His feet beat the ground like
a dancer, never still.
I could not move, watching. I almost did not breathe. His face was calm
and blank, not tensed with effort. His movements were so precise I could
almost see the men he fought, ten, twenty of them, advancing on all sides.
He leapt, scything his spear, even as his other hand snatched the sword from
its sheath. He swung out with them both, moving like liquid, like a fish
through the waves.
He stopped, suddenly. I could hear his breaths, only a little louder than
usual, in the still afternoon air.
“Who trained you?” I asked. I did not know what else to say.
“My father, a little.”
A little. I felt almost frightened.
“No one else?”
“No.”
I stepped forward. “Fight me.”
He made a sound almost like a laugh. “No. Of course not.”
“Fight me.” I felt in a trance. He had been trained, a little, by his father.
The rest was—what? Divine? This was more of the gods than I had ever
seen in my life.

Chapter 5