The Dark Throne (38 page)

My right hand tingled as I ran through some drills, delighting again in the feel of a well-balanced blade in my grip. After a few drills, I tossed my sword into my left hand and completed a set of drills on the other side. The muscles in my legs burned slightly and I felt the prickle of sweat beginning to bead on my forehead; I touched my toes a few times, blade still in hand, and then turned back to Luca. His sword, I’d noticed during our previous session, was different, something between a broadsword and the slimmer blade that I favored and which most of the Seelie carried. It made sense, that a Northman would want a blade commensurate to his size. I thought of Kavoryk and his huge battle-axe. I pushed down a sharp flash of sorrow and set my footing, facing Luca. He raised his eyebrows in silent question, I nodded and quick as thought our blades clashed.

I learned the hard way that Luca moved as fast as a wolf springing for the kill. I’d grown used to sparring against faster, stronger opponents—that meant nearly everyone, when I’d first started learning the art of swordplay. But as I matched blades with Luca, I was reminded yet again that I was no longer the mortal girl carried through a lesser gate by the Vaelanbrigh of the Unseelie Court. My sword flashed and my feet danced, my body responding and moving without conscious thought. Luca certainly still held an advantage of strength, but I found in slight surprise that I could match his speed, and with effort even outstrip him; so I forced him to follow me about the practice ring, striking fast and dancing away, feeling like a boxer taunting a larger opponent.

We were almost equally matched—my light-footed speed kept Luca from using his considerable strength. As I blocked an arcing sweep of his blade and leapt away, I realized it would be a contest of endurance. Sweat slid down my back, but I noted with satisfaction that Luca’s shirt clung to his muscled torso as well. His ice-blue eyes glittered as I sidestepped about the perimeter of the ring, using the short respite to slow my gasps of exertion into long, measured breaths. I focused on the center of his chest, waiting for it to telegraph his next movement; even so, I didn’t have the time to dance away from a vicious two-handed downward sweep. A grunt of effort escaped my lips as I blocked Luca’s blade, the impact jarring my hand and vibrating through my bones; I tightened my entire body as Luca bore down, but he still drove me down to one knee. If I stayed in this position, I’d need to yield, so I put every iota of strength into a violent push, gaining me a small respite from the grinding downward force. I used the moment to twist my blade out of the lock and roll sharply to the left, using the fist that held my sword to push myself up from the ground as I tried to put some distance between Luca and me. My right hand throbbed from the aftershock of blocking such a strong sweep, so I tossed my blade into my left hand, shifting my stance. Luca grinned and followed suit as he advanced on me, now holding his blade in his left hand as well.

He attacked, I blocked and danced away; I slipped close to deliver a whirlwind of strikes, and he defended without strain. We both breathed heavily, but we pressed on, unwilling to admit weakness. My blade pierced his guard once but he knocked it away fearlessly with his gauntleted forearm. He tried to catch me again in a body-to-body lock, but I took care to maintain my distance except when delivering my own blows. Then something in Luca’s stance shifted, warning me that he was about to execute an unexpected movement. I wasn’t fast enough to avoid his complex sweep that caught my blade at the hilt. I felt the leverage, knew that he was about to twist his blade and pry mine from my hand; and something within me refused defeat. In that long moment, I shifted my weight, and as Luca wrenched my blade from my hand, I unleashed a kick at his side. My shin connected solidly with his ribs as my blade sailed through the air, landing in the dirt at the edge of the practice ring. A strange beast within me reared up as Luca took a step to the side, looking more surprised than hurt at the impact of my kick. I let out a little snarl as I let my momentum carry me, following the kick to his side with a front kick snapped out from my other leg, hitting Luca solidly in the chest and pushing him backward; but his huge hand closed around my ankle, wrenching my foot upward and sweeping me from my feet. I broke the impact with my arms, slapping the ground as I landed, but the fall still stole the breath from me. I tried to roll toward my sword, but Luca pinned me down and tossed his blade aside.

I growled and struck at him with an elbow, but he deflected my strike with his forearm and then caught first that wrist, then the other in one large hand. I bucked wildly, trying to use the strength of my legs to throw him off balance, but he merely grinned down at me. I bared my teeth defiantly; he chuckled, and then suddenly the rush of wild fight within me dimmed, and I stopped struggling. As I stilled, I realized the sensuality of our position: Luca straddling my hips, one hand pinning my wrists above my head, his weight shifted forward to still my struggles. But though a different kind of heat began to run through my body, I caught my breath enough to say formally, “I yield.”

Luca released my wrists and sat back, still straddling me in full mount. I’d had some instruction in ground fighting at school but hadn’t gone in-depth with any one discipline. Now I wished I’d earned a black belt, just to wipe that trace of satisfaction from Luca’s handsome face. But it was only a trace, only perhaps the innate feeling of victory, with no malice or triumph behind it.

“If you’re going to kick a man during a fight, best hit him where it hurts the most,” he advised me, raising one eyebrow.

“I’m not going to kick you in the balls to win a fight,” I retorted.

“If I let a kick through, I deserve it,” he said seriously. “Though that would make me think twice about sparring with you again.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” I narrowed my eyes. “Are you going to let me up? I already yielded.”

“That’s another thing,” said the
ulfdrengr,
grinning his predatory smile. “You can’t
yield
in a real fight.”

“I
know
that, but this isn’t a—” I didn’t get to finish my sentence as Luca suddenly lunged forward again, pinning me down with his weight and making it difficult for me to breathe.

“Nearly everyone you fight will be bigger than you,” he said, serious again, “so what are you going to do?”

I arched my back and used my legs to try and throw Luca off balance, twisting my weight to one side and then the other; but he merely pressed a forearm into the softest part of my throat, increasing the pressure steadily.

“Stop thinking in terms of escaping,” he said, a bit of a growl in the back of his voice. “Think in terms of inflicting pain. Incapacitating.
Killing.
”

My rudimentary wrestling knowledge flitted through my mind, thoughts bouncing discordantly through my head as I struggled. Spots danced on the edge of my vision as Luca pressed down on my throat, cutting off my air.

“If you’re taken down to the ground like this in a battle,
you will die
if you don’t keep your head. There is no escape.
Fight, Tess.
”

I barely heard his words. A scrap of coherence kept repeating itself:
Luca wouldn’t hurt me. Luca wouldn’t hurt me.

Then my eyes met his, and it was like looking into the eyes of a wolf as it lunged to kill a deer: primal, wild and
not safe
. I could barely breathe. My thoughts narrowed to a pinhole of basic need.

Inflicting pain. Incapacitating.
Killing.

With one arm on my throat, Luca held my wrists with his other large hand; I jerked, got a hand loose, and before he could regain control I smashed my elbow into the side of his head, the impact vibrating up my arm. The pressure on my throat eased slightly and I hit him again. He grunted and his weight shifted to the side. I drove my heels into the ground and twisted my body to the same side, using his own momentum against him. I gasped a full breath as we rolled and I found myself on top, though Luca’s legs were still wrapped about my waist. I stood in a crouch, his legs heavy about me, and knew I only had a few seconds at the most until he closed his legs like a vise and drove me down to the ground again. I mercilessly drove my elbows into the sides of his legs, striking at the sensitive part of the inner thigh; and his lock about me loosened enough for me to twist my way free.

There is no escape. Fight, Tess
.

Without conscious thought, my hand found my dagger at my belt and the blade flashed in my grip as I dove onto Luca. He moved to tackle me and I drove my knee into his side, laying him out flat again; and then the point of my dagger pressed into his throat, hard enough to pierce the skin. I heard a low growl as I stared, transfixed, at the fat drop of blood welling beneath the tip of my blade.

Luca lay silently, watching me with gleaming blue eyes, until I blinked and shuddered. I threw my dagger to the side.

“Holy hell,” I said shakily, looking down at the smear of blood across Luca’s throat and the beginnings of a bruise spreading on one cheekbone. I glanced up and saw Kianryk sitting at the perimeter of the practice ring, gazing at me intently. The wolf’s low growl subsided and he settled onto his forepaws, still watching us alertly.

“I’m sorry, I just…I lost control.” I swallowed.

Luca pushed himself up onto one elbow, wincing slightly. “No. If you’d lost control, you’d have turned me inside-out with your emerald fire.” He smiled. “You did exactly what I wanted you to do.”

“Hit you?” I asked flatly. “You know, if you enjoy that type of thing, I’m sure there’s many who’d oblige—”

Luca’s laugh cut my words short. “Aye, and I’m not denying that a bit of roughness in love is all well and good.” He sat up, brushed at a trickle of blood at the corner of his lip. “But you know already the purpose behind that little exercise.”

“To make me feel terrible about hitting you?” I muttered rebelliously.

“Tess,” he chuckled.

I sighed. “You wanted to show me that I can’t stand on rules of courtesy or sportsmanship when my life is at stake.” I gave him a flat look. “I just don’t like the way you did it.”

“Your striking is effective, but it would take much more than that to truly hurt me,” Luca replied.

I scowled. “That doesn’t mean I
like
it. What is it with you men and your invincibility complexes?”

“So I take it I’m not the first.”

“Don’t be snide. You know perfectly well what I mean.”

Luca stood, brushed the dust from his legs, and offered me a hand. I picked up my dagger and with the other hand accepted his help; he pulled me to my feet as though I weighed no more than a child. After he released my hand, he gave my shoulder a squeeze.

“Don’t be angry with me, Tess,” he said earnestly. “Now you know how it feels to actually fight. Truly, this is the way we teach striplings and their pups to fight.”

I took a deep breath and felt my anger fade. It was more anger at myself, that I’d let myself lose control and hit Luca. But I started to understand his point. When my vision had begun to go black at the edges and all I could think about was a sweet full breath, I released my inhibitions. There was a time and a place for courtesy, but it wasn’t when you were flat on your back fighting for your life.

“Next time I’ll just let myself pass out,” I said, raising one eyebrow.

Luca smiled. “So next time I won’t use that method.”

“Are you sure I didn’t hurt you?” I asked in a softer voice, my eyes serious as I leaned forward, inspecting his face.

“Do you think Kianryk would be lounging about like a lazy pup if I was truly hurt?” he replied, but he patiently let me examine the blossoming bruise on his cheekbone. The second blow of my elbow had opened a cut on his forehead just above his eye, but it was already clotted.

“How are your ribs?”

“Earning their keep.” He grinned. “Sore, but you didn’t do any more damage than the dragon.”

“So you’re saying I need to work on the power behind my kicks,” I said, raising an eyebrow.

He chuckled. “We can work on that in the morning, if you’d like.”

“We’ll see how we both feel,” I replied noncommittally, though something within me leapt at the thought of sparring with Luca again. I squinted up at the sky. “Still light enough for archery?”

“Always light enough,” Luca replied. “Enemies attack at twilight and in the darkness of night, too.”

“Very true.” I picked up my plain blade, quickly wiped the dust from it and sheathed it. After I settled the Sword onto my back again, we picked up our bows and quivers, striding toward the archery lines. Kianryk loped alongside us, his golden pelt pale in the scant light. The dusk draped shadows about us, deepening the gray dirt to charcoal, our shadows sharp black silhouettes. I hefted the longbow in my grip: it was a bit heavier than my old bow, but it still felt good in my hand. I’d know if I was going to keep it after sending a few arrows downrange, but I was impressed with Luca’s choice for me. Luca gave me one of his gauntlets as a makeshift arm guard, since I wasn’t familiar with the whip of this bow’s string. My old bow had been so finely made and perfect for me that I hadn’t needed a guard on my left arm. The released string of my old bow had whispered over the cloth of my shirt, but nothing more.

We found two unused targets near the end of the archery line. A few torches burned halfway between the targets and the first line marked in the dirt, throwing flickering light across the ground. I drew an arrow from my quiver, nocked it to the bow and slowly drew it back, evaluating the smooth resistance of the bowstring and the weight of the bow in my left hand. I aimed for the target, let my breath settle into the pause at the bottom of an exhalation, and released the arrow. It arced through the shadows and stuck, quivering, into the upper left portion of the target. I nocked another arrow, adjusting my aim for this new bow. The second arrow struck the target nearer to center but still decidedly outside the bull’s-eye.

Luca drew back his first arrow, the muscles in his shoulders and arms standing out against his shirt. His bow was nearly half again as long as mine, and the force of his arrow punching into the target knocked the supporting spear backward slightly. I looked at his target and arched an eyebrow.