,” Magnus said in a calm voice, as he stripped himself of the practice gear and fetched a flask of water. “If you got hurt, it was a result of your own failure.”
“No,” Tavi snarled. “It is a result of my friend breaking my arm. And making me continue this idiocy.”
Max hunkered down in front of Tavi and stared at him for a silent minute. His friend’s expression was serious, even . . . sober. Tavi had never seen that expression on Max’s face.
“Tavi,” he said quietly. “You’ve seen the Canim fight. Do you think one of them would politely allow you to get up and leave the fight because you sustained a minor injury? Do you think one of the Marat would ignore weaknesses in your defense out of courtesy for your pride? Do you think an enemy legionare will listen while you explain to him that this isn’t your best technique and
Max let out a roar and swept the practice weapon at Tavi’s head.
Tavi barely threw himself back in time to avoid the stroke and he struggled to regain his feet, balance wavering because of the pain and the heavy shield on his left arm. “Max!” he shouted.
His friend roared again, weapon sweeping down.
Magnus’s rudius swept through the air and deflected the blow, then the old p. 39 Maestro shouldered into Tavi’s shield side, bracing him long enough to get his balance underneath him.
“Stay in tight,” Magnus growled, as Max circled to attack again. “Your shield overlaps mine.”
Tavi could hardly make sense of the words for the pain in his arm, but he did it. Together, he and Magnus presented Max with nothing but the broad faces of their shields as a target, while Max circled toward their weak side—Tavi.
“He’s faster and has more reach than me. Protect me or neither of us will hold a sword.” Magnus’s elbow thumped swiftly into Tavi’s ribs, and Tavi pivoted slightly, opening a slender gap in the shields through which Magnus delivered the quick, ugly chop Tavi had been less than enthused about learning.
Max caught the blow on his shield, though barely, and when his reply stroke came whipping back, Tavi stretched his shield toward Magnus, deflecting the blow while the Maestro recovered his defensive balance.
“Good!” Magnus barked. “Keep the shield up!”
“My arm—” Tavi gasped.
“Keep the shield up!” Max roared, and sent a series of strokes at Tavi’s head.
The boy circled away, staying tight against Magnus’s side, and the old Maestro’s return strokes threatened Max just enough to keep him from an all-out assault that would batter through Tavi’s swiftly weakening defenses. But Tavi’s heel struck a stone, he misstepped, and moved a little too far from Magnus’s side. Max’s rudius clipped the top of Tavi’s skull, hard enough to send a burst of stars through his head despite the heavy leather helmet he wore for their practice bouts.
He fell weakly to one knee, but some groggy part of his brain told him to keep his shield close to Magnus, and he foiled a similar strike Max directed at the Maestro on his return stroke. Magnus’s rudius flashed out and tapped Max hard at the inner bend of his elbow, and the large young man grunted, flicked his rudius up in a salute of concession, and stepped away from the pair of them.
Tavi collapsed, so tired that he felt he could barely keep breathing. His wounded wrist pounded in agony. He lay there on his side for a moment, then opened his eyes to stare at his friend and Magnus. “Through having fun?”
“Excuse me?” Max asked. His voice sounded tired as well, though he was barely panting.
Tavi knew that he probably should keep his mouth shut, but the pain and the anger it begat paid no attention to his reason. “I’ve been bullied before, Max. Just never figured you’d do it.”
p. 40 “Is that what you think this is?” Max asked.
“Isn’t it?” Tavi demanded.
“You aren’t paying attention,” Magnus said in a calm voice, as he stripped himself of the practice gear and fetched a flask of water. “If you got hurt, it was a result of your own failure.”
“No,” Tavi snarled. “It is a result of my friend breaking my arm. And making me continue this idiocy.”
Max hunkered down in front of Tavi and stared at him for a silent minute. His friend’s expression was serious, even . . . sober. Tavi had never seen that expression on Max’s face.
“Tavi,” he said quietly. “You’ve seen the Canim fight. Do you think one of them would politely allow you to get up and leave the fight because you sustained a minor injury? Do you think one of the Marat would ignore weaknesses in your defense out of courtesy for your pride? Do you think an enemy legionare will listen while you explain to him that this isn’t your best technique and
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