Descent of Angels Read Online Free PDF Page B

the attack, but Zahariel’s strength was greater, and the two boys tumbled to the stone floor of the training hall. Nemiel cried out at the impact, rolling and bringing his sword up, as Zahariel stabbed the ground where he had been lying.
    ‘Not even close to the best I’ve got,’ said Zahariel, panting with exertion. ‘I’m just toying with you.’
    The bout had been underway for nearly fifteen minutes: fifteen solid minutes of sparring back and forth, lunge and feint, dodge and block, parry and riposte. Sweat drenched both boys. Their muscles burned and their limbs felt leaden.
    A circle of their fellow supplicants surrounded them, each cheering on their favourite, and Master Ramiel watched over the fight with a mixture of paternal pride and exasperation.
    ‘Finish it, one of you, for the love of Caliban!’ said Ramiel. ‘You have other lessons to attend today. Finish it, or I will call it a draw.’
    His last comment gave Zahariel fresh strength and purpose, though he saw it had the same effect on his cousin, no doubt as Master Ramiel had intended. Neither boy would settle for a draw, only victory would be enough to satisfy either of them.
    He saw Nemiel’s muscles bunch in preparation for an attack, and lunged forward.
    His sword stabbed out towards Nemiel’s stomach. The blade was dulled and the tip flat, but the weapon was still a solid lump of heavy metal in Zahariel’s hands that was capable of wreaking great harm upon an opponent. Nemiel’s weapon swept down and pushed the blow to the side, but Zahariel’s attack had never been about his sword.
    With Nemiel’s blade pushed to the side, he carried on his lunge and hammered his fist against the side of his cousin’s head. The blow was poorly delivered, but it had the effect Zahariel was looking for.
    Nemiel cried out and dropped his sword, as his hands flew to his face.
    It was all the opening Zahariel needed.
    He finished the bout by driving his knee up into Nemiel’s stomach, doubling him up and sending him crashing to the floor in a winded, head-ringing heap.
    Zahariel stepped away from his cousin and looked towards Master Ramiel, who nodded and said, ‘Winner, Zahariel.’
    He let out a great, shuddering breath and dropped his sword to the floor. It landed with a ringing clang, and he looked over to where Nemiel was picking himself up from his pain. Ramiel turned from the bout and marched resolutely towards the arched exit, leading his students towards their next gruelling lesson.
    Zahariel held out this hand to Nemiel and said, ‘Are you alright?’
    His cousin still had his hands clutched to the side of his head, his lips pursed together as he tried to hide how much his head hurt. For a brief second, Zahariel was sorry for the hurt he had done to Nemiel, but he forced the feeling down. It had been his duty to win the bout, for giving anything less than his best would have been contrary to the teachings of the Order.
    It had been two years since his induction into the Order, and the ninth anniversary of his birth had passed less than a month ago. Not that there had been any special reason for marking the day, but the instructor knights of the Order were very particular about marking the passage of time and keeping the census of ages and merits of its members.
    Nemiel had turned nine a few days before him, and though they were alike in features and age, their temperaments could not have been more different. Zahariel could see that Nemiel had already forgotten the outcome of the bout, having learned how he had been defeated.
    ‘I’m fine, cousin,’ said Nemiel. ‘That wasn’t bad. I see what you did, but you won’t get me that way again.’
    That was true, thought Zahariel. Every time he fought his cousin and employed a method he had used previously, he was roundly beaten.
    You could beat Nemiel, but you could not beat him the same way twice.
    ‘Try not to be too disappointed,’ said Zahariel. ‘I may have won, but it wasn’t a pretty