Page 87 of Court of Talons
Hantor, of course, leers at me, clearly delighted at the opportunity of our coming battle. My mind still swimming with Nazar’s revelation, I stare at Miriam. She gazes back solemnly the whole while, and I try not to squirm beneath her scrutiny. Has she guessed I’m not really Merritt, at long last? Surely she would have alerted Rihad if so, and yet—how can she not know?
Or does she know…and she’s merely holding her tongue, for reasons of her own? Is she also acting the part of the warrior, in the only way she can?
Once again, I think about the women of the marauder tribe, angry and independent and strong. Once again, I can see themas warriors, for all that they aren’t nobly born. In another setting, any one of them could have worn the band.
Suddenly, there’s a guard at my side. I step out as another wave of cheers soars through the air. I follow silently as the guard threads his way through the remaining warriors, then we enter the narrow tower—the same one I’d entered to fight Kheris and his serpent. According to Nazar, Hantor’s Divh is less imposing, but I still hear his follow-up admonition in my mind. A warrior does not prejudge an opponent, neither to fear nor to discredit him.
Nazar’s gentle words are scattered, however, as the guard’s sharp voice cuts across my thoughts. “Hold a moment. Lord Protector Rihad bade me give you this news.”
I halt, turning around in surprise. The guard is new to me, and his face is impassive, his eyes hard. When he sees I am listening, he continues, “Hantor, the warrior you fight, is responsible for your squire’s injury.”
Of all the things that could come out of his mouth, that’s the last thing I expect. “What?”
“It happened two summers ago. The squire Caleb beat Hantor in a mock combat with rods and boasted that he should be the highest warrior knight of the Second House, despite the bloodline that made Hantor eligible at birth. Hantor paid men to attack the squire, to sever his arm with an axe.”
I stare, but there is something about this tale that makes it eminently believable. I can see Caleb taunting Hantor in this way, never realizing the danger he was courting. I can see Hantor working to ensure Caleb paid for the slight.
“Why are you telling me this?” I barely hear my own voice, but the guard’s expression doesn’t change.
“Lord Protector Rihad bade me give you this news,” he says again. “And this as well: The standing guard of warriors for the Protectorate must be made of those both strong and noble.”
He turns and resumes climbing.
I don’t take note of any of the risers beneath my feet, and it’s only by some miracle that I don’t fall down the stair entirely, into the arms of the trailing guard. I step out on the fighting platform. My mind fights against the impossibility of the images racing before my eyes. I perform the motions of my station by rote as the horns blast high above me. A shouted command penetrates my fog, and I look up to find Rihad staring down at me. He’s close enough for me to see him nod, as if confirming the words of the guard. Then another horn sounds. I lower my gaze to Hantor.
The boy grins at me, all teeth, as his hand shoots into the air, his right fist curled at his heart. I mimic the movement more slowly, barely able to hear the trumpet blast.
This is no man, I remind myself. This is a boy who acted in petulant fury to silence a threat he couldn’t quell with his strength alone.
And yet he has a Divh. That makes him a dangerous warrior…and he shouldn’t be a warrior. He’s nothing more than a weak and spiteful coward.
Lord Rihad’s words pound through my mind.“The standing guard of warriors for the Protectorate must be made of those both strong and noble.”
Hantor doesn’t look noble or strong. He looks almost feral as he pumps his left fist. Now beginning to burn with a leading surge of anger, I summon Gent.
As I do, I look beyond the boy to the monster at the far end of the tournament field.
Hantor’s Divh is a worthy opponent for most, but he’s no match for Gent, I know in an instant. My anger grows in size and stature like Gent behind me, snuffling with interest at his combatant. This will be no fight.
Hantor’s Divh is smaller, for one, but also wide and thick, a four-legged creature with a bony outer shell that I suspect betrays a soft underbelly. His head and back is covered with spikes, and the thick ridge on his brow bone no doubt serves as a battering ram to any creature or object unfortunate enough to find itself in the Divh’s way. Even now, he swings his head back and forth, and I realize his eyes are on either side of his head, set too far back. I frown. For all his ferocious stature, this is a creature of defense, not offense.
A good army has all sorts of warriors, attackers and defenders alike. But while Hantor’s Divh can survive deep into a tournament by bravado and speed, he can’t fight ably against a Divh the size of Gent. And Rihadmustknow that.
Rihad, who bade his guard to tell me…
Hantor’s bone monster launches itself forward, faster than I would have thought possible for its stumpy size. I turn my hand, and Gent releases a huge, almost happy roar, the world around me suddenly swept over with the sound of his loping, pounding feet. I gaze at Hantor, but I can’t see through Gent’s eyes. I can only see Hantor, laughing at Caleb as his stump hung uselessly at his side, a stump where once had been a sturdy, powerful arm. Fury sweeps through me, and I lift my hand further a few degrees, then Gent is past me and launching himself at Hantor’s Divh. Gent’s right paw sails high, and the bone creature’s eyes follow it, missing the cutting swipe of Gent’s left fist until the very last minute.
The bone creature surprises us both by leaping straight up, missing the bulk of Gent’s blow but doing something that causes Gent to jerk back in surprise. A stinging pain erupts in my hand—not debilitating but unexpected. A flare of panic knifes through me, effectively slicing through my anger.Stupid!I shouldn’t have underestimated Hantor or his Divh.
Gent shoves out again, sending the bone creature spinning end over end over end as Gent straightens, clearly confused.
Hantor’s laugh startles through my consciousness. I refocus on the runt, and he sneers at me, jubilant at making the first cut. Suddenly, I flash back to myself just days before, standing in this very spot, startled and excited and foolish in my flush of momentary victory against Kheris’s serpent. I hadn’t pressed my advantage then, but I won’t be so foolish this time.
Hantor’s bone creature has no advantage. Even now I flicker back to viewing through Gent’s eyes and take in the lumbering beast. Its trick of gathering all four legs beneath it, then bounding straight up with the strength of all four, will take some work to get around. The spikes on its back and head are formidable, and as Gent has shown me and experienced himself, those spikes can detach easily from the creature to embed in paw or arm.
The two monsters circle, the bone creature dodging and weaving, almost dizzying in its dance. And that’s part of its strategy too, I realize. Feint and deception, until its opponent is off guard—then zeroing in for the kill.
I level my gaze again at Hantor. He’s too far away to hear me, so even if I want to rail against him, hurling accusations about his cowardly acts, I can’t. I can only lift my hand, angle my head, and stare daggers at him across the open space.