Paedrin took in a sharp breath of air and used the Sword’s magic to vault into the sky, above the danger. He stared down at Kiranrao, feeling the temptation to flee. But no, he had to face Kiranrao now. There would not be a better time to fight him, with his eyes burning in pain and his wits scattered.
Paedrin exhaled sharply and came down hard, landing on Kiranrao’s shoulders, knocking him to the ground. He swung the sword against Kiranrao’s neck, but Paedrin’s legs were kicked loose from beneath him and he struggled to keep himself up.
Paedrin scurried backward as Kiranrao charged him again, his face a mutation of savagery. The Bhikhu twisted sideways as the dagger was thrust at him once, twice, almost grazing the fabric of Paedrin’s tunic. He could not think about the risk he was taking. One cut from the blade . . .
Paedrin jumped and did a reverse circle kick, smashing his heel into Kiranrao’s cheek. That also staggered him, but just for a moment and he was back again, coming down with the blade against Paedrin’s shoulder. Reflexes saved the Bhikhu. He caught his enemy on the forearm with a block and their arms became tangled as both sought to wrestle the other into submission.
Kiranrao’s knee came up into Paedrin’s groin, a merciless blow that sucked his breath away and sent his body into convulsions of agony. He sank to one knee and whipped the Sword around, slashing through Kiranrao’s front and spraying blood. Paedrin saw the cut wasn’t deep and regretted it immediately.
If the Romani was debilitated by the pain, it was only slightly. Paedrin went at him again, trying to use the reach of the Sword to greater advantage. Kiranrao twisted sideways to defend himself, keeping out of the blade’s path through uncanny reflexes. They collided again and Paedrin grabbed Kiranrao’s wrist, trying to twist him around and put a hold on him that would disable him, but Kiranrao knew the ways of escaping such methods, and the grip faltered.
“Have I lasted . . . longer than you expected?” Paedrin huffed, trading blocks and kicks.
The dagger passed just a hairbreadth from his chest, and Paedrin swallowed as he jumped back, realizing that he was being foolish still. He was nearing the edge of the cliff and began retreating toward it.
Kiranrao’s face was mottled with pain and anger. He deftly pursued Paedrin, feinting with the dagger, listening keenly for a sound that would trigger him to lunge at the Bhikhu.
“I thought you had fled the woods,” Paedrin said, reaching the edge. He could feel a gust of wind on his back. “You seemed in a hurry to leave the Scourgelands.”
“I’m not afraid of Shirikant,” Kiranrao huffed. “Even he will fall to the blade. Even he fears it. I came here to spit on his ruins. I am the master of the Scourgelands now.”
“You are nothing but a thief and a coward,” Paedrin said. “You are a murderer, a common criminal. You will die here and no grave will be dug for you. Your only hope of being remembered is if a Cockatrice turns you to stone.”
Kiranrao gave a throaty laugh. “It is more than you will get, Bhikhu. What glory awaits your kind? What comes from the briar but the berry? Reputations last longer than lives, Bhikhu. Even Tyrus craves this. It is his weakness. It is the weakness of all men.”
“When people remember you . . .” Paedrin said, feeling his heart begin to churn with emotion, feeling words come into his mouth, words that rolled out in a forceful gush. “. . . they will sneer. They will chuckle behind their hands. Is this the man who made kingdoms shake? Is this the man who made the earth tremble under the weight of all those burdened wagons? All the kings lie in glory, Kiranrao. The Kings of Wayland, and Stonehollow, the rulers of Alkire and Silvandom. Every one of them. But not you. Your name will be said as a curse.”
As he said the words, Paedrin knew—somehow—that they would be true. He felt a queer sensation, as if he had uttered a prophecy.
Kiranrao rushed, slashing with the blade of Iddawc, his mouth churning with rage and spittle. Paedrin stepped off the edge of the cliff and let himself fall before kicking off the mountain and veering upward to meet the Romani in the air. A blur of motion caught his gaze.
He watched Kiranrao plummeting toward the forest floor before vanishing into a gasp of smoke.
XXXII
It was Annon who spotted the riderless horse first, and he hissed for the others in warning. The mount was lathered and plodded through the grove, its reins dragging on the turf. The nostrils flared and it shook its mane. The group hid behind oak trees, each one claiming his or her own, except for Shion and Phae. The steed huffed past them, oblivious to their presence, skulking deeper into the woods. Annon looked at Tyrus, saw the baffled expression, and knew he could not make anything of it either.