In truth, Bram seemed made for this. He had a fluidity of motion that enthralled her. Each strike from Worton he blocked with the speed of a serpent, and his own attacks were brutally, savagely beguiling. She had seen him practice his combat, but with a true opponent, he transformed into another man. A man well-versed in the art of killing.
Had he been this adept, or did soldiering shape him into an expert fighter? Whatever the origin, it came to full fruition here. Men would gladly lose years off their lives if they could wield a blade with half of Brams ability.
Murmurs distracted her enough to pull her gaze away from Bram for a moment. The other swordsmen had stopped their practice in order to watch Bram and Worton fight, as though drawn by the force of Brams skill.
A guinea says Rothwell takes it, someone said.
Only a damned fool would bet against him, came the answer.
Worton must have heard this pronouncement, for his attacks increased, growing stronger, more aggressive. Yet Bram continually beat him back. He fought with targeted hostility, as though far more than a gentlemans reputation with the sword was at stake. She wondered if, when Bram looked upon Worton, he saw someone else, some thing else. The Hellraisers? The Dark One? Perhaps even himself?
The light of fury rose in Brams eyes. Sweat glossed his forehead. As soon as Worton began his retreat, Bram pressed forward, giving no quarter. Worton backed away, until he couldnt go any further, the wall behind him. He tried to block a striketoo late. The point of Brams sword struck him right in the heart. A fatal blow without the padded jacket and dulled tip.
Worton lowered his blade. I yield, he panted.
Yet Bram advanced, his expression hard and merciless. His sword point hovered close to Wortons right eye. The bigger man sucked in a breath as he pressed against the wall. He dropped his sword, and the sound reverberated metallically through the chamber.
Would Bram actually drive his blade into Wortons skull? He truly might. Even with the tip of the sword blunted, it could pierce an eyeand, wielded with strength, go even further.
I say, Rothwell, someone called. The mans yielded.
My lord, added Tranmere nervously, hovering near, youve won.
Bram showed no signs of hearing them. A demand to kill seemed to have him, unrelenting. He
kept his sword close to Wortons eye. The bigger man screwed his eyes shut, as though something as flimsy as an eyelid could stop a blade.
This must not happen.
She drifted close, keeping herself unseen, and spoke directly into Brams thoughts.
Fine warrior you are, to slay an unarmed man.
Hes the enemy, Bram answered.
Of what? Hygiene? Im sure the sweat of his fear stinks like rancid meat.
I have to kill him.
Go ahead. Yet it takes a special variety of coward to kill a man with no weapon.
Im not a damned coward!
Then put your sword down.
Bram blinked, as though awakening from a daze. He stared at the cringing Worton, then down at the blade in his hand. Slowly, he looked around at the faces of the gathered men, their eyes wide and expressions cautious.
My lord? Tranmere took a wary step forward.
The tip of Brams sword lowered, then he dropped his hand, so the point scraped against the floor. Worton and everyone else within the chamber exhaled. Even Livia, who had no need of breath, eased out a sigh.
Bram glared around the room, almost in challenge. No one accepted. Without a word, he strode from the room.
He stormed down the winding, narrow stairwell. Men ascending the stairs pressed into the wall, careful to avoid his gaze and angry scowl. Bound as she was to him, Livia hovered at his side, his rage and confusion twisting beneath the surface of her own phantasmal skin.
This has happened before, she said.
Not to me. His voice in her mind was a snarl. Not since I left soldiering.
When I freed the Dark One , she amended. A madness gripped everyone, a need for blood. I saw a respected citizen, a merchant, stab the proprietor of a bathhouse for having the water too hot. There were riots in the marketplace. The army mutinied.
So Im a symptom of a greater illness, he answered.
Not an illness. A plague.
She and Bram reached the street. Clouds obscured the sun, throwing the remaining daylight into early shadow. A servant hurried to open the door to the waiting carriage, but Bram was faster, and he threw the door open himself. He flung himself into the vehicle. It rocked with the force of his body against the upholstered seat.
Home, he snapped to the servant.
The servant closed the door and hopped onto the back of the carriage.
She hovered at the sidewalk, invisible, watching the carriage drive away. A woman crouched by the side of the street, a child in the crook of her arm. The woman stretched her hand out to all the fine gentlemen walking past. No one threw her any coin. The childgirl or boy, Livia could not tellstared directly at Livia.
Strange lady, it chirped. Yet its mother paid no attention, busy wheedling and beseeching the passersby.