Sweat ran down Herald Vanyel’s back, and his ankle hurt a little – he hadn’t twisted it, quite, when he’d slipped on the wooden floor of the salle back at the beginning of this bout, but it was still bothering him five exchanges later.
A point of weakness, and one he’d better be aware of, because his opponent was watching for such signs of weakness, sure as the sun rose.
He watched his adversary’s eyes within the shadows of his helm. Watch the eyes, he remembered Jervis saying, over and over. The eyes will tell you what the hands won’t. So he studied those half-hidden eyes, and tried to hide his entire body behind the quillons of his blade.
The eyes warned him, narrowing and glancing to the left just before Tantras moved. Vanyel was ready for him.
Experience told him, just before their blades touched, that this would be the last exchange. He lunged toward Tantras instead of retreating as Tran was obviously expecting, engaged and bound the other’s blade, and disarmed him, all in the space of a breath.
The practice blade clattered onto the floor as Tantras shook his now-empty hand, swearing.
Stung, did it? Vanyel said. He straightened, and pulled at the tie holding his hair out of his eyes, letting it fall loose in damp strands. Sorry. Didn’t mean to get quite so vigorous. But you are out of shape, Tran.
