Page 66 of The Gathering Storm

A handful of teenagers rushed onto the floor and scrubbed the mat down, then another judge stepped forward and beckoned toward Sigrid and Chana, summoning them for their match. The judge, an immortal Daughter whose nearly black, almond shaped eyes glinted impassively in the olive-toned rectangle of her face, was a newcomer chosen by Rebecca as a neutral party of a line other than Sigrid’s or Chana’s.

Sigrid knew her by sight only, and cared not at all who the woman was. Any judge was better than the alternative, traditionally the highest ranking Daughter at hand, usually a Councilmember. As far as she knew, the only Councilmember nearby was Will’s grandmother.

Rebecca had had enough mercy to eschew tradition in favor of a fair fight, thank Ki.

The judge held two bastons at her side, one in each hand. “Face each other and repeat the challenge.”

Sigrid stepped onto the mat to the judge’s right and waited for Chana to take the opposite position before speaking. “I challenge you, Chana Wolfbane, Daughter of Pari Bakhshesh, of the line of Eleni, for your untoward interest in my lover Will Corbin, beloved Son of Wilhelmina the Fierce, grandson of Anya Bloodletter, the embodiment of Abragni and a member of the Council of Seven.”

Chana’s eyes rounded slightly, as if she were surprised by the mention of Will’s status among the People, but she merely said, “I accept your challenge, Sigrid Deathknell, Daughter of Glyvyn the Ice Warrior, of the line of Bagda.”

The judge handed each a baston. “Three points scored with the baston to the front torso from waist to shoulder. No other hits will be scored. Test your weapons.”

Sigrid took the baston offered her and inspected it from one rounded tip to the other. Rattan was a lightweight, flexible wood when cut correctly. This baston appeared to be newly made, though it had to be older as the People had stopped purchasing rattan bastons a decade back due to issues with unsustainable harvests. No cracks appeared in the baston’s gleaming, unmarked finish, and it felt solid under the firm fist she slid down its length, testing for weaknesses. She gripped one end and swung it across her body, then up in a sideways slash. A satisfying whistle accompanied the swings, and Sigrid grunted. Good enough.

Across from her, Chana finished testing her baston with a circling swing over her head followed by a downward cut. She nodded at the judge, then faced Sigrid squarely, her chin high and her shoulders squared.

“Ready?” the judge asked, and at their nods she stepped off the mat and said, “Begin.”

Sigrid stepped to her left and in, slightly closing the distance between her and her opponent as Chana mirrored the action. Slowly they circled the mat, each step bringing them closer, their eyes focused not on each other’s faces, but on the torso, taking in every action the other made, waiting for the first strike.

Chana led there. When they were five feet apart, barely within striking distance, she leapt forward and stabbed the end of her baston at Sigrid’s heart. Sigrid swept her baston up and over, easily countering Chana’s thrust, then swung it up under Chana’s striking arm. Chana hopped back, evading the blow, and the fight was on in a flurry of attacks and counterattacks around the mat.

Sigrid’s focus narrowed to the woman in front of her. The restless stirrings in the crowd faded away, their quiet commentary silenced, and the tether strung between her and Will muted to a bare whisper of awareness in her mind. She lost track of time and of the room, and left only enough outside attention for the judge hovering on the mat’s periphery.

Her body moved smoothly, efficiently deflecting each blow, or accepting it if doing so lead to an opening in Chana’s defenses. She left offensive strikes to instinct, thrusting when Chana overreached or slashing when her opponent’s step seemed hesitant, never allowing her own defenses to falter, ignoring the bruises accumulating up and down her body, and the pain.

If you cannot kill quickly, her mother had counseled, wear your opponent down. You have the stamina of an immortal Daughter in your blood, passed down through generations from one of the greatest warriors of our People. Use it well, Daughter.

Sigrid always had, in battle when her life and livelihood were at stake, and now, when her future hung in the balance. One mistake could lose the day. One lapse of judgment and victory could go to Chana.

Her heart trembled in her chest. She clamped down on it and forced her attention where it belonged, on the baston Chana wielded so gracefully. It snaked toward Sigrid, aiming for her ribcage, and Sigrid shoved it away with a sweep of her left hand.

Sneaky little Persian. Perhaps a change of tactics was in order.

Sigrid eased away from Chana, forcing the other woman to follow her, and circled around the mat, waiting for an opening. It came soon enough. Sigrid had been sidling to her left, allowing Chana to become complacent. Chana executed a rapid series of punishing blows aimed at Sigrid’s left rib cage. Sigrid deflected them, her breath a shallow pant in her lungs, then slid to the right and cracked her baston into Chana’s left thigh, just above the knee.

Chana’s leg crumpled, throwing her off balance. Sigrid swept her foot under the injured leg, helping her opponent down, then slid the end of her baston under Chana’s scrambling defense and tapped her in the sternum.

The judge said, “Point, Sigrid,” even as Chana caught Sigrid’s free arm, lifted her uninjured leg into Sigrid’s stomach, and used Sigrid’s slight forward momentum to tumble her into a somersault over Chana’s head. Sigrid’s hands slapped down onto the mat, automatically cushioning her fall. Chana rolled into a handstand following Sigrid’s tumble, landed on one leg, and tapped her own baston against Sigrid’s ribcage just above the waist, evading Sigrid’s defensive swipes.

The judge called, “Point, Chana. One each.”

Pain blossomed around the point of the blow. Sigrid shook it off and rolled into Chana, hoping to unbalance her again, but Chana deftly hopped over her and settled into a fighting stance along one side of the mat.

Sigrid pushed herself upright and mirrored the pose. A stitch in her side pulled her up short, right where Chana had smacked her, and the first prickle of fear tightened her spine.

Damn it. She didn’t need this now, not when she was beginning to wear Chana down.

Chana took two running steps and leapt into the air, her baston raised high. Her face was set in a rigid mask, fierce and determined, and Sigrid’s heart pattered into double time. She scrambled back as she raised her baston. Chana’s came down hard, slapping rattan against rattan, and Sigrid’s baston twisted down, slipping out of her grip. She fumbled it as Chana immediately reversed her swing and stabbed at Sigrid’s side, exactly where she’d hit before, and Sigrid slapped the baston away with her free hand, nearly losing her hold on her own baston in the process.

A sharp inhale caught her attention. Not Will. He had too much discipline to show emotion during such a crucial fight.

The inhale came again, and horror swept through her. Her breath, hers, ragged and harsh in her throat, like the irregular gallop of her heart in her chest.

She was going to lose.

Chana pressed on, her baston swinging in alternating sweeps with her free hand. Thrust, slap, sweep, lunge, forcing Sigrid around the mat, and Sigrid’s parries grew ever more panicked.

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