River Secrets by Shannon Hale Page A

poor sap Talone’ll call to face—”
    “Razo,” said Talone.
    Razo gaped—at Tumas leering in the ring, at the other soldiers staring at him, at his captain, who was sending him against an opponent who wanted him dead, or at least wounded as painfully as possible. He wondered if it would be worse to run away now or lose an eye to Tumas’s wooden sword.
    Finn grabbed Razo’s arm and whispered, “What’s the captain thinking? You can’t do it.”
    At that, Razo shook off Finn’s hand and strode into the ring, taking position on the large shadow of Tumas’s head that the sun dropped before him. The man was tall and impressively imposing in every way but his large, flabby ears, which reminded Razo of nothing so much as a pair of pork chops. Tumas grinned, and Razo felt his side throb where the soldier’s friend had carved a scar.
I can do this, I can.
    “Begin!” Ledel shouted.
    Tumas moved. Razo swung. He felt a jab in his gut.
    “Match, for Tira,” said Ledel.
    Razo fell to one knee, pushing against the pain in his ribs, and stayed down. No blood. He would be all right when the sharpness ebbed, but the Tiran soldiers were laughing, and Razo did not want to look up and see a flicker of shame in the faces of his comrades.
    You’ve still got both your eyeballs,
Razo thought with hopeful cheer. He grabbed for a breath and scooted out of the ring, feeling as though he dragged a very heavy shadow behind him.
    “Come, I was expecting some sport!” Tumas’s voice squealed through his congested nose. “This is a child. I demand another turn.”
    “You demand nothing, soldier,” said Ledel. “Stand properly.”
    Tumas straightened. “Yes, Captain.”
    Ledel turned to Talone. “What say you? Shall we see if any of your boys can beat our Tumas?”
    “Fair enough,” said Talone. “Finn.”
    Tumas noticed the smiles of the Bayern soldiers that indicated this opponent was different, and his expression stiffened. The two challengers faced each other, sword tips resting on the ground in ready position. Then, without warning, Tumas pounced.
    The first move Finn made was to step aside. And the second. And the third. Tumas’s lower lip began to twitch.
    Razo had watched Finn fight a thousand times, in practice and in wartime. What never ceased to catch his breath was Finn’s expression of acceptance, almost of surrender. He wasted nothing, letting every motion matter. And although Razo was just leaning against the barracks wall, watching Finn made him feel as though even he himself mattered. He watched with energy, muscles taut, face aching, as tired as if he were the one fighting.
    Tumas’s swipes began to have a vicious slice to them, seeking not just to touch Finn, but to bruise something, rip something. Then he hit Finn’s sword, and Finn was not able to bounce the strike away. They faced each other, weapons crossed. Finn opened his mouth to breathe. Tumas spat in his face. Ledel shouted Tumas’s name in disapproval but did not stop the match, and that quickly, the myth of a friendly bout evaporated. Shouts exploded from both sides.
    Razo had run to the edge of the fighting circle without realizing it. Right here, he realized, the war could start again.
    Tumas pushed off and attacked again, harassing Finn with strikes on his sword that would ache in Finn’s arm tomorrow. Then Razo saw the opening, just before it happened. Finn was drawing Tumas closer, getting him comfortable in his attacking, letting him fall into a routine of strike, strike, strike—then gently, almost like a step in a dance, Finn lowered his sword and moved his inside foot back. Tumas stumbled. Finn turned and tapped his sword on the Tiran’s back, lightly, as though he were getting a stranger’s attention.
    “Match,” said Talone. “Bayern.”
    Tumas’s chest heaved. A drop of sweat fell into his eye, but he did not blink. “I’m not fresh. If I had been fresh, the outcome would be different.”
    “Perhaps you’re right.”