“Pryce,” Asger said blankly. “Step aside. I have no wish to kill you.”
“That is just as well,” said Pryce. “You entirely lack the ability.”
A sneer crossed Asger’s face. At his side, Gosta stood abruptly, followed by the two other guardsmen. For his part, Roper stood up as well. “Sit down,” snapped Pryce. “You cannot fight these men.”
“You call me ‘my lord,’” snarled Roper, feet planted firmly on the ground.
Asger looked on, smiling unpleasantly. “For years now, all I’ve heard is ‘Never fight Pryce; you’re going to die whether you win or not.’ And yet … you are not much of a swordsman, really. You’re reasonably quick, but all the speed in the world can’t make up for a complete lack of finesse. ‘Don’t fight Pryce.’ I’m tempted to find out why not.”
“I invite you to do just that. It would be my greatest pleasure to mash your bulging eyeballs into the back of your bastard skull.”
Asger stared for a long while. Very quietly: “You’re going to die for this boy?”
“One day.” Pryce was no longer smiling.
“I know where this order has come from,” said Asger, so quietly now that Roper could hardly hear the words. “How rich, Pryce, to have mocked me when your real allegiance has always lain with Gray Konrathson. The great Pryce simpering and bowing to that talentless killjoy. You follow him like a wet dog.”
“That is my honour,” said Pryce. “My loyalty and life are at his disposal. For your man Uvoren, I have no words base enough.”
“You’re a headstrong fool, Pryce. A fool. You would take on the four of us single-handed? Uvoren will hear of this treachery when we are done with you. And when he does, you know Gray will die too.” Roper could hardly breathe. The night had solidified about him, holding his limbs fast in sheer blackness. A log on the fire cracked loudly, vomiting sparks into the night and causing Roper to blink.
And so he missed the instant when Pryce’s sword leapt from its scabbard and sliced straight through Asger’s neck. Asger’s eyes opened wide and he dropped his sword, raising his hands to the blade that had pierced his throat. Pryce ripped it away and Asger was dead before he hit the ground, a great fountain of blood spurting from the wound as he sprawled in the dirt. With the speed of a striking serpent, Pryce stepped into Gosta, who had managed to draw his own sword. The blades clashed three times in quick succession, releasing a shower of white sparks on each occasion before Pryce headbutted his opponent to the ground.
By this time, Roper and the other two guardsmen had also drawn swords. The one opposite Roper came to kill him; the other to help his downed comrade defeat Pryce. Roper and the guardsman clashed, causing Roper to retreat and lose sight of what was happening to Pryce. There were screams, roars and the clang of blades smashing together but Roper heard none of it. His entire world was in the slender piece of alloy held before him.
He managed to block a first attack, then a second. The third was a feint but Roper knew it and stepped aside, sliding his opponent’s blade past him to release a great curtain of white sparks and bringing the pommel of Cold-Edge forward to smash into the guardsman’s face. It connected with a wicked crack but barely seemed to register with the man. He struck Roper a dizzying blow with his gauntleted fist. Roper staggered back and was unable to block the next attack, which slammed into the bone-armour of his chest and hammered him back again. Another attack and Roper could not block this one either, sweeping below his guard and cutting his legs from beneath him. The blade had struck the bones of his ankle and, for the second time in his life, Roper found himself on his back fighting for survival.
The guardsman lunged for his throat and Roper parried desperately, more sparks staining his vision. He wafted a counter-attack in the guardsman’s direction but his sword was batted aside dismissively and this time he had to use his gloved left hand to deflect the blade from his throat. It cut deep into the flesh of his hand but he did just enough to avoid having his neck filleted.
The night went black; blood had got in his eyes somehow and all he could see was the blotch of those sparks. Something heavy dropped on top of Roper and he could feel hot blood pouring down his side. He struggled to thrust his sword into the body atop him but the blade was too long and he flailed, unable to plant the tip in the guardsman.
“Enough!” snarled a voice above him. “He’s finished.” Roper obeyed, freezing. The body on top of him was limp and still. It was dead.
His attacker was dead.
Roper drew a few deep breaths and wiped the blood free from his eyes. He wriggled out from beneath the body and sat up to see Pryce standing above him. The lictor was dreadfully cut on both his arms, had a deep gash in one calf and appeared to have lost an ear but he still stood. Around him were sprawled the bodies of four dead Sacred Guardsmen. Roper simply stared.
Pryce stared back with hard eyes. Blood was trickling down his arms and dripping off his hands. He seemed to Roper perfectly like a hawk. A hunter. Something to whom the affairs of men did not matter in the ordinary way; whose thoughts were so instinctive that they bypassed the brain altogether, operating entirely on nerve and synapse. He was an order of magnitude faster in thought and deed than any other man that Roper had met. It was true: he was not much of a swordsman. But his movements were so uncompromisingly fierce, so violently rapid, that
