Sacred Fire: 3 (The Kingpriest Trilogy) by Chris Pierson

Author:Chris Pierson [Pierson, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9780786964987
Publisher: Wizards of the Coast Publishing
Published: 2013-06-11T00:00:00+00:00

Sword met sword, and Tithian shoved with all his might, sending Sir Bron stumbling back. The younger knight grunted, nearly lost his footing, then recovered, keeping his shield up the whole time. He came back with a hard flurry, battering away so that Tithian’s arms burned from the parrying and blocking until the two men finally parted, their feet covered with mud.

It had started raining a little after nightfall, but neither seemed to notice or care. They were sparring alone, in the courtyard of the Hammerhall, with no crowd to watch them. It was a better fight than any the Grand Marshal had watched today.

Another death in the Arena, the third in the past two years. Quarath and Lord Onygion’s feud was getting out of hand, but what could he do to stop it? Speak to the Emissary? To the Kingpriest? Neither would do anything. Rockbreaker would laugh in his face, but only if his mouth was too dry to spit. And the people would mock him—the last thing the head of the Divine Hammer needed.

Here came Bron again, high left, then low to the right, then low right again … each blow simple, economical, not the great sweeping swings of the gladiators. Tithian caught each stroke in succession, with shield and sword, and shield again, turning them aside, then hooking the pommel of his sword around and clouting the younger knight in the ear.

Bron caught most of the blow with his helmet, but he reeled just the same. Groaning, he slumped halfway to his knees. Tithian went at him again, this time with blunted blade, and caught the lad in the stomach with its full outward edge. Bron doubled over, whimpering, then dropped to the ground and stayed there, retching up his supper. Rain plastered his dark hair to his face.

“Watch your hilt-work up close,” Tithian said. “A good swordsman uses every part of his weapon, not just the blade—and expects his opponent to do the same.”

Bron grunted, started to rise, then thought better of it and stayed on his knees, gasping. Tithian watched him. He’d be a great fighter someday, if he could overcome his sloppiness. If not … well, the knighthood was full of passable warriors. There were few great ones anymore.

The thud of hooves in the mud drew his eye away, toward the gatehouse. A rider came through, protected against the rain by a gray, hooded cloak. He stopped for a moment to speak with the gate ward, who nodded and stepped aside. Then he rode on toward Tithian. The Grand Marshal eyed him, marking the anonymity of the man’s garb, and felt a sinking feeling. There was only one who would approach him at this hour with such nondescript garments. He watched as the man reined in, then swung down from his saddle, handing the reins to a squire who came running through the muck to serve him.

“I thought you might come tonight,” Tithian said to the hooded man. “I guessed as much, when I turned around and saw there were no MarSevrins to be found.

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