So far they were, and he'd had two months' practice working in spite of pain; he could keep going. He couldn't do it for long, though. He felt all right thanks to the meds, but he knew his stamina was only a fraction of what it should be; a few more exchanges, and he'd lose by simple attrition.
He struck again, glad that Sandeman magic was simpler than in the books and TreasureTunnel game; he'd never have been able to remember, much less use, the complicated spells in those. Hit and defend was about all he could manage through the growing agony. He lost awareness of his surroundings, even of his opponent, in the effort to channel all his power into defense and, more importantly, attack.
What broke his concentration was the insistent repetition of his name. "James! James! It's over—stop! James, Jim—no more! You've won!"
"Huh?" It was Ryan's voice, Medart realized as the power ebbed from him and he slumped to his knees with his head drooped, overwhelmed by pain and exhaustion. "Won—I didn't kill him, did I?"
"No." The voice this time was unfamiliar; one of Nevan's seconds, Medart thought. "He is injured and unconscious, but he will recover."
"With your permission, James?" That was Kelly, kneeling in front of him and extending her hands.
"Yeah, whatever." She touched him, murmured briefly with no effect he could notice. Moisture trickled down his face and he felt tightness in his throat; he coughed, then vomited, seeing and tasting blood. Major internal damage, obviously, and Sandeman medicine here not much better than Imperial first aid … He fought to raise his head. "Any chance?" he asked.
Kelly shook her head. "I'm sorry, James. The damage is too extensive. I cannot even ease what few hours you may have left."
Medart coughed again, then sighed. "In that case … I ask Last Gift."
"Granted," Ryan said. "And may the gods accept you as one of themselves." Almost immediately Medart felt the tip of a blade at the angle of his jaw behind his ear. There was an instant of pressure, and the pain was over.