Shadow War Read Online Free PDF

massive shoulders
rippled with muscle as he swung the sword around his head in a circle, running
full tilt now through the deep sand. His head was shaven except for a bushy
stripe of rust-red hair, and his ears were misshapen with mutilation scars. He
was older than Caelan by at least five years, a man in his full fighting prime.
The deep sand did not slow him. The sunlight did not blind him. The crowd did
not distract him. His fight with his handlers had not tired him.
    Still screaming in
his own incomprehensible tongue, he was suddenly upon Caelan. Too late, Caelan
snapped to attention and realized he should have been moving to meet the man.
To wait for the first strike was a tactical mistake made by the greenest
recruits. The speed built up by the Madrun would knock him flat, even if he did
manage to deflect that shining blade.
    Swearing at
himself, Caelan drew on his incredible speed and pivoted at the last possible
second, dodging his opponent and moving toward him rather than away.
    Their swords
clashed with a resounding bang of steel against steel that had the crowd back
on its feet, cheering. To the crowd, their champion had seemingly waited calmly
until the very last minute before moving. To the crowd, their champion looked
very courageous against this barbaric enemy of the empire.
    To the crowd, Caelan
looked daring. To Orlo and Prince Tirhin, he must look like a lunatic.
    Grimly Caelan put
the prince’s threat from his mind yet again. He exchanged a fast series of
blows, then backed up, dancing around the Madrun in a circle. He wanted to
evaluate this creature’s fighting skills before he closed with him again.
    The Madrun’s red
eyes glared at Caelan without wavering. With teeth bared, he rushed again,
forcing Caelan to feint and spin without even an attack in return.
    Hating being on
the defensive, Caelan feinted, then feinted again, but the Madrun was not
fooled. He simply attacked, hacking and screaming while the crowd moaned and
jeered.
    When Caelan had
boasted he would fight as Tirhin had never seen him fight before, he had not intended this.
    Forget that, Caelan told himself. Concentrate.
    The Madrun
slashed, and white-hot pain sliced through Caelan’s arm. He struck back in
anger, forcing the Madrun to retreat a little, then circled to catch his
breath. Blood dripped steadily down his arm, his fighting arm. Already he could
feel blood pooling between his palm and the hilt of his sword, making the grip
slippery.
    Sometimes the game
would be halted, if one of the owners wanted a fighter’s wound bound up so the
contest could continue equally. But Prince Tirhin would never do that, not for
his champion, not for the fighter considered the best in the empire, a man who
needed no coddling, a man who had not been wounded in over a season.
    Every time Caelan
flexed his arm, the wound opened and air rushed in, making it burn like fire.
    Caelan frowned and severed the pain. Stepping into icy detachment, he felt the wound fade from
his consciousness. Everything around him seemed a bit slower; the Madrun looked
a bit smaller than before. His fear dropped from him, as did his distractions.
On one level he laughed at the Vindicant priest’s offering him a potion to
increase his fighting strength. This was all he needed.
    Caelan drank in
the coldness, letting confidence increase almost to arrogance. At the edge of
his vision he could see the threads of life. How easy it would be to cut those
surrounding the Madrun right now.
    The temptation
grew in him as time seemed to stand still. He held the power of life and death
in his grip. It was sweet and exhilarating. The more he drew on it, the more
pleasure he derived from using it.
    And here, in the
void of severance where there were no lies and no need for lies, he
could admit to himself that this was why he fought. In the arena he could sip
from this forbidden pool as much as he wanted.
    But it was not
right for a mere man to have such knowledge.
    He feared