The Empty Throne (The Warrior Chronicles, Book 8) by Bernard Cornwell Page A

precious Raven-Beak, drawn. He had thrust Æthelstan back, away from the fight. ‘Come on, earsling,’ he taunted Brice. The crowd that had been so silent suddenly cheered.
    ‘Bastard,’ Brice said. He kicked Attor away, then went for my son. Brice, remember, was an experienced sword-warrior, a man who had spent his life training with blades, a man who had become wealthy with sword-skill. He had no fear, and Uhtred, my son, had an open face that looked forever cheerful and gave him the appearance of innocence. Brice reckoned he could chop him down with two or three strokes, and the first stroke was a scything blow that would have opened my son’s belly like a knife slashing across a sack of eels.
    Uhtred skipped back, he laughed. He lowered Raven-Beak and laughed again, and Brice took the bait and attacked a second time, this time lunging and, as Raven-Beak rose to parry, he twisted the lunge, turning it about my son’s blade and dragging his sword back so it would saw across his enemy’s neck. That was fast and that was skilful, and Uhtred just leaned back and away, the edge of Brice’s blade missing by the breadth of a finger, and Brice was slightly off balance and my son just reached out and pushed him with Raven-Beak’s tip. ‘You’re slow,’ he said reprovingly as the West Saxon staggered.
    ‘Bastard,’ Brice muttered. It seemed to be his only curse. He had gained his balance and now looked at my son, saw that insolent grin on the innocent face, and the fury surged in him again. ‘Bastard,’ he shouted, and drove forward, lunging again, and Uhtred simply deflected the blade and Brice, with his extraordinary speed, kept the sword moving into a savage cut aimed at my son’s head, and again Raven-Beak was there, and I heard the crash of the blades and there was a harshness to the sound.
    Blades ring together. Not like a bell rings, but there is an echo of that sound in the clash of blades, but Brice’s last cut had ended in a crack, like the noise of Æthelflaed’s bell. The blade was not broken, but the sound was ominous and he knew it. He stepped back.
    Men were coming from the house. They were Brice’s men, but pursued by mine and none interfered as my son attacked for the first time. Thus far he had been content to defend and to taunt Brice, but now he went forward with a lunge that was never intended to strike home, but merely to force a parry, and then a waist-high cut that Brice parried again, and the cut did not seem too fast or vicious, yet when Brice’s sword met Raven-Beak it broke. It just broke into two pieces, and Uhtred turned his wrist over and held the point of his sword at Brice’s neck. ‘What shall I do with him, father?’
    ‘Drop what’s left of your sword,’ I ordered Brice. He hesitated, and so I drew Wasp-Sting, my seax, and held the hilt towards Æthelstan who had taken refuge beside my horse. ‘If he doesn’t drop his sword, boy,’ I told him, ‘then use that to cut his spine at the back of his neck. It’s time you learned how to kill a man.’ Æthelstan hesitated, not sure I was serious. I thrust the seax at him. ‘Take it,’ I said. The boy took hold of the short-sword, then looked back at me. ‘You’re the son of a king,’ I told him, ‘and one day you might be a king yourself. Life and death will be your gifts, so learn how to give them, boy.’
    He walked towards Brice who half turned, then went very still when my son prodded his neck with Raven-Beak’s tip. Then, at last, some sense leaked into Brice’s brain and he dropped the remnant of his sword. ‘Let him live,’ I told Æthelstan, who looked relieved at the command.
    Sixteen of Brice’s men had fled the house. They had no fight in them and Finan’s men were now taking their weapons. Stiorra was free and ran to my side. I smiled down at her and held her hand. ‘Who hit you?’ I asked her.
    ‘The priest,’ she said.
    ‘The priest?’ I asked, surprised, then saw the man among the West Saxon