and filled his left hand with a dagger, then headed for the light. It didn’t
have to be magic; three times he had surprised interlopers in the tunnel. Their
husks were secreted here and there, adding to the musty odour.
But no stranger this time. He peered around the corner and saw Lastel himself,
waiting with sword out.
‘Don’t hold back there,’ his alter ego said. ‘Only one of us leaves this
tunnel.’
One-Thumb raised his rapier slowly. ‘Wait … if you kill me, you die forever.
If I kill you, the same. This is a sorcerer’s trap.’
‘No, Mizraith’s dead.’
‘His son is holding the spell.’
Lastel advanced, crabwise, dueller’s gait. ‘Then how am I here?’
One-Thumb struggled with his limited knowledge of the logic of sorcery. Instinct
moved him forward, point in line, left-hand weapon ready for side parry or high
block. He kept his eye on Lastel’s point, krrf-steady as his own. The krrf sang
doom, and lifted his spirit.
It was like fencing with a mirror. Every attack drew instant parry, remise,
parry, remise, parry, re-remise, break to counter. For several minutes, a swift
yet careful ballet, large twins mincing, the tunnel echoing clash: One-Thumb
knew he had to do something random, unpredictable; he lunged with a cut-over,
impressing to the right.
Lastel knew he had to do something random, unpredictable; he lunged with a
double-disengage, impressing to the right
They missed each other’s blades
Slammed home.
One-Thumb saw his red blade emerge from the rich brocade over Lastel’s back,
tried to shout and coughed blood over his killer’s shoulder. Lastel’s rapier had