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Ser Duncan towered over the others, a giant of a man with a long hand-and-a-half sword gripped in both fists.
Clay's attack came so suddenly that Ser Duncan had no time to respond with a strike of his own. He could barely hoist the heavy blade across his body in a hasty guard.
Steel rang against steel with a crisp, clear note that cut through the chaos around them. Many had expected Lord Bloodraven to meet strength with strength, but Clay had no intention of testing brute force.
The coordination and quickness of a witcher's body far outstripped that of ordinary men, and he would never waste such an advantage.
Their blades slid apart. Clay drove his shoulder hard into Ser Duncan's chest and used the rebound to launch himself toward the blond Kingsguard standing to the left, a man clearly unprepared for the sudden shift.
This knight was much shorter than Ser Duncan and far lighter on his feet. Clay offered no courtesy. He slipped past the hasty thrust of the man's sword, and the point of Dark Sister was already stabbing toward the inside of his elbow.
Clay knew well that the Kingsguard all favored the same style, for the obvious reason: heavy armor from head to heel.
Every one of them was a walking iron shell.
Breaking that defense from the front was not impossible, yet it was rarely worth the effort.
Their weakness lay in the joints, in the gaps of the armor such as the elbows, the neck, and the hollow beneath the arm.
The western knight sensed exactly what Lord Bloodraven intended to do, and pure fighting instinct saved him. He jerked his arm inward, and Clay's thrust slid only a finger's breadth before the knight clamped down with the crook of his elbow.
Clay had never counted on a single killing stroke. The instant he felt the catch, he twisted free and let the blade slide back.
The tip came away streaked with a thin, startling line of red.
One exchange and there was already blood.
A murmur ran through the onlookers who ringed the hall. They had always known the young Bloodraven was fierce and cunning, but few had expected him to prove so relentless. He had not only struck first, he had nearly ruined a Kingsguard's sword arm.
Those who understood fighting saw it even more clearly. If the blond knight had been a heartbeat slower that thrust would have severed the forearm clean through.
Ser Duncan glanced at his wounded brother-in-arms. The man gave a single shake of his head to show he could still fight, and only then did Duncan's casual disdain begin to fade. He had thought that seven against one would make this Trial of Seven hardly worthy of the name.
Yet he had misjudged both Lord Bloodraven's resolve and his lethal skill.
A warrior knew the truth. Each of those two strikes had been aimed to kill. Bloodraven truly meant to spill their lives.
The seven closed in with faces set in a gravity none of them had worn before. Step by step they advanced to the center of the throne room, long swords rising until Clay stood ringed in a forest of steel.
Watching from the edge, Aegon the Fifth felt a measure of ease return to him. He was no soft courtling who had never seen battle. Even the most gifted swordsman could match three, perhaps four opponents at once, but beyond that the sheer press of blades turned fatal.
Human reflexes had limits. Seven swords striking from every angle in the same heartbeat should have been impossible to answer.
But Clay was not an ordinary man.
The witcher's mind sharpened, and the protective sign flared unseen across his skin. A face full of Quen… how would they ever break through that?
"Bloodraven," one of the knights called out, "throw down your sword now, and you may yet take the black. Refuse, and only death awaits you."
Aegon burst into loud laughter, as though the shock and anger of a moment before had never touched him.
Clay gave no sign that he had heard. His eyes followed the shifting line of enemies, weighing each stance, each angle. He waited, patient, for the first move.
After all, he carried a Quen shield now, and his was far stronger than the one Christen had managed to raise. Two solid strikes, perhaps more, would break upon it without leaving a mark.
All he needed was an opening.
The blond Kingsguard who bore the earlier wound thought he saw it first. Rage still burned in him, hot and blinding. He slipped behind Clay and drove his sword toward the unarmored back, certain that a single thrust would end the fight and wipe away the insult.
He could almost taste victory as the point closed upon bare cloth.
But in the next heartbeat came a shock he could not comprehend. His blade struck something harder than stone and sprang wide, as if a greater force had slapped it aside.
Yet his eyes swore that Bloodraven wore nothing more than a thin shirt.
Before he could make sense of what had happened, Clay spun with sudden speed. His left hand, motionless until now, stretched toward him, fingers open.
What can an open hand do? the knight thought, startled, even as the question died unformed in his mind.
Then he heard Bloodraven speak a single word, a sound strange and foreign to his ears.
"Aard."
A thunderclap followed.
An invisible blast struck like a hammer. Armor and all, nearly two hundred pounds of man and steel were lifted clear of the floor and hurled backward. He skidded across the polished marble, a blur of limbs and metal, the impact rattling his bones and filling his head with sparks.
Vision swam as he fought to focus. Through the ringing in his ears he caught a rush of movement. A shadow closed the distance in an instant, sword raised high.
A wet, sharp hiss split the air.
The blade drove straight through his unguarded throat and burst out the far side.
It was a witcher's familiar rhythm: Aard to knock the enemy down, the killing stroke to finish.
Cries of horror echoed around the hall. Clay's lightning-quick execution left them stunned.
He wrenched the sword free. A great rent gaped in the man's neck where the artery and part of the spine were sheared apart. The coppery scent of blood rolled outward in a heavy wave.
Clay stood over the corpse wearing Brynden Rivers's scarred face, eyes glowing with a deep crimson light that carried nothing but scorn.
He looked across the ring at the six who remained and spoke in a low voice:
"Your turn…"
Before the knights could answer, Aegon the Fifth roared from the throne.
"Now! Kill him, all of you, together!"
Panic edged the young king's voice. A sudden thought had gripped him with icy fear. This Trial of Seven, meant to prove his will, might truly end in defeat.
He was no long-reigning monarch whose crown sat beyond challenge. In truth he had barely warmed the seat of power. If he were beaten here in a contest steeped in sacred honor, the throne beneath him would tremble.
Ser Duncan could not guess the thoughts racing through his king's mind, yet his own face had darkened until it looked ready to storm. He still could not fathom how the Lord Bloodraven had hurled their brother so far.
Among the five witcher signs, Igni and Yrden left the clearest traces, while the others were far more subtle, their presence difficult to catch even amid the chaos of battle.
Clay gave his foes no chance to wonder which sign might come next. One enemy lay dead, yet that was nowhere near enough. The weight pressing on him had not eased. The blood spilled this day still fell far short of what he demanded.
And after all, this was only a dream. He meant to make it a grand one.
When the Bloodraven charged again, Ser Duncan did not rush to meet him. He sank his stance and braced himself, fully aware that a soldier in heavy armor who fell might not rise again in time.
Clay disappointed him once more.
He burst through the crush of bodies and dropped low, his left hand striking the ground in a sudden, deliberate motion.
In the blink of an eye violet sigils sprang to life, each rune glowing like molten glass until they joined and formed a single ring of light that closed around the six Kingsguard.
The sight froze everyone in the hall. A sharp gasp ran through the crowd.
"Black magic!" someone shouted at last.
The words were more accusation than truth. There was no such school of sorcery, but in a land where most would live and die without ever seeing a spell, anything unknown was named with the darkest malice and called black magic all the same.
Strangely no one moved to interfere. The Trial of Seven carried a sanctity beyond any mortal quarrel, its judgment tied to the gods themselves.
What was the Targaryen dynasty beside that? Barely a few generations old. The Seven had been worshiped across Westeros for thousands of years. Their law and their will outweighed any ancient crown.
The thoughts of those outside the circle mattered little. The six Iron Guards trapped within the Yrden sign suffered far more than any onlooker could imagine.
Their heavy plate was a burden even in ordinary combat, and the sigil's slowing power turned every step into a nightmare. Their boots barely lifted from the stone. Armor meant to shield them had become a row of iron coffins.
Two of the guards were pinned outright, the weight of their steel and the dragging curse holding them fast. The other four staggered like men wading through tar, dread mounting with every strained breath.
Bloodraven's sorcery had already passed beyond their understanding, yet for the sanctity of the Trial of Seven and for the honor of their king they forced themselves to keep fighting.
But the moment they failed to stop Clay from casting the Yrden sign, their fate was sealed. Within the glowing ring they moved as though the world itself had slowed, while Clay strode among them swift as a thunderbolt.
He swept aside a feeble thrust with a flick of his sword, his follow-through carving down to sever a guard's weapon hand.
Pain still reached the man's mind. He clutched the bleeding stump and loosed a scream that tore through the chamber.
The cry barely had time to echo. Clay's blade slid in from the side and pierced his heart in a single clean motion.
He had already said that the blood spilled today would not be enough until he was satisfied, and he meant to keep that promise.
The survivors were not fools. Once they grasped the dread power of the Yrden sign, they scrambled to find escape, edging step by step toward the outer rim of the glowing ring.
Now it was five against one, yet the side with greater numbers no longer held a shred of advantage.
Fear, slow and relentless, crept into their hearts and began to root itself there.
A moment ago they had believed the capture and death of the Bloodraven to be a near certainty. Only now did they see the truth: the Hand of the King had been hunting them from the very start. They were his prey.
One Kingsguard tumbled free of the shimmering circle and, still on his knees, cast a quick glance back at his king. Aegon's face burned a deeper red, the flush rising up his neck.
No order to halt came from the throne, and the knights had no choice but to keep fighting.
Clay surged forward again, yet he still showed no intention of meeting Ser Duncan head-on.
It was not cowardice. The finest dish must always be saved for last.
He wondered, almost playfully, what expression Aegon the Fifth might wear when his most favored captain of the Kingsguard died before his very eyes. He wanted to see that look.
The duel that followed became a dance of steel. Clay moved with the fluid grace of the witcher sword forms drilled into him long ago, a discipline he had never abandoned.
Five blades struck and parried, yet not one found its mark.
The Kingsguard were no fools or weaklings. But fear hollowed their courage, and each man watched for the sudden flash of the Aard sign. They fought guarded and hesitant, unable to call on the full strength of their training.
Six armored men clashed in a furious ring, but anyone watching could see the truth. At the center of it all the Bloodraven walked with unhurried ease, as if strolling through a quiet garden.
After a time the game lost its charm. Clay grew tired of it.
It was time to finish!
The Aard sign burst from him in a single violent pulse again and struck the skull of the man who had been lurking for a cheap strike at his flank.
A sharp crack echoed through the hall. The force snapped the man's neck. He twitched twice on the flagstones and lay still.
While the others froze in shock, Clay's sword swept sideways and opened the throat of another guard before he could draw breath.
One by one they fell until only their captain remained. Ser Duncan stood alone, his limbs broken, every eye in the chamber fixed upon him.
Clay set his left hand against the knight's dented helm. His voice dropped to a quiet murmur.
"Igni."
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[Chapter End's]
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