The Phoenix Guards Read Free

forehead, the thin face, the small chin, small mouth, and hooked nose. These, along with the dark complexion, identify the Lyorn even without his costume. This Lyorn, who was very tall for one of his House, seemed to be a warrior, as he was wearing soft leather boots, a plain red blouse, and a brown skirt that came to his ankles. He had no visible weapon, but wore a pair of copper or bronze vambraces.
    The Tiassa turned back to his task then, and drew his sword. He found a spot to make the corner, and lowered his blade to begin drawing the line.
He was interrupted, then, by a low, soft voice near him: “No, not your sword.”
    He looked up and saw the Lyorn standing near his elbow.
    “No?” he inquired.
    “Use your knife,” said the Lyorn.
    “Why?” asked Khaavren.
    The Lyorn smiled sadly. “Name?”
    “Khaavren of Castlerock.”
    “Aerich,” said the other, accompanying the word with a gesture to indicate himself.
    “But,” said Khaavren, “about the sword—”
    Aerich gestured at the weapon’s point. “This is your honor,” he said. “It must never touch the ground. Use your knife.”
    Khaavren looked at Aerich for a moment, trying to decide if the Lyorn were jesting. But then, he thought, Aerich was the judge. He sheathed his sword, took out his dagger, and drew a line across the width of the street, then one along the side, twice seventeen paces in length, then crossed the street again, and back to where he had begun to complete the rectangle. He straightened his back with some relief and looked up at Aerich, who nodded solemnly.
    Aerich turned and gestured to the combatants, indicating where they ought to stand. The Dzurlord removed her doublet and folded it carefully, setting it on the street outside of the circle. She drew her sword from behind her back. The weapon seemed close to her own height, yet she had no apparent trouble wielding it. The Hawk had a short broadsword, and a dagger in the other hand. Aerich looked at the Hawklord’s second.
    “Terms,” he said.
    The other Hawk frowned. “We have agreed—”
    “State them aloud, please,” said Aerich.
    The Hawk nodded. “Plain steel weapons, sword and dagger, to first blood, no healer present, but a healer may be summoned at once upon conclusion.”
    Aerich looked an inquiry at the Dzurlord, who seemed disgusted, but nodded. The Lyorn stood between them, so they were each separated from him by five paces, and from each other by ten. He raised his hand.
    “As your chosen Imperial intermediary, in accordance with the laws of the Empire, I ask if you will not be reconciled.” His tone of voice indicated a certain lack of interest in the answer.
    “No.”
    “No.”
    “Very well,” he said, and lowered his hand in a motion that was at once graceful and sudden.
    Both Hawk and Dzur seemed to be startled but the Dzur recovered first. With a yell, she sprang at her enemy, her blade visible only as a blur. The Hawklord barely had time to assume a defensive posture, and at once there
was the ringing sound of steel on steel, which sent a thrill through Khaavren’s heart.
    The Hawk stepped back, and swung his blade wildly—and from so far away that Khaavren could see it was a useless gesture. The Dzur smiled contemptuously and stepped in, and, to Khaavren’s inexperienced but expert eye, she moved with a grace and fluidity that would have made her a worthy opponent of his own sword-master.
    With her next step, she beat aside the Hawklord’s sword and, with the same motion, gave him a good cut across his right shoulder and down to his chest. The sound that came from his throat was more squeak than moan as he fell over backward, the point of her sword still lodged in his chest, breaking two ribs and nearly cutting open his lungs.
    The Hawklord’s weapons fell from his hands as he lay on the ground, staring upward in horror as the Dzur pulled her sword free and raised it for the killing stroke.
    “Lady!” called Aerich, in a tone that was