At Sword's Point by Scott MacMillan & Katherine Kurtz

Author:Scott MacMillan & Katherine Kurtz [MacMillan, Scott & Kurtz, Katherine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: deryni
ISBN: 9780451454072
Google: 0LlqywWAkmMC
Goodreads: 34578
Publisher: Roc
Published: 1993-01-01T22:00:00+00:00

The man strapped to the chair in the sand-strewn arena watched with terror and uncomprehending fascination as the horse thundered toward him, its hooves churning up dust as it lengthened its stride in an all-out gallop. The rider, like the other riders drawn up in a row at the far end of the yard, was dressed all in black, from cap to boot—a uniform that conjured up unpleasant associations, though the man in the chair could not quite remember what they were. His name was Martin Kelber, and he had no idea how he had gotten here.

Something flashed in the rider’s hand as he leaned low out of the saddle, and in the split second before he galloped past, the man in the chair realised that it was a sword, its blade arching down towards his skull. He screamed and tried to throw himself to one side, but only succeeded in spooking the horse and deflecting the rider’s aim. The steel bit into his flesh and lifted his scalp, carrying away only a bit of his skull and exposing a small part of his brain to the sky.

“No, goddammit! No!” Baumann shouted at the young postulant reining in his horse at the far end of the tilting yard. “That man is still alive! A live man can kill you— even you, who think you are beyond death!”

“But the horse shied,” the rider began lamely.

“Bullshit!” Baumann roared. “That horse didn’t shy; you failed! Fail again, and you fail forever.” He trotted his horse over to where the postulant sat on his blowing mount. “Now, watch how I do it. And when we have another target ready, I want you to do the same. Or else!”

Baumann kneed his horse around to face the wounded man, strapped to a chair lying on its side in the dusty arena. The victim lay sobbing in the dirt, blood pouring down his face and into his eyes from the saber wound he had just received, soaking into the sand.

“Set that man back up!” Baumann bellowed.

Two postulants dismounted with alacrity and ran over to right the chair, deaf to the sobs of the victim.

“Good,” yelled Baumann, drawing a Cossack saber from the scabbard strapped to his saddle. “Now, get out of the way!”

With a shout, Baumann dug his spurs into his horse, causing the animal to rear before plunging to earth in a flat-out gallop. Baumann sat bolt upright in the saddle, the perfect picture of a cavalry soldier at the charge.

As he thundered down on his target, he leaned forward slightly in the saddle and swung his saber in a perfect arc aimed at the victims neck.

Martin Kelber screamed in terror, but to no avail. The timing was perfect, and Baumann’s blade sliced through Kelber’s open mouth, the momentum of the horse carrying the blade through his jaw bones and severing his head. A fountain of blood gushed skyward, and Kelber’s body jerked spasmodically against the leather restraints that held it upright in the chair. A few yards away, the head bounced along behind Baumann’s horse.

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