They too presented their blades. There was no way out of the circle now. All of the gaps were closed. Anyone trying to get out would be impaled upon a blade.
Larien sprang forward as lithe as a tiger. Tyrion parried easily enough and stepped forward. Blade strokes blurred between the two of them for the moment. Tyrion kept his guard up and made a few ripostes. He was content simply to ride out the fury of the initial attack and take the measure of his opponent.
Larien was quick and he was strong and his technique was excellent. Tyrion did not need Korhien’s training to know this. Something in his mind was aware of it, in the same way as he was aware of the strength and weakness of a chess position. He doubted Larien had the same quickness of reflex as he himself possessed but he decided not to act on that assumption until he had more proof of it. Larien could, after all, easily be faking it, hoping to make him overconfident.
A few more passes of the blades told him this was not so. The elf’s personality was reflected in his blade work. His swordplay was intricate and deceptive but the deception was in the technique. Larien relied on that and his natural strength to overcome his opponents. He was much better with a sword than most elves ever would be. He smiled at Tyrion, teeth gritted.
‘I see what you mean about killing me slowly,’ said Tyrion as they stepped apart. ‘Are you trying to lull me to sleep?’
‘No,’ said Larien, springing forward. His blade was aimed high. An elf less quick than Tyrion might have had his head split. As it was Tyrion merely stepped backwards, parrying as he went, noticing that the rain of blows Larien had unleashed did indeed have a rhythm, and one most likely intended to lull the opponent into parrying the pattern of it.
He found himself falling into the pattern almost automatically, as an elf might sometimes find himself tapping his fingers in time to a drumbeat. He could see the danger of what Iltharis had predicted happening. It came as no surprise when suddenly the blade was not where it should have been according to the pattern of strokes. Tyrion had already predicted where it would be and parried it. He brought his left fist crashing into Larien’s face.
Cartilage broke under the impact. Larien went reeling back, blinded by pain and tears. Tyrion leaned forward to full extension, ramming his sword into Larien’s stomach. He felt the impact all the way up his arm. There was a scraping sensation as his sword hit bone. Larien screamed like an animal being pole-axed. Blood gouted forth, covering Tyrion’s sword and hands, spraying onto his naked chest. Some of it got in his mouth. He caught the coppery taste.
Part of his mind was aware that this should be horrific. It was certainly not beautiful or glorious. There was a stink of blood and entrails, of things that should normally be inside an elf’s body but now were not.
He did not mind it, just as he did not mind the screaming, or the sight of the light dying in another elf’s eyes. The main thing was that, at some point, the sword had left Larien’s hand and was now lying on the ground. His own life was no longer in danger. He had wiped out an insult to his family’s honour and he had forestalled an attack on his clan by their enemies.
He felt a twinge of sympathy for Larien’s pain. Korhien had been right in one way. It was hard to watch another elf die, but that too was a problem easily solved. He struck again, aiming for the heart, and silenced Larien’s screams forever. He looked around at the other elves present. They stared at him in wonder and something else; it might have been horror.
‘Unorthodox and inelegant,’ said Iltharis. ‘But effective.’
Korhien nodded. ‘The main thing is that you are alive.’
He stepped forward and hoisted Tyrion into the air, laughing. He seemed more relieved than Tyrion felt and suddenly it struck him why. Korhien had not been looking forward to explaining to Prince Arathion how he had led his son to his death. Tyrion looked down at the corpse of Larien. Already it looked different. The face looked stark and all animating spirit had left it. The eyes were glazed.
Larien’s two seconds were covering his corpse with a cloak. Tyrion contemplated the shrouded form