bit from the saddle?” His enthusiasm showed in his face and added bright color
to his voice.
“No.”
The one called Stealth waited a moment; the one called Shadowspawn did not
embellish on that word which, when spoken flat and unadorned, was one of the
four or five harshest and most unwelcome words in any language.
The man called Stealth masked his disappointment. “All right. How about…
your stones, then?”
His last words emerged in a shout as the paler man moved, at speed. His sword
was a silver-gray blur, up-whipping. It rushed on up, too, for the wiry fellow
in the dust-colored tunic pounced up and aside, not quite blurring. He simply
was not present to receive the upward cut at the source of progeny he might
produce, like more bad virus upon the world. The other man arrested his movement
to prepare alertly for a counter-stroke.
No counter-stroke was attempted. It did not come. Shadowspawn had quit the game.
They looked at each other, the expert teacher called Stealth and the superb
student he called Shadowspawn.
The latter spoke. “Enough, Niko. I’m weary of the sham.”
“Sham? Sham, you weed-sprout? Had you not moved you’d be a candidate for the
temple choir of soprano boys, Hanse!”
Hanse called Shadowspawn smiled little and when he did he smiled small, and
often the smile was a sneer that fitted and mirrored his inner needs. It was a
sneer now. Still, it was not of disdain or contempt for this member of the so
called Sacred Band, the Stepsons, who had taught him so much. He had been a
natural fighter and unusually swift. Now he was a trained one, with knowledge