The Skull of the World Read Free

caul over my head and they say that means I can never drown. Bring on the storms, I say!"
     
    The Spinning Wheel Turns
     
     
     
    The First Blow
     

    On the Spine of the World winter comes snapping and snarling like a wolf. The wind shrieks white for days, until snow shrouds the landscape and icicles hang like fangs from the mouth of the cave. In winter the world is reduced to absolutes of black or white, death or life, bitter cold or burning hot.
    Inside the cave the bonfire leaped high, casting grotesque shadows over the intent faces and still bodies of the Khan'cohbans. They sat cross-legged in a wide circle, watching two figures who circled each other warily. There was no sound save the wail of the storm and the soft slap of the combatants' feet on the stone.
    Isabeau crouched low, her eyes flickering over the face and stance of the warrior opposite her. He was much taller than she was, with two heavy curling horns on either side of his massive brow. He carried a long wooden stave, its metal ends "flashing red as they spun in the firelight.
    Faster than thought, the staff drove for Isabeau's shoulder but she threw herself to the right in a low dive, rolled and was on her feet again, just as the wooden stave cracked against the rock mere inches from where she had landed. Her staff was already swinging upward in response. The warrior swayed away as fluidly as water. Isabeau almost overbalanced as the wood connected with nothing but air. As she recovered he spun on the ball of one foot and struck her hard with the other, just below the junction of her ribs. She fell heavily, the breath knocked out of her. More painful than the impact was the disappointment. Only a few seconds into the contest and already she had received her first blow. Two more and the competition would end, with Isabeau humiliated before her pride.
    She rolled and sprang to her feet, her staff flying up. The warrior's staff hammered into it, almost knocking her down again. Her fingers stung, but she only gripped her staff tighter, turning and thrusting it up to try and slide under his guard. It was like ramming the wind. He simply twisted away, turning a cartwheel that took him well out of her reach.
    He was striking at her again before she had a chance to recover her breath, swift as a snake. She swayed first one way, then another, evading his blows, every sense in her body straining to anticipate his next move. Her teacher had told her, "Become one with your enemy. When your heart beats with his and your minds move together, only then can you know what his next move will be."
    Isabeau breathed deeply in through her nose and out through her mouth, endeavoring to control her breath and with it that intangible essence the Khan'cohbans called coh. Like many words in the Khan'cohban language, coh had many subtleties of meaning. God, lifedeath energy, spirit. What the witches called the One Power, the source of all life, all magic. Ea.
    She felt her heart and her veins fill with power as her lungs filled with air. For minutes they fought as if they were partners in an elaborate dance, wooden staves whistling as they spun through the air. Isa-beau's Scarred Warrior teacher smiled in satisfaction. Then Isabeau was knocked flying again, and his mouth compressed grimly.
    But then Isabeau brought her staff around in a low sweeping movement that knocked the Scarred Warrior's feet from under him. Her teacher punched his left hand into his right palm, the gesture of victory.
    Isabeau was on her feet in an instant, triumph filling her. The Scarred Warrior attacked again, more fiercely than ever. Isabeau had to twist and sway and feint more nimbly than ever, panting harshly as she tried to control her breath. With an unexpected move, the Scarred Warrior spun and kicked high, and Isabeau fell as if she had been knocked down with a hammer.
    For a moment all her senses reeled. She got to her feet slowly, disappointment clear on her face. That was the third blow. The