More shaken than he cared to admit, Ronan placed a hand over the top of the stone, its sudden glowing blue heat almost blistering his hand.
He kept it there anyway, certain the pain would vanish when he broke the contact.
Just as he was certain — or hoped, at least — that the Tobar Ghorm’s brilliant blue water, so deep below the earth’s surface, and undeniably blessed, would keep the Raven Stone from the Holders’ hands if he failed.
“You are a brave soul, MacRuari.” Dungal Tarnach’s gaze lifted from the stone. “A shame Nathair will defeat you.”
Ronan almost choked.
How appropriate to take up a blade against a Holder namedsnake.
Oddly enough, the irony undid his ill ease on seeing his leather pouch vanish. He threw off his plaid with an eagerness and speed that surprised him, then looked on as his challenger shrugged off his robes with equal relish.
Ronan’s own steel already gleamed in the man’s hand and a criss-crossing of scars on his broad, muscular chest revealed that he’d held his own in more than one swordfight.
Knowing himself equally branded, Ronan tested Dungal Tarnach’s steel, swinging it round, then spinning and dipping, lunging and feinting until the sword felt comfortable in his hand.
Almost sneering, Nathair simply waited.
“Come, have at me.” Ronan beckoned him, raising the blade in earnest now. “Show me your best so the devil will be proud of you.”
“Save your breath, Raven.” The man lifted Ronan’s blade. “You will need it.”
Ronan beckoned again, eager.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Tarnach and the others move to the edges of the cleared turf ring. They formed a silent, watching circle.
For one horrible moment, he was whisked back into Dare’s hall, facing Sorley again. But then Nathair sprang, Ronan’s own steel slicing the air to clang loudly against the strange blade in his hand.
The other’s strength jarred him, the force of the swing almost knocking him aside. Nowhere near as tall as Ronan, the man was nevertheless built like a steer and, apparently, possessed a stirk’s muscle.
Again and again, his steel clashed against Ronan’s in a fury of vicious stabs and slashes. They circled and swiped, blades windmilling and drawing back, the shriek and clank of steel on steel loud in the cold morning, though the roar of Ronan’s own blood muted the clatter.
Then Nathair spun, first feinting and then springing back around to make a vicious sidelong slash at Ronan’s middle. Seeing the arcing flash, Ronan ducked and rolled to the side, the other’s blade just missing him.
But something flared in the man’s eyes and Ronan saw his intent. Nathair meant to seize the Raven Stone now, using its power to win the fight. Already he’d maneuvered himself near the well’s edge, using furious windmilling slashes to keep Ronan at bay.
“It won’t work, snake! You’ll ne’er get it!” Ronan lunged, his own blade arcing with even greater speed. “Not you, your brethren, or anyone!”
“Bastard!” Nathair sneered. “The stone is ours.”
“Nae,” Ronan hissed, “it is no more!”
Leaping forward, he brought down his sword in one ferocious sweep, the force of the blow cleaving the stone in two perfect halves.
“No-o-o!” Nathair roared as the shattered stone shot across the well lip, plunging at once into the Tobar Ghorm. Whipping round, the Holder glared at Ronan, his steel raised high for a deadly strike.
“Yesss!” Ronan blocked the attack with ease, the other’s blade whistling harmlessly over his head while his own sword — or rather, Tarnach’ s — sliced through Nathair’s left arm to drive deep into his side, splitting his ribs.
Thesnake’seyes bulged and he toppled forward, Ronan’s sword falling from his hands.
It was over.
Another debt of honor paid, if a centuries-old one.
Ronan dragged the back of his hand across his brow, only vaguely aware of the movement around him. The stumbling rush of a score of thin and stoop-shouldered old men toward the edge of the ancient sacred well.
“ ’Tis over.” A relieved-sounding voice, aged and weary, cut through the red haze. “The stone has truly split in twain.”
