Sianim 02 - Wolfsbane

know? Nausea curled in her belly. It would have given him great pleasure to have them both, she thought, one boy who fought him and one who had already been taught to please an abusive master and now had one he was forced to love.
    Nevyn would have been fully under the influence of the ae’Magi’s magic. Knowing that the ae’Magi was wonderful and seeing the horrors he committed. What had that done to Nevyn?
    “Aralorn!” bellowed Falhart from the stable door as she rode up. “You missed our date.”
    “Date?” she raised her eyebrows.
    “Rematch, double or nothing—don’t you remember?”
    “Ah,” she said. “I wasn’t certain you’d let me have another match since you won the first. Luck can’t be with you all the time.”
    “Luck, she says!” He appealed to the interested spectators who’d begun gathering in the courtyard at his first bellow. Then he turned back to Aralorn. “Skill it was, and right well you know it, small one.”
    “Big people have farther to fall,” she retorted. “Let me get my staves, and I’ll meet you there.” She’d tire her body, then see if she could piece together some way to save her father, Nevyn, and Wolf. Because, with Nevyn as the enemy, Wolf was still at risk.

TWELVE

    Falhart was waiting for Aralorn when she got to the practice grounds. He’d stripped down to his trousers, which was gutsy of him, if not too smart. A leather shirt was fair protection against bruises—and the cold for that matter.
    Shirtless, he appeared even larger than he did clothed, and if that flesh was tinged blue from the weather, it didn’t detract from the whole. From the looks of him, he trained as hard as any new recruit, for there wasn’t a spare bit of flesh anywhere.
    If she’d been the kind of person who was easily intimidated, she’d have been getting nervous. As it was, she looked around but didn’t see his wife or any other reason for the display—though there was a fair-sized crowd beginning to gather.
    Aralorn generally preferred to keep as much clothing on as possible when fighting someone who didn’t know her; the less anyone saw of her muscles, the more they underrated her abilities—not that she expected Falhart to underestimate her. Perhaps he fought stripped down to intimidate his opponent. If she were as large as he, she might try that tack, but she wouldn’t expect it to be too effective against a small woman who was used to fighting musclebound men.
    “Let you win once, and you get visions of invulnerability,” she mourned, gesturing toward his discarded clothing. “Just think of the bruises you’ll carry tomorrow.”
    “You talk pretty big for a little thing who got beaten soundly yesterday,” he returned, working his big staff in a pattern that made it blur and sing.
    His weapon was impressive: He was using his war staff rather than the practice one he’d had yesterday. It was half a foot taller than he was and as big around as he could comfortably hold—Aralorn doubted she could close her hand around it. It was stained almost black and shod with polished steel that caught the light as he made it dance. She shook her head at him—there were easier ways to warm up.
    Watching the gathering crowd, Aralorn grinned at the looks of awe her brother was receiving from the young men. Obviously, he didn’t put on a display like this every day.
    In comparison, she knew that she made a pitiful showing. She’d picked the same single staff she’d fought with yesterday: Her staff looked like a child’s toy in comparison to Falhart’s. She set it aside as she warmed up, stretching her muscles but not using them appreciably.
    She could hear active betting in the crowd, which meant that someone expected her to win, which surprised her given Hart’s show of force.
    “Got those five coppers handy?” she asked, as a way of announcing she was ready to fight. “I don’t accept credit.”
    “I’ve got them,” said Correy, pushing his way to the fore of the crowd and stepping over the low barrier that defined the ring. “Can’t even buy a night’s stay in a decent inn for that, Aralorn. Are you sure you don’t want to up the bet?”
    She shook her head. “I never bet more than ten—and then only if it is a bet I’m certain to win. Any more than that, and I might miss it. I’m just a poor mercenary, not heir to a landed noble like some people I know. And, Correy, anyone who spends five coppers for a night at the inn better be paying for more