ggk.asongforarbonne-第70部分

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r　even　as　she　watched。　They　spoke　to　each　other；　but　none　of　them　could　hear　the　words。　She　saw　the　Arimondan　react　as　if　scalded　by　something　said；　and　then　spring　to　attack。　She　saw　him　parried；　once　and　then　twice；　as　her　breath　caught　in　her　throat。　Death　was　here。　This　was　not　for　show。　The　reality　of　that　came　home　to　her；　and　just　then　she　saw　the　curved　sword　planted；　unexpectedly；　in　the　earth。
　　And　it　had　been　in　the　next　moment；　precisely　then；　she　would　afterwards　remember…the　Arimondan's　flung　dagger　slicing　through　Blaise's　ear　as　he　twisted　away；　then　the　swift；　bright　flowering　of　blood…that　Lisseut　of　Vezét　realized；　with　a　cold　dawning　of　despair；　that　her　heart　was　gone　from　her。　It　had　left　without　her　knowing；　like　a　bird　in　winter；　flying　north　to　a　hopelessly　wrong　destination　where　no　haven　or　warmth　or　wele　could　even　be　imagined。
　　〃Oh；　mother；〃　she　whispered　then；　softly；　to　a　woman　far　away　among　olive　groves　above　a　coastal　town。　No　one　paid　any　attention　to　her。　Two　men　were　trying　to　kill　each　other　in　front　of　them；　and　one　of　them　had　claimed　a　crown。　This　was　matter　for　song；　whatever　happened；　it　was　matter　for　tavern　and　castle　talk　for　years　to　e。　Lisseut；　her　hands　gripping　each　other　tightly　in　her　lap；　spoke　a　prayer　then　to　sweet　Rian；　and　watched；　even　as　she　felt　the　flight　of　her　heart　from　her　breast　across　the　bright　green　grass。
　　
　　Some　things　about　fighting　Blaise　had　had　to　teach　himself；　or　learn　from　his　brother　at　those　rare　intervals　when　he　was　at　home　and　Ranald　would　consent　to　give　him　a　secret　lesson：　Blaise　was　heading　for　the　brethren；　what　use　would　skill　with　a　blade　be　for　him？　Other　elements　he　had　learned　from　the　men　who　guided　him　in　swordsmanship；　quite　a　few　years　later　than　most　young　men　in　Gorhaut；　in　the　year　after　the　king　had　already　made　him　a　coran；　more　as　a　rebuke　to　his　High　Elder　than　through　any　recognition　of　Blaise's　merits。
　　But　the　greater　part　of　his　education　had　e　in　the　field；　in　war　and　in　the　tournament　melees；　the　nearest　thing　to　warfare　that　peacetime　offered。　He　was　lucky　he　had　survived　in　those　first　months　and　years。　He　knew　that　now。　He'd　been　far　too　callow　and　untutored　to　have　had　any　right　to　expect　to　walk　away　from　battlefields　at　Thouvars　or　Graziani　or　Brissel；　or　those　early　tourneys　at　Aulensburg　or　Landeston　in　Valensa。　By　the　time　of　Iersen　Bridge；　though；　he　had　known　the　craft　of　killing　and　surviving　extremely　well。　And　it　was　there　on　that　winter　field　that　he　had　e　nearest　of　all　to　dying：　which　was；　of　course；　the　darkest　of　many　ironies　at　the　heart　of　a　soldier's　life。
　　In　any　case；　what　Blaise　proceeded　now　to　do　was　as　obvious　to　him　as　the　direction　of　sunrise　or　the　proper　flight　of　birds　in　winter。　The　Arimondan　was　badly　hurt　on　his　left　side。　The　task　then　was　to　make　him　use　his　shield　again　and　again；　to　lift　it　high　against　forehand　blows　aimed　towards　shoulder　or　head。　It　didn't　matter　if　the　blows　landed；　against　a　good　man　they　wouldn't　be　expected　to。　But　with　each　one　warded　by　a　shield　thrust　upward　in　defence；　Quzman's　wound　would　be　forced　open　more　and　his　arm　and　side　would　grow　weaker。　It　was　straightforward；　routine；　any　petent　soldier　would　know　this　to　be　so。
　　Blaise　became　aware　after　a　time　that　this　was　exactly　what　was　happening。　It　began　to　be　visible　in　the　Arimondan　's　face；　though　his　expression　of　arrogant　concentration　never　really　changed。　There　was　more　blood　now；　welling　from　the　wound　in　his　side。　Meticulously；　with　the　precision　all　field　surgeons　claimed　and　most　lacked；　Blaise　set　about　exploiting　the　injury　he　had　inflicted。
　　His　focus　was　calmly　precise；　unhurried；　patient；　so　much　so　that　he　nearly　died。
　　He　ought　to　have　been　killed；　for　he　was　badly　fooled。　What　Quzman　did　was　feint　a　throw　with　another　knife。　For　the　second　time　he　stepped　backwards　and　stabbed　his　sword　into　the　flattened　grass；　reaching　towards　his　leg　with　his　freed　hand。　Blaise；　alert　for　the　throw；　was　already　dodging；　twisting　downwards　again；　when　Quzman；　on　one　knee；　hurled　his　heavy　shield　instead　like　an　athlete's　disc　with　his　left　hand；　cracking　Blaise　so　savagely　across　the　shins　it　sent　him　sprawling；　crying　out　with　the　pain。　The　Arimondan　seized　his　sword　again　and　was　up　with　frightening　speed；　lunging　forward　with　a　downward　slash　intended　to　decapitate。
　　Blaise　rolled　desperately　backwards　and　flopped　to　one　side；　gasping　at　the　pain　in　both　legs。　The　descending　sword　bit　earth　a　blade's　width　from　his　head；　but　Quzman　was　reaching　in　earnest　now　for　his　second　knife；　at　quarters　too　close　for　swords　as　he　fell　forward　upon　Blaise。
　　He　never　reached　that　blade。
　　Years　ago；　during　one　of　the　endless　campaigns　against　Valensa；　King　Duergar　of　Gorhaut；　who　had　continued　to　take　an　interest　in　Galbert　de　Garsenc's　curiously　rebellious　younger　son；　had　called　for　Blaise　to　ride　out　alone　with　him　one　morning　in　the　king's　circuit　of　his　army's　encampment。　On　that　springtime　ride；　as　a　purely　passing　remark；　he　had　offered　a　suggestion　as　to　where　a　useful　blade　might　be　secreted　upon　one's　person；　before　pointing　out　how　cherry　trees　in　blossom　were　a　good　place　for　archers　to　hide。
　　In　real　pain；　his　sword　useless；　Blaise　rolled　again　desperately　and　released　his　grip　on　his　shield。　And　as　he　did　so　he　claimed　his　own　hidden　dagger　from　the　iron　sheath　he'd　had　made　for　it；　at　his　king'　suggestion；　on　the　inside　face　of　the　shield。　Jamming　his　right　arm　against　the　ground　at　the　end　of　his　awkward　roll　he　rang　the　shield　hard　off　Quzman's　shoulder　and　then；　pulling　his　left　hand　free　with　the　blade；　he　stabbed　the　Arimondan　twice；　once　deep　in　the　muscles　of　the　sword　arm；　and　then　a　raking　gash　across　the　ribs　already　wounded。
　　Then　he　twisted　out　from　under　his　writhing　foe　and　struggled　to　his　feet。　He　quickly　regained　his　sword。　Quzman；　twisting　in　pain；　his　sword　arm　now　useless；　his　left　side　streaming　with　fresh　blood；　lay　on　the　smeared　grass　beneath　him。　There　was　a　sound　of　people　shouting　in　the　distance；　oddly　remote。　Blaise　was　aware　that　he　was　swaying　unsteadily　on　his　feet。　His　ear　felt　as　if　it　were　shredded；　on　fire。　His　legs；　from　the　first　sword　wound　and　then　the　last　shield　blow；　could　barely　support　him。　But　he　was　upright；　and　he　had　his　sword　again；　and　the　other　man　was　down。
　　He　set　the　point；　as　steadily　as　he　could；　at　Quzman's　throat。　The　Arimondan's　black　eyes　gazed　up　at　him　implacably；　without　fear；　even　as　death　arrived　for　him。
　　〃Do　it；〃　he　said；　〃that　my　spirit　may　rejoin　my　brother's。〃
　　Blaise　said；　breathing　in　hard；　short　gasps；　〃I　am　free　of　your　blood　before　the　god？　It　was　fairly　done？　I　have　your　dispensation？〃
　　Quzman　managed　a　bitter　smile。　〃It　matters　to　you？〃　He　dragged　a　breath。　〃You　have　it。　It　was　fairly　done。〃　Another　harsh　breath。　〃It　was　more　than　fair；　after　the　woman's　rooms。　You　are　free　of　my　death。　Do　it。〃
　　The　shouts　and　screaming　had　stopped；　It　was　eerily　silent　now　all　around　the　ground　where　they　stood。　One　man　called　out　something　from　the　mons'　side。　In　the　stillness　his　voice　rose　and　fell　away；　leaving　silence　again。　There　was；　Blaise　realized；　one　more　thing　he　could　do　this　morning。　And　it　seemed；　remarkably；　that　he　wanted　to　do　it　in　any　case。
　　He　said；　the　words　ing　slowly　as　he　struggled　to　control　his　breathing；　〃Your　wounds　are　not　mortal。　I　will　need　good　men　with　me　to　do　what　I　must　do。　I　killed　your　brother　when　attacked　by　six　corans　and　only　after　they　first　shot　at　me。　Will　you　let　this　bat　settle　the　past　for　us？　I　am　loath　to　kill　a　brave　man。　I　do　not　want　your　death　on　my　hands；　even　with　dispensation。〃
　　Quzman　shook　his　head；　his　expression　curiously　tranquil　now。　〃I　might　have　agreed；〃　he　said；　his　breathing　quick　and　shallow；　〃were　it　not　for　one　thing。　My　brother　carried　no　bow；　he　never　did；　and　he　died　of　an　arrow　in　the　throat。　You　ought　to　have　fought　him；　Northerner。　For　killing　him　at　a　distance　you　must　die；　or　I　must。〃
　　Blaise　shook　his　head。　There　was　a　great　weariness　in　him　now。　〃Need　it　be　written　before　the　god　that　we　be　enemies？〃　He　fought　off　a　renewed　wave　of　pain。　He　could　feel　blood　dripping　from　his　ear。　〃It　was　not　a　tourney　that　day　by　the　lake。　I　was　fighting　six　men　for　my　life。　I　am　not　going　to　kill　you；　Arimondan。　If　I　ask；　they　will　let　you　go　from　here。　Do　what　you　will　with　your　life；　but　know　that　I　will　be　pleased　to　have　you　in　my　pany。〃
　　〃Do　not　do　this；〃　said　Quzman　of　Arimonda。
　　Blaise　ignored　him。　He　turned　and　began　to　walk…cautiously；　because　he　could　not　move　any　other　way　just　yet…towards　the　pavilion　where　the　countess　sat　with　Ariane　and　Bertran　and　die　king　of　Valensa。　It　seemed　a　long　way　off。　And　it　was　very　nearly　the　hardest　thing　he　had　ever　done；　not　to　try　to　move　faster；　not　to　look　back　and　see。
　　He　took　five　or　six　steps　only。　He　had　thought　it　might　be　thus。　The　man　was　an　Arimondan。　after　all。　There　had　been　a　slim　chance；　no　more。
　　〃I　told　you　to　kill　me！〃　Quzman　di　Perano　cried。　Blaise　heard　footsteps　crossing　the　grass。　He　flung　a　prayer　outwards；　to　whoever　might　hear　him　from　this　field　in　Arbonne；　the　god；　or　the　goddess　who　was　more　than　his　maiden　daughter　here。　And　with　his　silent　invocation；　he　heard　the　impact　of　arrows。
　　Behind　him　the　Arimondan　grunted　queerly　and　spoke　a　name；　and　there　came　the　sound　of　a　body　falling　on　the　grass。
　　For　a　long　moment　Blaise　stood　motionless；　dealing　with　an　unexpected　regret。　When　he　did　turn　it　was　towards　his　tent；　to　see　Valery　of　Talair　and　Rudel　Correze　approaching；　the　two　best　archers　he　knew；　both　grim…faced；　both　with　bows　to　hand　and　the　arrows　gone。　He　went　slowly　back　to　stand　above　the　body　of　the　Arimondan。　Quzman　lay　face　down　in　the　grass；　still　gripping　his　splendid　sword；　but　Blaise；　gazing　upon　him；　saw　something　he　could　not　understand。　There　were　four　arrows；　not　two；　in　the　dead　man's　body。　He　looked　limp；　almost　ical；　stuck　full　of　arrows　like　a　sorcerer's　pin…doll。　An　ugly　ending　for　a　proud　man。　Blaise　looked　up；　his　brow　furrowing；　and　saw　a　third　man　with　a　bow　step　forward　as　if　he　had　been　waiting　to　be　noticed。　The　man　began　hesitantly　to　e　across　the　grass　towards　t