But Shar-hai slipped away easily and circled behind him before
he could turn.
Kalus whirled to face him. Wielding his weapon with courage but little
real skill, he repeated the attack again and again. Fruitless. The
weight of the sword was too much and his grip seemed feeble, and his
legs still trembled from the weakness of the climb; and his foe would
not remain stationary, or venture within the cutting sweep of his sword.
But he was strong and determined, and confronted by death and he knew
it. He kept the half-breed in front of him, breathed slowly and deeply
and shook with bitter rage as he clenched his teeth and moved forward
again. He swept the blade in a flat, circular motion. But again he
missed, and the guard drew closer, snarling and lunging. He felt sweat
come over him, and the cold chill of knowing he had stepped too far.
And for all his years of learning he could not contain the frightened
rage that sent him chasing and cutting in wild circles and angles while
the half-breed leapt aside, rushing in short bursts and avoiding the
blade, with the hatred of his eyes burning ever deeper.
Then Kalus felt the presence of Death like a grim truth, or a sinister
shadow eclipsing his soul, till all he could feel was a raw, animal
terror. And finally in his desperation he missed badly and slipped down
on one knee, and Shar-hai rushed in and tore at the back of his calf
before he could whirl the sword's hilt, with his elbows hooked, and
strike him feebly and too far in the arc of the swing across the jaw.
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