Bloodsongs by Robin W Bailey

in the distance, but she answered him steadily. “If you’re my king, then I am a citizen of Keled-Zaram. I’ve made a legal request, which is my right under the law. You cannot deny it.”
    Riothamus shrugged and walked a few paces away. “I do not deny it,” he said. “You know the ways of Zha-Nakred Salah Veh ? The ritual is sacred, laid down by our ancestors, and must be observed with great solemnity. Few men ask to face this. It is the pinnacle of our civility.”
    She said nothing but nodded her understanding.
    He gestured to one of her guards. “Give her your blade, then all of you stand clear.”
    A sword was placed in her hand, and she drew a deep breath. Good steel had a smell, a clean oiled scent that she had not savored for a long time. Yet it was a familiar scent that set her blood racing. Her fingers curled around the hilt. She lifted the weapon, gripping it with both hands, careful to hide the frown that tried to part her lips. The sword was forged with a slight curve, after the fashion of Keled-Zaram. How would that affect her two-handed style? For that matter, did she still possess anything that might be called a style?
    â€œInsults have been exchanged?”
    Both foes agreed they had.
    â€œ Zha-Nakred Salah Veh ,” Riothamus intoned. He turned to Yorul. “Demonstrate your skill and the method and the stroke you will use to dispatch your challenger.”
    Samidar knew what was required of her. She lowered her sword and stood absolutely still. Yorul drew his weapon. It flashed suddenly in a shimmering circle above his head, catching the sunlight, reflecting it in starlike beams on the compound walls. Down it came, aimed at her skull, only to halt a mere handsbreadth from her scalp. She didn’t flinch from such an obvious blow; it would have been too easy to deflect, at least in her youth.
    Yorul backed a pace. His blade wove a dazzling pattern around his body, flying from hand to hand with elusive swiftness. With effortless beauty he displayed his skill, and she was suitably impressed. The keen killing edge licked out at her head, neck, ribs, each a potentially deadly strike.
    When a fine sheen of sweat appeared on Yorul’s brow, Samidar threw up her hands, feigned a soundless moan, and fell back in the dust. She lay there a moment, listening to the excited beat of her heart. Then, she rose.
    Yorul’s mouth twisted in a nasty smile, and he sheathed his sword.
    â€œ Zha-Nakred Salah Veh ,” Riothamus repeated solemnly. “Demonstrate your skill and the method and the stroke you will use to dispatch the challenged.”
    She drew another breath, raised her sword. Taking a step closer to her opponent, she rotated the blade loosely in her grip. She tossed it clumsily from her left hand to her right, back to her left. Unexpectedly, she tripped on the hem of her skirts and nearly fell.
    A chitter of laughter startled her. She had forgotten the other soldiers in the compound. They had gathered to watch. Nearly a hundred men, she estimated, all sent to trap and capture Kel. Now, though, they crept from the barracks, from the offices and other buildings, and it was she who felt trapped and captured.
    But here is their captain , she thought, approaching Yorul again. She crouched low. No fancy swordwork remained in her, she realized desperately. The years had been too many; time had stolen her skills, yes, and even her strength. Her stamina was that of a dancer, not a warrior. The sword was already heavy in her hands, and it didn’t help that she had been starved and left to thirst in the pit.
    She stared at the man who had murdered her son, her beautiful Kirigi, and a red hatred filled her. The weight of the sword seemed instantly to lessen, and she knew she had but one chance.
    Yorul waited stiffly, wearing an undisguised smirk on his face.
    She swung with all her might. The glittering edge bit through the flesh and muscle of his neck. A