The squat Sky Rider, long lance in hand, heeled his pony forward, then swung to the right and galloped some fifty yards before savagely hauling on the reins. Quing-chin rode his pony between the lines of the two tribes, then turned and raised his lance. The squat warrior levelled his lance and kicked his mount into a run, charging at Quing-chin. The Fleet Ponies leader remained motionless as his opponent closed the gap between them. Closer and closer came the Sky Rider, until at the last possible moment Quing-chin jerked the reins and barked out a command. His pony bunched its muscles and sprang to the right. In the same heartbeat Quing-chin lifted his lance over his pony’s head and rammed it to the left. The move was intended to spear the opposing rider through side and belly, but the Sky Rider had dragged back on his reins more swiftly than Quing-chin had anticipated, and the lance slammed into the neck of his opponent’s pony which stumbled and fell, dragging Quing-chin’s lance from his hand. The Sky Rider was thrown clear and spun in the air to land heavily on his back. Quing-chin leapt from his mount and ran forward, drawing his sword. The Sky Rider rolled to his feet, still groggy from the fall, but even so he drew his own blade and blocked the first cut. Quing-chin closed in, his left foot lashing out into the Sky Rider’s unprotected knee. The Sky Rider jumped back and half fell. Quing-chin followed in, sending his sword in a vicious cut that ripped open the other man’s jerkin and sliced up across his left cheek, tearing the flesh and sending a spray of blood into the air. The Sky Rider screamed in pain and attacked. Quing-chin blocked a belly thrust, spun on his heel and hammered his left elbow into the Sky Rider’s blood-covered face. The man was hurled from his feet, but he scrambled up as Quing-chin closed in; he was fast, and sent a lightning thrust at Quing-chin’s face. The taller man swayed aside, the blade slicing his ear lobe. His own sword flashed out in a neck cut that was too low, the blade cleaving into the Sky Rider’s left shoulder. The squat warrior stumbled forward, but swung just in time to block a second blow aimed at his neck. The two warriors circled one another more warily now, respect growing between them. Quing-chin had been surprised by the man’s speed, and the Sky Rider, blood pouring from the wounds to his shoulder and face, knew he was in desperate trouble.
Quing-chin darted forward to feint a cut to the throat. The Sky Rider’s sword swept across to block but his speed betrayed him. The block was too fast. Quing-chin’s blade plunged into the man’s upper chest, but at the moment of impact the Sky Rider hurled himself backwards so that Quing-chin’s sword penetrated no more than two inches before the blade was ripped clear. The Sky Rider fell, rolled and staggered to his feet.
‘You are very skilled,’ he said. ‘I shall be proud to add your head to my tree.’ His left arm was hanging useless now, blood streaming over his hand and dripping to the ground. In that instant Quing-chin experienced a moment of regret. Shanqui had been an arrogant, boastful young man, who had challenged this warrior and had died for it. And now, according to Nadir custom, Quing-chin would send this man’s soul to serve him for eternity. He sighed.
‘I too feel pride,’ he said. ‘You are a man among men. I salute you, Sky Rider.’
The Sky Rider nodded . . . then ran forward into the attack. Quing-chin swayed aside from the desperate thrust, slamming his own blade into the man’s belly and up through the heart. The Sky Rider fell against him, his head falling to Quing-chin’s shoulder as the dying man’s knees gave way. Quing-chin caught him as he fell and lowered him to the ground. With a shuddering sigh the Sky Rider died.
This was the moment. Kneeling beside the body, Quing-chin drew his knife. The two lines of riders waited, but Quing-chin rose. ‘I will not take this man’s eyes,’ he said. ‘Let his friends bear him away for burial.’