Voltan tried a feint, followed by a lunge to the heart. Rage parried it, and sent a return cut that struck Voltan’s left bicep, slicing open the skin. Suddenly the pace picked up again, both men hacking and slashing, blocking and moving. Bane knew Voltan was seeking to exhaust his tiring opponent. And he was succeeding. Rage’s sword arm did not have the same speed as before, and Voltan’s blade found a way through, stabbing the older man in the left shoulder. Rage backed away. Bane could see his great chest heaving as he sucked in air. Voltan, though bleeding profusely, did not seem to be suffering.
A commotion began in the stands to the right of the Royal Enclosure. Bane glanced round, to see Telors pushing people out of the way and clambering over a low wall and grabbing a large padded drumstick from a surprised drummer. Hoisting the huge drum to the wall Telors began a slow, steady beat that boomed like distant thunder around the arena.
Out on the sand the two fighters paused momentarily as the drum sounded.
Voltan was more tired than he appeared. His years as a Stone Knight had been wonderfully fulfilling, but an arena duel needed the kind of specialist training he had not undertaken for years. His sword arm felt heavy. His opponent was even more weary, however, and Voltan would at least take pleasure in killing him. He had always wondered how good Rage really was. Now he knew, and, deep down, he was glad they had not fought earlier. The old man’s reflexes were surprisingly sharp, as was the speed of his counters.
The sun was high and hot, and a heat haze was rising from the sand. Voltan circled the older man. ‘What made you want to fight me?’ he asked. Rage did not reply. ‘Too weary to talk, old man?’ sneered Voltan. Rage merely smiled. Irritated, Voltan leapt to the attack. Rage parried. Voltan struck out with his left fist. Rage swayed away from the blow and thundered a left hook into Voltan’s jaw. Voltan rolled with the blow and spun away as Rage’s gladius hissed through the air. As Rage rushed in for the kill Voltan parried a thrust and lunged. The blade struck Rage’s belt buckle and glanced away.
‘Lucky, lucky!’ said Voltan, seeking to unsettle his opponent. But Rage remained focused, not bothering to reply. In his movement, however, there was a growing exhaustion. ‘Not much strength left now, Rage,’ said Voltan. ‘How does it feel to know you are going to die?’
Still no response, and Voltan began to feel a growing irritation. He had always found a way to unsettle opponents, to make them rash, or careless, to dismantle their concentration. But not Rage. It was as if he was fighting a statue made flesh, a creature without feelings or emotions.
Even so, Voltan was winning. It was just a question of time. As they circled he noted that Rage’s sword was a little lower than before, as if its weight was dragging it down. The old man was also breathing heavily. ‘Perhaps you should rest a little,’ said Voltan conversationally. ‘Step back and catch your breath.’ As he spoke he attacked, almost taking Rage by surprise. The old man’s sword came up more slowly than before, and Voltan’s blade slid by it, glancing off Rage’s ribs and ripping the skin. Rage spun on his heel, turning full circle, and lashed out. Voltan only partly blocked the cut and the blade sliced the flesh of his shoulder. He leapt back. Rage did not follow up his attack and Voltan grinned as he realized the old man had come, at last, to the end of his strength.
Then the drum sounded. Voltan blinked and glanced to the crowd, locating the black-bearded Telors.
As the beats sounded out, the crowd, knowing of Rage’s legend, began to clap their hands in time to the booming drum. Voltan returned his attention to Rage, and saw that the old gladiator was standing straighter now, and in his dark eyes there was a gleam where before there had been only weariness. Voltan swore. It was going to take longer to kill the old bastard now.