Sworn in Steel (59 page)

“And what do you think ‘father’ will have to say about that idea?”

Wolf hefted Ivory’s sword. “I don’t think he’ll have much of a choice once I remind him of his former incarnation’s promise.”

Degan’s voice grew cool. “So you were planning on killing Ivory for the sword all along.”

“Planning? No. I merely thought to find the blade. Ivory being alive was merely good fortune on my part, less so on his.”

“And if you hadn’t found it?”

Wolf shrugged. “There was always you.”

“Me?” said Degan. “You can’t think I would have come back to Ildrecca with you after I found out you killed Silver.”

“Come back to . . . ? Ah, I see: The Gray Prince has been sharing his tales. Very good. But the truth is, I never planned to bring you back. Not that I don’t think you could sway the
Order if you put your mind to it—you could, which is the problem. You would bring balance when I need blood. No, I wouldn’t have returned with you—I would have returned with the
sword of the degan who killed not only Iron, but Silver and Ivory as well.”

“You would have blamed it all on me?” I could hear the pain, the disbelief, in Degan’s voice. “Why?”

“When an exemplar falls,” said Wolf, “it can be almost as powerful as the thing he represents falling. You becoming a butcher, not to mention turning your back on the degans
because you saw us as too flawed to continue, would have shaken the Order to its core. And while it may not have given me the war I wanted, you would have at least turned me into a savior. Not as
effective as having access to the emperor’s Oath, I admit, but there are other ways to steer things to a breaking point.”

“And now that you have Ivory’s sword?”

“Now?” I heard the smile in Wolf’s voice. I was close now. Very close. “Now I call in your Oath.”

“My Oath?” Degan chuckled. “You forget: I relinquished my sword. I walked away. That’s why I’m here—of all of us, I’m the only one who can stop
you.”

I was maybe six paces away. I cocked my left arm to flick my wrist knife free, then thought better of it and let my right hand slip into my left sleeve instead. This close, I didn’t want
to risk even the tiny
click
the knife would make sliding free.

Damn, but I wished I’d thought to ask Aribah about borrowing some poison.

I took another step. Degan came into view just around Wolf’s shoulder. He was too busy glaring at his sword brother to notice me.

“Walking away isn’t the same as leaving the Order, Bronze,” said Wolf. “Ivory could have told you that. Well, he would have if he’d still had a tongue, I
suppose.”

“You lie.”

In answer, Wolf brandished Ivory’s sword. “Bronze Degan. By the Oath sworn on this steel, I summon you to account. I call on you, in accordance with the laws of the Order of the
Degans, to fulfill your Oath as a degan.”

I saw Degan’s eyes go wide at the words, his sword hand begin to tremble. Watched as what must have been the grip of a two-hundred-year-old promise begin to close around him.

Shit. Wolf wasn’t bluffing.

“By blood and magic, by soul and steel, I call on you to—”

I moved.

Unfortunately, so did Wolf.

I knew better than to think he’d forgotten about me—Wolf wasn’t that dumb. But to hope he’d lose track of me as he talked, to think he might have missed my padding up on
him while he focused on Degan? That had seemed worth the risk.

Now it just seemed stupid.

Wolf spun as I lunged, bringing the long sword in his left hand around in a blurring arc. I felt the sword’s handle hit my wrist, grunted as the knife slipped from my suddenly tingling
fingers.

I kept moving forward, going for the close fight. Backing away would let Wolf bring his own sword to bear; but here, in tight, I had the advantage.

I thrust the heel of my left palm up toward his face even as my right foot stomped down toward the inside of his leg. Shin, instep, toes—I didn’t give a damn where I landed at this
point, as long as it hurt him. As long as it gave Degan enough time to close the distance and strike.

Wolf raised his shoulder and ducked his head, deflecting my palm. I felt my foot connect with something, but only sparingly. I was still shifting my weight, still trying to turn my palm thrust
into a vicious elbow to his side, when Wolf brought the long sword guard back around and connected with the side of my head.

Pain and light exploded behind my eyes. The world wobbled. I reached out for support, felt something against my shoulder, and grabbed hold. Wolf cursed. For a moment I was upright; then my legs
became entangled and I fell, taking the support with me.

I heard Wolf yell something at Degan, only to have it cut off by the sound of steel meeting steel.

I tried to push myself up, to roll myself over. That turned out to be a bad idea. The world spun some more, and what little food I had in me decided to come up and see what all the fuss was
about. It spread itself across the street and the side of my face in roughly equal measure. I gagged some more.

Grunts and gasps; the sound of feet moving quickly over pavement; sword meeting sword—all came to me through the lingering sound of a bell echoing in my head. I couldn’t tell if the
two degans were right on top of me or half a square away.

I took one shaking breath, then another. The heaving in my middle settled down to an uneasy quavering. I blinked, saw street and bile and bits of what once had been food, all with barely any
hint of amber. Dawn was nearly here.

I lifted my head, moved my hands, and pushed against the ground. Something scraped and shifted on the street beneath me. I looked. Ivory’s sword.

So that’s what I’d grabbed hold of. Between the tangle of my arms and it somehow getting caught between my legs, I must have levered the sword out of Wolf’s grip. Good. Served
the bastard right.

I started to laugh, felt the world tip a bit, and stopped myself.
Gloat later, Drothe: Live now.

I gathered my knees beneath me and turned my attention toward the sounds of fighting.

Degan and Wolf were standing just short of the square, where the narrow street opened out into the filth-strewn piazza. Degan was trying to hold his ground, using the superior reach and speed of
his rapier to keep Wolf trapped between the buildings, where the Azaari’s curved blade had less room to maneuver. As for Wolf, he was attempting to push forward, using a dizzying array of
cuts and off-line thrusts to beat Degan’s blade aside and force the other man back.

Normally, I would have put odds on Degan when it came to controlling the fight; but seeing how he was facing another degan, and seeing how Wolf looked to have just as much, if not more, say in
the matter, I wasn’t willing to make any predictions at the moment.

I watched, slack-jawed, as Wolf threw a downward cut, slid his shamshir off Degan’s parry, swept the blade around for a cut from the other direction, turned that attack into a thrust at
the last moment, and then stepped forward and pushed a third slice at Degan’s head, all in one seamless action.

Degan, for his part, avoided Wolf’s steel, but was forced to take two quick steps back, then a third, and finally launch himself into a lunge just to interrupt Wolf’s advance.

Blades met, bodies twisted, balance shifted, and both swordsmen sprang apart.

They were well and truly in the square now.

Wolf chuckled. “You still favor the Virocchi school, I see. I’d have thought you past that by now.”

I began to push myself to my feet, using Ivory’s sword as a third leg.

“Old habits,” said Degan. He shifted the angle of his blade. “Besides, I seem to recall Piero Virocchi doing well enough when the two of you crossed steel.”

Wolf took a step, widening his stance, then another, closing it again. “Pah. Exhibition bouts mean nothing.”

“Losing is still losing.”

“And dead is still dead.” Wolf flicked the tip of his sword in dismissal. “That little Ibrian rabbit has been rotting in his grave for a hundred and a half years. His prancings
failed him in the end.”

“But not against you.”

I watched as Wolf circled Degan, as Degan slipped his back foot forward while he turned to keep the Azaari in sight. The fan was still in Degan’s left hand, though he now held it back and
slightly canted at his side.

“As I said: If there’s no blood, there’s no meaning.”

“That sounds like an excuse,” said Degan, extending his sword. “I’d have thought you were past that by now.”

Wolf opened his mouth as if to respond, then became a blur. His shamshir leapt out, sweeping Degan’s blade aside as the Azaari pressed forward. For his part, Degan took a small step back,
dropped the tip of his sword below Wolf’s, and lowered his body and extended his sword into the oncoming rush.

It was a beautiful move: smart, concise, and deadly. And on anyone else, I expect it would have worked. But Wolf wasn’t anyone else.

Degan’s tip had barely settled into its new line before Wolf’s own sword was moving back in the other direction, catching the rapier and edging it aside. Metal scraped on metal as
Wolf slipped past Degan’s point and brought his own tip to bear, all while moving down the other man’s sword.

Degan sidestepped and raised his guard, but even I could see it wasn’t going to be enough: Between Wolf’s leverage and the curve of his blade, Degan wasn’t going to be able to
get out of the way in time. He was done.

Which is why I expect Wolf and I were both equally surprised when Degan stepped forward, pressed his guard into the saber’s, and forced the sword—along with Wolf’s arm—up
and away. The move ended with the two men in dagger range, their arms extended, their swords crossed, their eyes locked.

For anyone else, there might have been a pause then: a fraction of an instant to register the surprise of an attack thwarted, the relief of a killing stroke foiled. But these were degans: Their
guards had barely crashed together before Wolf was pulling his sword free and aiming a slice at the other man’s body. As for Degan, he’d already begun pivoting in anticipation of the
blow as he swung his sword guard at Wolf’s head.

Still, he wasn’t quite fast enough: At the last instant, Degan was forced to sweep Ivory’s fan forward and down, to keep Wolf’s at bay. The
crack
of steel striking
laminated stays echoed off the surrounding buildings. Sadly, there was no answering crack of Degan’s sword striking Wolf’s jaw. The Azaari had ducked as he threw the cut.

The sound seemed to startle both men, and both took a hasty step back. Clearly, this hadn’t been part of the chess match they were playing.

Degan looked down at the fan and swore. The final third of it was dangling at an odd angle.

Wolf regarded at the length of wood in Degan’s hand. He tilted his head like his namesake. “Ivory’s?”

Degan didn’t answer. He merely resumed his guard.

Wolf grinned. “Of course. The laws. I should have known. The sly old bastard.”

The two degans began circling one another again.

I was standing by then, albeit not steadily. The world had developed on a slight lean to the left, but as there didn’t seem to be much I could do about it, I didn’t complain.

I looked down at my right hand. My wrist was already swelling from the sword blow, and I was having trouble closing my fingers. I tried my rapier anyhow. Digits trembled and nerves screamed, but
I was able to force my hand into the guard and pull the weapon free. Not that it stayed there long: I’d barely cleared the scabbard before my grip slipped. It it wasn’t for the swept
steel cage of the guard, my rapier sword would have clattered to the street.

Hopeless.

I looked back at the square.

The initial flourish had died down. Now, rathering than rushing forward to kill one another, each of the degans had taken a couple of paces back. They were still fighting—there was no
question about that—but the two men men were being more thoughtful about it. I had no idea how long it had been since they’d faced one another, but it was clear that there was a lot of
reevaluating going on out there.

Just as it was also clear that this lull wouldn’t last

I switched my rapier to my left hand, gathered up Ivory’s long sword as best I could with my right, adjusted Degan’s blade across my back, and began to make my way toward the
square.

Like hell I was going to leave this to chance.

I entered the square charting a careful course, eyeing the two degans all the while. I wasn’t fool enough to think they didn’t notice my arrival, but neither man so
much as glanced in my direction. They, and I, knew who posed the real threat here.

It was hard to tell who was faring better at this point. Both men had been pressed hard by the other at least once, and each had managed set the other back on his heels. As skill with a blade
went, I was in no position to judge, so far above me were they. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t have an opinion; and right now my opinion, I hated to say, favored Wolf. Not because his
ability or technique or brutality looked to be vastly superior to Degan’s—on that, I doubt I could have found a finger’s worth of daylight between them. No, it was something much
more basic that had me worried.

It was Wolf’s sword.

Or, to be more precise, it was Degan’s sword that had me concerned. Good steel though it might be, it wasn’t a degan’s blade by any measure. Between Wolf’s cut-heavy
style and the superiority of his Black Isle steel, I was already beginning to see a growing collection notches along the edge of Degan’s sword. Sword blades were strongest along the edge and
designed to take punishment there, but not to the extent I was seeing—and certainly not this fast.

I flexed the fingers of my right hand around Ivory’s sheath, just to see how they were doing. Not good. The numbness was starting to fade, but it was being replaced by a throbbing ache
that extended from my knuckles up through my hand and past my wrist. Even if I were to switch my rapier back to my sword hand, I doubted I could do much more than wave it about, and only then as
long as no one connected with it. One good beat or parry and it would be out of my hand and on the ground in an instant.