with
my trophy, banging bloodily into my knee. Looking back, I now recognize another gesture from destiny's
hand, guiding me into a situation I ought not to have survived. I was young—that accounts for most
foolishness among men of all races; I suppose it accounts for mine that morning.
Throwing the troll's head at Bult's feet, I shouted, "I saved your worthless lives last night," and, in
the inexplicable reasoning of youth, I expected him to thank me. More than that, I expected him to
recognize that I was the better man and admit as much before the whole band.
Foolishness. Unmitigated foolishness... and destiny.
Bult had a sword, the only sword in our band. It had a composite blade: bits of broken obsidian
wedged into a stave of waterlogged wood that had then been baked hard in a kiln and strengthened with
a copper spine. It was useless against a troll, but Bult figured to make short work of me when he drew it
out of a bulky scabbard.
"Knew you was trouble from the start," he said, kicking my trophy aside as he advanced on me.
"Should've killed you then and there—you with your fancy farm-boy words and your ideas."
I retreated a pace and tested my grip, finger by finger, against the rawhide braid wrapped around
my club. With a dead troll fresh in my memory, I was cautious, but not overawed by my adversary or his
weapon. My club needed a bit more room than Bult's sword; I shook out my shoulder and retreated,
cocking my arm for my first swing. Bult smiled and nodded.
I thought our brawl was about to begin, but I hadn't been paying attention to my back. Hands I
hadn't suspected seized my wrist and elbow. They wrenched my weapon from my hand, clouted me on
the flank, and thrust me forward to my doom.
I landed hard on my hands and knees, well in range of Bult's leather-shod foot. He kicked me
solidly under the chin, and I went head over heels in the dust, to the great amusement of my fellows, who
had more enthusiasm for the murder of one of their own than they'd shown for a true enemy's death.
"You think you're smarter than me, Manu," Bult told me as he raised his foot to kick me again. I
scrabbled backward into an unfriendly wall of legs and feet that ended my retreat. "That's been your
mistake all along. You think 'cause your mamma and papa taught you to talk pretty, you're cut from a
better piece of cloth. Well, your mamma and papa aren't nothing but troll-meat, Manu, just like you're
gonna be when they find you."
Bult meant to hamstring me and leave me for the trolls— that was clear from the gleam in his eyes
and the angle his wrist made with the sword's blade when he raised his arm. He could have had his will
with me; I was weak with fear and sick with defeat. Sour blood filled my mouth. There was no strength
left in me to move my legs out of harm's way, if he'd taken his cut right then. But Bult lugged his stroke
and gut-kicked me instead.
Today I am the Lion of Urik, invulnerable and invincible. In the form Rajaat has given me, the
finest steel cannot harm me. With an exercise of whim, I can hide my shape beneath an illusion of any
creature I imagine. But when I was a mortal man, there was nothing about me that warranted Bult's
respect. I took after my mother's folk: light-boned and slender. From my earliest days I'd learned the
tricks of balance and leverage because I never had my father's and brothers' strength. I could carry
Jikkana because I knew where to lift; I could fell a troll because I knew where to balance, where to
pivot, how to coil my entire body and release its power in a serpent's strike.
Knowledge was my weapon, I told myself as I lay there in the dust, blood and bile streaming
from my face. I was smarter than Bult; I was better, but first I had to breathe and protect myself from the
kicks that came from all directions. Ignoring pain and blurred vision, relying on
instinct—knowledge—alone, I caught a foot as it struck my ribs. I twisted it one way as I
my trophy, banging bloodily into my knee. Looking back, I now recognize another gesture from destiny's
hand, guiding me into a situation I ought not to have survived. I was young—that accounts for most
foolishness among men of all races; I suppose it accounts for mine that morning.
Throwing the troll's head at Bult's feet, I shouted, "I saved your worthless lives last night," and, in
the inexplicable reasoning of youth, I expected him to thank me. More than that, I expected him to
recognize that I was the better man and admit as much before the whole band.
Foolishness. Unmitigated foolishness... and destiny.
Bult had a sword, the only sword in our band. It had a composite blade: bits of broken obsidian
wedged into a stave of waterlogged wood that had then been baked hard in a kiln and strengthened with
a copper spine. It was useless against a troll, but Bult figured to make short work of me when he drew it
out of a bulky scabbard.
"Knew you was trouble from the start," he said, kicking my trophy aside as he advanced on me.
"Should've killed you then and there—you with your fancy farm-boy words and your ideas."
I retreated a pace and tested my grip, finger by finger, against the rawhide braid wrapped around
my club. With a dead troll fresh in my memory, I was cautious, but not overawed by my adversary or his
weapon. My club needed a bit more room than Bult's sword; I shook out my shoulder and retreated,
cocking my arm for my first swing. Bult smiled and nodded.
I thought our brawl was about to begin, but I hadn't been paying attention to my back. Hands I
hadn't suspected seized my wrist and elbow. They wrenched my weapon from my hand, clouted me on
the flank, and thrust me forward to my doom.
I landed hard on my hands and knees, well in range of Bult's leather-shod foot. He kicked me
solidly under the chin, and I went head over heels in the dust, to the great amusement of my fellows, who
had more enthusiasm for the murder of one of their own than they'd shown for a true enemy's death.
"You think you're smarter than me, Manu," Bult told me as he raised his foot to kick me again. I
scrabbled backward into an unfriendly wall of legs and feet that ended my retreat. "That's been your
mistake all along. You think 'cause your mamma and papa taught you to talk pretty, you're cut from a
better piece of cloth. Well, your mamma and papa aren't nothing but troll-meat, Manu, just like you're
gonna be when they find you."
Bult meant to hamstring me and leave me for the trolls— that was clear from the gleam in his eyes
and the angle his wrist made with the sword's blade when he raised his arm. He could have had his will
with me; I was weak with fear and sick with defeat. Sour blood filled my mouth. There was no strength
left in me to move my legs out of harm's way, if he'd taken his cut right then. But Bult lugged his stroke
and gut-kicked me instead.
Today I am the Lion of Urik, invulnerable and invincible. In the form Rajaat has given me, the
finest steel cannot harm me. With an exercise of whim, I can hide my shape beneath an illusion of any
creature I imagine. But when I was a mortal man, there was nothing about me that warranted Bult's
respect. I took after my mother's folk: light-boned and slender. From my earliest days I'd learned the
tricks of balance and leverage because I never had my father's and brothers' strength. I could carry
Jikkana because I knew where to lift; I could fell a troll because I knew where to balance, where to
pivot, how to coil my entire body and release its power in a serpent's strike.
Knowledge was my weapon, I told myself as I lay there in the dust, blood and bile streaming
from my face. I was smarter than Bult; I was better, but first I had to breathe and protect myself from the
kicks that came from all directions. Ignoring pain and blurred vision, relying on
instinct—knowledge—alone, I caught a foot as it struck my ribs. I twisted it one way as I
Similar Books
