Azarion was an adept rider, better than most Kraelian horsemen Gilene had seen, but he didn’t possess his cousin’s equine prowess. What he lacked there, he made up for in fast reaction, able to counter Karsas’s attacks with lightning accuracy.
The two sparred with each other over several charges, neither managing to strike the other despite numerous attempts, equally matched in their abilities to dodge attacks. The crowd called out encouragement to its particular favorite, some throwing in suggestions for what to do next, others to spur them on to greater risks.
Another charge brought the two men close together in a pass. At the last second, Karsas switched sword hands, bringing the blade down in a short arc that sliced a line across Azarion’s chest and split the quilting of his tunic.
To avoid a deeper cut, Azarion lunged back, overcompensating in the movement, and tumbled off his mount. He sprang instantly to his feet but not before the mare galloped out of range for him to catch her.
Gilene clapped her hands over her mouth to stifle her gasp. Beside her, Tamura cursed, and near them Karsas pivoted his horse in a triumphant prance while he trilled a victory cry.
“He fell on purpose.”
Startled by the comment, Gilene gaped at Tamura. “What do you mean?”
Tamura didn’t answer, her gaze locked on the scene. Karsas trotted the perimeter, raising the crowd’s avidity for the combat. Azarion jogged in tandem with his movements, always keeping his opponent opposite him until he stood with his back to Gilene, and Karsas faced them across the trampled expanse of grass.
Gloating at his obvious advantage, Karsas showed off his prowess with both blade and horse by leaping to a standing position atop his mount’s back and spinning his sword in a fast circular motion that created its own shield wall as a defense against attack. It was a showy maneuver, effective in its intimidation against an enemy unfamiliar with Savatar fighting tactics.
Azarion didn’t react, only held his ground and calmly observed Karsas’s actions. To anyone watching, he was at a clear disadvantage—an armed man on foot facing an armed one on horseback—but Tamura’s comment made Gilene wonder whether that was truly the case.
She didn’t have the time to puzzle out the why of his action. Karsas dropped down neatly onto the riding pad and, with another victorious ululation, kicked his horse into a hard gallop straight for Azarion.
Azarion trotted closer to the center as if to meet the charge, then stopped, knees slightly bent, his sword held in a relaxed grip as Karsas raced toward him. The Savatar screamed and shouted.
Get out of the way. Get out of the way! Gilene shrieked the command inside her head. Beside her, Tamura was silent, taut as a bowstring.
Clods of dirt flew up from under the mare’s pounding hooves, and Karsas lowered his body to her neck, streamlining both horse and rider until they resembled an arrow shooting straight for Azarion.
She did scream, as did Tamura, when Karsas’s mare drew nearly abreast to Azarion. Karsas angled his body to the right and swung the sword in an upward arc, the move guaranteed to split his opponent open from groin to throat.
Had he remained in place.
The crowd gave a singular gasp when Azarion let go of his sword and dropped into a tuck and roll that carried him under the galloping mare’s belly. The Savatar roared when the mare stumbled and a short spray of blood spattered the ground as Azarion sprang up on the other side, hands cupped under Karsas’s left foot. He heaved upward, sending the startled rider flying off the horse’s back.
Karsas hit the ground hard. His horse galloped several paces away before a Savatar caught her reins and brought her to a halt. Disoriented, the ataman staggered to his feet, still clutching his sword.
Azarion bolted toward him, a bright flag of blood cascading down his back on the left side. Gilene spared a quick glance at Tamura. “Why is he bleeding?”
Tamura shrugged, her eyes narrowed. “I don’t know. I think the mare’s hoof caught him when he rolled under her.”
Azarion crashed into Karsas, arm slamming downward to smash the sword out of his hand. Karsas fell to his back, and Azarion followed, keeping enough of his balance to stay on his knees and pin his enemy down. He grabbed the other man by the ears, using them as grips to slam his head against the ground.
“Ten years,” Azarion snarled. The open-palm strike he landed against the side of Karsas’s head made the other man grunt and spit blood. Gilene’s heartbeat thundered in her skull at the sight, at the sound of animalistic rage in Azarion’s voice. “A slave to the Empire.” Another blow, this time to the other side of Karsas’s head. More blood to mingle with the crimson flow that spilled from the open wound on Azarion’s shoulder to water the grass.
With a guttural roar, Karsas lunged upward, freeing one arm long enough to punch Azarion in the side and clip the underside of his chin with his head. Azarion fell away, only to spring to his feet. Karsas did the same, and the two men rushed at each other.
Lean and quick, with the powerful leg muscles earned from a lifetime of skilled horsemanship, Karsas used those strengths, landing a pair of kicks on Azarion in quick succession: one against his arm, another to his hip, followed by a knee to his groin. The last made the crowd groan as one.
Azarion never fell, never flinched, and Gilene noticed something in the violence of their match. He took the hits on purpose. Karsas had aimed for Azarion’s knees and his ribs, vulnerable spots that, once broken, would have abruptly ended the fight. Azarion absorbed the kicks but twisted his body in such a way that Karsas’s lethal strikes landed against his arm and hip. The groin hit might have taken another man down, but not a Pit gladiator. She’d seen some of the fights from a cell during the Rites. Strikes to the ribs, the liver, or the kidneys disabled opponents. Groin hits didn’t.
While Karsas was fast, Azarion was equally so and also trained. It took the other man only a moment to realize Azarion had allowed the kicks to go through. He leapt back, but not quickly enough.
Azarion delivered a round of blows to Karsas’s face and torso. Measured, swift, meant to bloody and bruise but not immediately disable, those blows spun Karsas one way and then the other, driving him back to where his sword lay in the grass. It became obvious to the crowd that Azarion was playing with his adversary the way a cat played with a rat.
Blood saturated Azarion’s tunic from his shoulder to his hip, seeping from the wound made by the mare’s hoof. He looked pale but undaunted by the injury as he swatted his cousin across the makeshift arena, eyes flat, expression murderous.
Karsas staggered, wiped a hand across his face that left a bloody smear, and lunged for his sword. He swayed on his feet, waving the blade in front of him with threatening swipes. “I am ataman,” he declared before spitting out a gobbet of blood. “You are nothing but a Kraelian thrall.”
Azarion halted and watched him for a moment before backing away to where his own sword had landed. He kept his gaze on Karsas and casually bent to grab the blade. A fleeting humorless smile played across his mouth when Karsas charged him.
Just as casually, he countered the attack, his years as a Pit fighter evident in the ease with which he handled the sword and fought his cousin.
Gilene steepled her fingers and pressed them to her mouth, hardly daring to breathe as Azarion and Karsas battled.
“I was enslaved, thanks to you,” Azarion said. He caught Karsas across the chest, leaving a shallow cut that split the other man’s leather tunic but didn’t draw blood. “Beaten, raped, degraded.”