blade, sharp and polished to a satin smoothness; a ten-inch hilt with a seven-and-a-half-inch grip, wrapped in plain leather cord that allowed Brennan to wield the sword one- or two-handed; a round pommel and cross-guard. George had held a sword like that before, made by the same smith—Declan had it in his armory. The balance of the blade was at five and a half inches, and it weighed about two and a half pounds, a combination that made the sword nimble despite its size. Holding it in his hand had made him feel indestructible.
Richard’s sword was single-edged and curved ever so slightly. It was razor-sharp, weighed only a pound, with a twenty-five-and-a-half-inch blade, and a four-inch grip. Brennan’s sword was ten inches longer, a pound heavier, but also slower, a powerful butcher blade to Richard’s sleek scalpel.
Brennan slashed to the right, aiming for Richard’s right side, just below the ribs. Richard moved to parry, but instead of following through, Brennan reversed the strike and lashed at Richard’s left. Richard brought his sword across, point down, meeting Brennan’s blade just in time. Brennan was testing for speed, George realized.
“If you’re not Casside, then who are you?”
“You call me Hunter.”
Brennan struck again, the sword dancing in his hand. Right slash, left slash, right slash, left. The swords rang from each other. Richard moved back under the onslaught, his movements short, economical. Brennan drove him across the room. Blades flashed, Richard moved a touch too slow, and the point of Brennan’s sword grazed his shoulder. Blood swelled across the white sleeve. Damn it.
“No!” Jack growled.
“It’s just a paper cut. He’s fine.” First blood was to Brennan. Not a good sign. George’s pulse rose. Richard couldn’t lose. He simply couldn’t lose this fight.
The two men circled each other like two predators stalking. Richard, a lean wolf, and Brennan, a pampered tiger.
“Why?” Brennan asked.
“You profit from the sale of human beings.”
“A true believer, then.” Brennan bared his teeth. “And who are you to judge me?”
“Just a man,” Richard said.
Brennan grasped the sword in both hands and struck, bringing it in a circular motion across Richard’s chest. Richard moved back, and the sword whistled past his shirt. Brennan reversed the swing and struck diagonally down. Richard parried, deflecting the blow with the flat of his blade. Steel rang. Richard staggered back. Brennan was bigger and at least thirty pounds heavier, all of it solid muscle. George knew Richard had ungodly stamina, but the flash punch had clearly taken its toll.
Brennan swung again, a high, horizontal cut. Richard parried in a clamor of steel. They crossed swords again and again, blocking with the flats of their blades. Brennan grunted and hammered at Richard, blow after blow, sinking his enormous strength into it. Richard was backing away, staggered by the hits. George clenched his fists.
“He’s just beating on him,” Jack squeezed through his teeth. “He isn’t using any technique at all.”
“He decided Richard was too damaged to survive a long fight. He wants to end it fast.”
Brennan was familiar with all the techniques of proper swordplay—and knew all the tricks as well. Members of his family received expert instruction in the martial arts from early childhood. George hadn’t been allowed to start practicing until he was nine. At his age, Brennan had already been learning swordplay for six years. He was banking on his raw power now. This wasn’t a duel; this was a fight to the death, fast and brutal. Only one would walk away, and Richard looked desperate.
Brennan cut Richard’s right shoulder. Another graze.
Jack tensed next to him, gathering himself like a cat before a pounce.
“Don’t you dare,” the duchess said. Hearing her voice was like getting a bucket of ice water dumped on him. George recoiled.
“This isn’t your fight. You must stay out of it.”
Brennan slammed his shoulder into Richard, shoving him back. Richard crashed into the wall.
Brennan thrust. Richard knocked his blade aside and spun left, breaking free.
Brennan pulled a dagger from the sheath on his belt. The brute assault had failed. He was going for the smarter plan now. Brennan cut from the right. Richard deflected the blade, and Brennan slashed his hand with the dagger, flinging blood into the air.
Richard spun and thrust. Brennan knocked the blade aside and carved at the inside of Richard’s forearm. The sword hand was vital. One cut in the right place, and Richard would lose mobility, strength, or his sword altogether. Brennan was taking him apart piece by piece. Richard looked like he was on his last breath. He was slowing down. His shirt was crimson with blood.
Brennan sensed weakness, like a shark senses blood in the water. He slashed in a wide, horizontal cut, left to right. Richard leaned back with sudden speed. The sword sliced empty air. Richard clamped his left hand on Brennan’s sword wrist. Brennan lunged with the dagger, striving to drive it into Richard’s throat. Richard ducked under the blow and rammed the pommel of his sword under Brennan’s chin. Blood spilled from Brennan’s mouth. He jerked back, and Richard sliced across the inside of his left biceps. Brennan dropped the dagger and stumbled back. “Who are you?” he gasped.
“I’m an Edger, a nobody. You preyed on my people, so I took it all away from you. I killed your crews, I destroyed your island, I misled you into thinking Maedoc was a traitor. The pieces of your kingdom are crashing down around you because I made it happen.”
Brennan growled, spitting blood. “I’ll kill you, you piece of Edge shit.”
“You’ll never rule,” Richard snarled back. “You’re unfit.”
Brennan lunged into a furious melee. His sword shone, slicing in wide arcs: left, right, left. Richard deflected. Brennan head-butted him. Richard scoured Brennan’s side. They clashed again, bloodied, focused only on each other. The ringing of steel on steel was like a heartbeat.
Brennan made another slash at Richard’s neck. All his blows were above the chest, George realized. Enemy fixation. He had heard about it but had never seen it. In this moment, Brennan hated Richard so much that he was unable to look away from his face. All his cuts were designed to chop Richard’s head off.
Richard spun out of the way and hammered a kick into Brennan’s side. The bigger man took a step back. The point of his sword drooped. Tired! He was tired. The blade was slow to come up.
Brennan exhaled, blood bubbling on his lips, and charged. Richard let him come and slashed at Brennan’s stomach in a lightning cut.
Brennan stumbled, clamping his arm to his stomach, trying to hold his guts inside. Richard paced back and forth, stalking him like a lean, hungry wolf hounding a lame bear. The bigger man tried to straighten. Richard dropped down, almost to his knees, and sliced across Brennan’s legs, left-right, his sword blurring.
Brennan staggered. The fabric of his pants split, showing crisscrossing cuts. Blood swelled. He growled and sank to his knees. Richard hammered a knee to his face. Brennan toppled over. Richard flicked the blood off his sword with a sharp jerk and looked at Charlotte.
She still stood at the table, so pale, she looked bloodless. Slowly, Richard raised his sword in a kind of salute.
The Grand Thane boomed. “Someone, take out this garbage.”
Celire appeared, backed by half a dozen guards. They swarmed Brennan. Three swords pointed at Richard.
“Not him,” the Great Thane said. “He can go.”
Richard bowed his head. The guards parted, and he strode toward them.
“A disgrace.” Erwin said. George turned. The spy was standing at their table. He looked a lot less like Lorameh and very much like Erwin. Some sort of magic had to be at work here. He would have to get to the bottom of it.
“Erwin?” Kaldar peered at him. “You’re Lorameh?”
“Yes, I am. What part of
