ggk.asongforarbonne-第86部分

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lasp　and　let　the　scabbard　fall　behind　him　on　the　grass。　One　of　his　appointed　squires　from　Miraval　quickly　knelt　and　picked　it　up。　The　Arimondan　moved　forward；　light　on　his　feet　as　a　tumbler　for　all　his　size；　and　Blaise；　watching　closely；　saw　that　his　first　steps　carried　a　little　west。　As　expected。　He　had　seen　this　manoeuvre　before；　the　last　time　he'd　fought　a　challenge　with　a　man　from　Arimonda。　He　had　almost　died　that　day。
　　Moving　to　meet　the　man　whose　brother　he　had　slain；　Blaise　regretted；　not　for　the　first　time；　that　he　knew　so　little　about　his　foe　and　how　he　fought。　For　all　Valery's　words　about　the　propensities　of　those　using　curved　swords…tendencies　Blaise　knew　well…they　had　little　actual　knowledge　of　Quzman　beyond　what　was　obvious。　He　was　a　big　man；　cat…quick；　and　brave；　with　a　longing　for　revenge　and　nothing　at　all　to　lose　today。　I　could；　Blaise　thought；　be　dead　before　the　sun　rises　much　higher。
　　It　had　always　been　possible。　There　was　no　honour　to　be　sought　or　found　in　a　meaningless　challenge；　no　elevation　in　the　eyes　of　the　gathered　world　beneath　the　banner　of　Gorhaut's　kings…which　was；　of　course；　the　point　of　all　of　this。
　　Moving　forward；　Blaise　found　what　he　was　looking　for。　His　small　round　shield　rested　on　his　left　forearm；　leaving　his　fingers　free。　He　transferred　his　sword　to　that　hand　and　stooped　quickly。　In　the　same　motion；　as　Quzman　came　straight　towards　him；　he　seized　and　hurled　a　clump　of　earth　squarely　at　the　Arimondan's　gleaming　shield。　Quzman　stopped；　surprised；　and　Blaise　had　time　to　rattle　another　dulling　handful　of　mud　against　the　shield　before　straightening　and　reclaiming　his　sword　in　his　fighting　hand。
　　Quzman　was　no　longer　smiling。　It　was　Blaise　who　grinned　now；　with　deliberate　mockery。　〃Too　pretty　a　toy；〃　he　said。　It　was　quiet　now；　he　did　not　have　to　raise　his　voice。　〃I'll　have　it　cleaned　when　you　are　dead。　How　many　men　have　you　killed　by　blinding　them　first　like　a　coward？〃
　　〃I　wonder；〃　said　Quzman　after　a　short　silence；　his　beautiful　voice　thickened　by　passion；　〃if　you　have　any　idea　how　much　pleasure　your　death　will　bring　me？〃
　　〃I　probably　do。　Blood　ants　on　the　plain。　You　told　me　already。　By　contrast；　though；〃　Blaise　replied；　〃your　life　or　death　mean　almost　nothing　to　me　at　all。　Wele　to　the　dance。　Do　you　want　to　talk　all　morning　or　are　you　actually　able　to　use　that　blade　you　carry？〃
　　He　was。　He　was　more　than　able；　and　sorely　provoked。　The　first　stroke；　exactly　as　Valery　had　predicted；　was　a　downward　angled　slash　on　his　backhand。　Blaise　parried　smoothly；　guiding　it　short　of　his　body…but　then　was　only　barely　quick　enough；　even　with　the　anticipation；　to　block　the　vicious　return　sweep　of　the　curved　blade　along　the　level　of　his　knees。　The　impact；　a　grinding　collision　of　weapons；　was　almost　enough　to　numb　his　wrist。　The　man　was　strong；　enormously　so；　and　his　reactions　were　even　quicker　than　Blaise　had　guessed　they　would　be。
　　Even　as　he　thought　this；　Blaise　was　twisting　desperately　and　dropping；　guided　only　by　reflexes　of　his　own；　an　utterly　instinctive　movement　shaped　by　years　of　bat　in　tournament　and　war；　the　primitive　drive　for　survival　letting　him　react　to　the　curved　sword　abruptly　planted；　quivering；　in　the　earth；　to　Quzman's　gloved　hand　reaching　for　the　back　of　his　calf　and　the　knife　blade　flung　in　a　blurred　motion　for　his　throat。　It　went　by；　almost。　Blaise　felt　a　searing　pain　at　the　side　of　his　head。　He　brought　his　sword　hand　quickly　up　to　his　ear　and　it　came　away　soaked　with　blood。　He　heard　a　sound　from　the　pavilions　then；　deep　and　low；　like　wind　on　a　moor。
　　Quzman；　his　sword　recaptured　before　it　had　even　stopped　vibrating　in　the　ground；　was　smiling　again；　the　white　teeth　gleaming。　〃Now　that；〃　he　said；　〃is　pretty。　Why　don't　you　throw　some　mud　on　it　like　a　peasant？　You　do　seem　to　enjoy　scrabbling　in　the　earth。〃
　　The　pain　was　bad　and　would　probably　get　worse；　but　Blaise　didn't　think　his　ear　was　gone。　Not　entirely；　at　any　rate。　He　seemed　to　still　be　hearing　sounds　from　that　side。　He　thought　of　Bertran　suddenly；　with　his　own　missing　ear　lobe。　He　thought　of　how　much　depended　on　his　walking　alive　from　this　field。　And　with　that　his　anger　was　upon　him　fully；　the　familiar；　frightening　daemon　that　came　to　him　in　battle。
　　〃Spare　your　breath；〃　he　said　thickly；　and　surged　up　from　the　ground　to　engage　the　other　man。　There　were　no　words　then；　no　space　for　words　and　indeed　no　breath；　only　the　quick　chittering　clatter　of　blades　glancing　and　sliding　from　each　other；　or　the　harder；　heavier　clang　as　sword　met　blocking　shield；　the　controlled　grunting　of　two　men　as　they　circled　each　other；　probing　with　cold　metal　and　cold　eyes　for　an　avenue　along　which　they　could　kill。
　　Quzman　of　Arimonda　was　indeed　good；　and　driven　by　the　fierce　pride　of　his　country　and　his　family；　and　he　had　a　sworn　vengeance　to　claim。　He　fought　with　the　fluid；　deadly　passion　of　a　dancer　and　Blaise　was　wounded　twice　more；　in　the　forearm　and　across　the　back　of　his　calf；　in　the　first　three　engagements。
　　But　Quzman's　thigh　was　gashed；　and　the　leather　armour　over　his　ribs　was　not　quite　equal　to　the　scything　blow　it　took　on　a　forehand　slash　from　an　Aulensburg　sword　wielded　by　a　man　with　a　passion　and　rage　of　his　own。
　　Blaise　didn't　stop　to　gauge　how　badly　he　had　wounded　the　man。　He　drove　forward；　attacking　on　both　sides；　parried　each　time　with　impacts　that　sent　shocks　up　his　elbow　and　shoulder。　He　registered　the　welling　of　blood　at　Quzman's　left　side；　ignoring　as　best　he　could　the　stiffening　protest　from　his　own　leg　as　he　pushed　off　it。　He　could　easily　have　been　crippled　by　that　low　blow；　he　knew。　He　hadn't　been。　He　was　still　on　his　feet；　and　before　him　was　a　man　who　stood　in　the　path　of　。。。　what？　Of　a　great　many　things；　his　own　dream　of　Gorhaut　not　least　of　all。　Of　what　his　home　should　be；　in　the　eyes　of　the　world；　in　the　sight　of　Corannos；　in　his　own　soul。　He　had　said　this　two　nights　ago；　words　very　like　this；　to　King　Daufridi　of　Valensa。　He'd　been　asked　if　he　loved　his　country。
　　He　did。　He　loved　it　with　a　heart　that　ached　like　an　old　man's　fingers　in　rain；　hurting　for　the　Gorhaut　of　his　own　vision；　a　land　worthy　of　the　god　who　had　chosen　it；　and　of　the　honour　of　men。　Not　a　place　of　scheming　wiles；　of　a　degraded；　sensuously　corrupt　king；　of　people　dispossessed　of　their　lands　by　a　cowardly　treaty；　or　of　ugly　designs　under　the　false；　perverted　aegis　of　Corannos　for　nothing　less　than　annihilation　here　south　of　the　mountains。
　　It　was　one　thing　to　have　ambitions　for　one's　homeland；　dreams　of　scope　and　expansion。　It　was　another　to　use　the　sky…blue　cloak　of　the　god　to　hide　a　smoke…shrouded　inferno　of　men　and　women…a　nation　of　them…thrown　to　burn　on　heretics'　pyres。　Blaise　had　seen　such　fires　as　a　boy。　He　would　never　forget　the　first　time。　His　father　had　clutched　his　shoulder　and　had　not　let　him　turn　away。
　　He　knew　exactly　what　Galbert　wanted；　what　Ademar　of　Gorhaut　would　be　guided　to　do　when　he　came　south。　He　knew　how　strong；　how　wealthy　the　army　of　Gorhaut　would　be　by　the　time　the　snows　melted　in　the　spring。　He　had　seen　those　pyres；　he　would　not　watch　another　burn。　He　had　sworn　it　to　himself　those　long　years　ago；　watching　an　old　woman　die　screaming；　flames　in　her　white　hair。　And　to　stop　them；　to　stop　his　father　and　his　king；　he　had　first　to　defeat　this　Arimondan　who　stood　now　in　his　way　with　a　curved　sword　already　reddened　by　Blaise's　own　blood。
　　
　　The　most　celebrated　troubadours　and　the　better　known　joglars　did　not　watch　the　tournaments　from　the　mons'　standing　ground。　By　courtesy　of　Ariane　de　Carenzu；　as　a　sign　of　their　high　favour　in　Arbonne；　they　were　given　a　pavilion；　not　far　down　the　lists　from　her　own。　An　invitation　to　sit　among　those　in　the　pavilion　was　one　of　the　prime　measures　of　success　each　year　among　the　musicians；　and　this　autumn　marked　the　first　time　Lisseut　had　found　herself　included　in　the　elect。　She　owed　it　to　Alain；　she　knew；　to　his　own　growing　reputation；　and　to　the　little　man's　brash　assertiveness　that　memorable　night　in　Tavernel　when　she　had　sung　his　song　to　the　queen　of　the　Court　of　Love　and　the　dukes　of　Talair　and　Miraval。
　　And　to　the　red…bearded　Gorhaut　coran　who　was　now　battling　for　his　life　on　the　grass　before　them。　It　seemed　he　wasn't　just　a　coran；　though。　Not　si