He dipped his head to meet her eyes. “Charlotte!”
She wasn’t ready to give up on life yet. “Do not raise your voice at me, my lord. I know where my limits are, and I have no intention of fainting or dying. I won’t use my magic anymore. You’re on your own.”
A lean, dark-haired man walked out from behind the staircase. He carried a sword.
THE man held a Sud sword, a long, slender length of steel. Young, fit, walking with perfect balance, and carrying his sword with complete confidence. An adept, probably a professional fighter.
Richard flicked the blood off his blade.
They looked at each other.
The sword master attacked. Richard parried and lunged. The blade met a wall of blue flash and slid off. Magic burned his arm. The Sud used the flash to reinforce his blade. Fantastic. And here he thought this would be easy.
Richard ignored the pain and spun, delivering a short barrage of strikes. The Sud parried, dancing and spinning. They moved across the floor. Richard attacked. Strike, strike, strike. His blade bounced from the Sud’s sword. Normally, his flash-sharpened blade would’ve severed his opponent’s weapon.
The man was good, Richard gave him that.
Richard backed away. He walked the path of the lightning blade, relying on that first, faster-than-sight strike to instantly incapacitate his opponent. Failing that, he fought with precision, banking on his power and control. The rapid melee of parrying and trading blows while covering a lot of ground was his weakness, while the Sudanese swordsmen reveled in it.
The Sud attacked in a flurry of blows. Richard parried, lunging, thrusting, looking for an opening and finding none. The Sud coated his entire sword in a protective magic sheath, making it nearly impossible to break and using it as a shield. It was down to skill and speed, and the Sud had plenty of both.
The man feinted to the right. Richard pulled away, avoiding the trap. As he dodged, the man hopped forward, turning the feint into a spin, and kicked. Richard saw it, but he had no way to avoid it. He spun into it, flexing, taking the hit on his left shoulder. The kick hammered into the muscle, and Richard staggered back. Like being hit with a club.
The Sudanese swordsman landed and spun on one foot, showing off. “My technique is superior.”
Vanity. The Sud was young, hungry, and eager to prove that he was better.
“Keep hopping around,” Richard said. “Your dance teacher isn’t here to clap for you, but I’m enjoying the show.”
Most men would’ve begun to tire by now. He doubted this one would. The Sud seemed to take putting spring into one’s step literally. His sword was unbreakable, his technique flawless. But the man himself was flawed.
A hint of movement tugged at Richard. He turned his head slightly. Charlotte pushed away from the column. He had to keep her from doing anything rash. Charlotte was a proud woman. If she had any strength at all, she would’ve remained upright, so she must’ve been at the end of her rope. If she thought he was desperate, she’d try to save him. Letting her die for his sake wasn’t in the plan.
He shrugged, nonchalant. “My lady, I’ll be with you in a moment. I just need to pull the wings off that pretty butterfly.”
The Sud clenched his teeth, making his jaw muscles bulge. It wouldn’t take too much more to nudge him in the right direction.
“Don’t mind me,” Charlotte said.
“First I’ll kill him, then you,” the Sud promised.
“I don’t think so.” Charlotte sat on the overturned chest. “He’s better.”
“I’m better and faster,” the Sud said.
She shook her head, her voice matter-of-fact. “Not only is he better, but you fight for money. He has more at stake.”
No panic, no tremor in her voice. Just a calm statement. She hit the Sud right where it hurt, and she did it as if the outcome of the fight were already a foregone conclusion. Damn, but that was impressive.
Charlotte had no doubt he would win. Richard shifted the grip on his sword. He couldn’t disappoint.
He motioned to the Sud with the fingers of his left hand. “Come on, let’s have the finale. I can’t waste any more time on your prancing. The lady is waiting, and I don’t want to be rude.”
The Sud leaped, unleashing a flurry of strokes, too fast to keep up. Richard parried the first, the second, the third, and counterattacked, holding his sword with both hands, sinking all of his strength into the overhead blow.
The Sud flashed, shielding his blade, but the sheer power of the impact staggered him.
Richard struck again, bringing a barrage of blows onto the Sud’s sword, forcing him back with every strike. Sweat broke out on Richard’s forehead. This attack was draining all of his reserves, but he was betting on the Sud’s ego. If he was lucky, the younger man would rise to the challenge. A wiser swordsman would simply wait Richard out and, once he tired, kill him at his leisure, but youth and wisdom didn’t always travel together.
The Sud lunged forward, grinding his blade against Richard’s, flash against flash. They struggled, locked. The Sud twisted, trying to catch Richard’s leading leg with his foot, aiming to trip him. Richard shoved him back. The younger man stumbled, off-balance. Richard hammered a front kick to his chest.
The Sud fell back and rolled to his feet like a cat. His face was a furious mask. He screamed and charged. Richard sidestepped his barrage of strikes, dodging, parrying, knocking the blade aside when he could. He knew the wall was behind him, but there was no place to go.
His foot touched the stone of the wall. The Sud whirled like his joints were liquid and thrust, aiming at the heart, so fast he blurred. Richard parried on pure instinct, sliding his blade under the strike. Their magic ground against each other, blue against white. The man’s entire weight pressed onto Richard’s blade, tearing a ragged snarl from him.
The swordsman’s blade slid up, gaining an inch.
Richard pushed back, his arms shaking from the strain. Holding the younger man’s deadweight was squeezing the last drops of strength from his tired body.
Another inch. The Sud’s narrow blade slid along Richard’s sword. He saw it move but was powerless to stop it.
The sword cut his left biceps, slicing through the muscle in an agonizing slow burn.
Sonovabitch. There was no way out of this position that didn’t end with his being hurt. Even if he could summon enough strength to shove the younger man back, the effort would leave him exposed for a counterstrike, and with his back to the wall, he had no way to maneuver.
The Sud grinned.
If he lost, Charlotte would die. He would fail, and Sophie would be left alone with her demons. He had to kill the other man.
He would endure pain if it meant he would win.
Richard dropped his blade. The Sud’s sword, abruptly free from resistance, slid forward and cut deeper across his arm, biting into the bone in a flash of pain. Thrown off-balance, the Sud pitched forward, and Richard hammered his fist into the man’s throat. The swordsman rocked back from the blow. Richard tore the sword from his opponent’s hand, flashed, coating it in his magic, and thrust it upward, under the rib cage. The blade carved through the lungs and heart like a knife through a soft pear. The bloody end emerged from the Sud’s breast and sliced into the underside of his chin.
The man opened his mouth, surprise making his face look young . . . Blood poured out from between his teeth, drenching them in red. Richard pushed him back, and the Sud fell, his unseeing eyes staring at the ceiling.
Richard slumped forward, trying to catch his breath. His left arm hung useless, the gash in his muscle burning as if someone had poured molten lead into wound. He stared at the man by his feet. What was he, twenty-five? Twenty-eight? His whole life ahead of him, good looks, talent, and now he was dead. Such a waste.
Richard gritted his teeth and looked at the cut. Blood drenched his skin and dripped on the floor. He didn’t have much of it to spare as it was.
Gods, it hurt like hell. He breathed in deeply through his nose, trying to separate himself from the pain, forced
