Brian McClellan - Forsworn

“Not very reliable, are they,” she called. The words seemed to free Erika’s muscles and she jumped to the side, grasping for Tirel’s musket. She brought it to her shoulder and sighted along the barrel as she’d seen Santiole do so many times. The three men were already running toward her, their swords drawn. She pulled the trigger.

The blast jerked the stock back into her shoulder harder than she’d expected. Smoke briefly obscured her vision, but she could tell that none of the men had fallen from the shot. She had missed. She dropped the useless weapon and leapt backward, scooping up her sword with one hand. The acrid smoke stung her eyes and she felt a surge of energy as she breathed in the sulfuric smell.

The cowards. They would not find her so easy to kill at close range. She could not-would not-allow them to take Norrine. She whirled to face the charging Longdogs when the escarpment on her right suddenly exploded in a flurry of snow.

Santiole emerged from the snow to hit the three Longdogs from the side. The first of them whirled to defend himself, parrying desperately. Erika didn’t have time to watch the fight progress. The second mage hunter was already upon her, his sword darting forward. Behind him, Duglas seemed to waver between Erika and Santiole.

Erika found herself instantly on the defense against the Longdog. He was about her height, but he had the longer sword and was clearly stronger. He pressed forward confidently as she shrank back, trying to be mindful of her footing on the slick road.

She countered the man’s disengage, and then caught a quick slash from the side. Her back was almost to the carriage and she would soon run out of room.

The man saw her hesitation and lunged. She parried as she stepped to one side and recognized the opening in his attack, countering with her own solid thrust. Her blade entered above his heart, just beneath his clavicle. She drew back, parried a weak attack, and put her blade through his heart.

The fight must have lasted less than a dozen seconds. Her mind buzzed from the smell of the black powder smoke and the adrenaline coursing through her body. She turned to Santiole.

The first of the Longdogs lay face-down in the road, the snow beneath him stained with crimson. Santiole and Duglas appeared to have already engaged and separated, their swords up, their breath coming in bursts of steam. It wasn’t until they engaged once more that Erika noticed the dark stain on the front of Santiole’s jacket and the off way that she held her sword.

Duglas attacked in a straightforward, almost lazy manner, using his height and reach to bear down on Santiole like a warhorse trampling an infantryman.

Santiole was forced backwards, parrying his attacks a little slower each time, her body sagging from loss of blood, her face pale. Duglas pressed forward relentlessly, forcing Santiole toward the edge of the road and a drop of at least twenty feet.

Erika approached Duglas from the side, ready to take him unawares, but she was waved off by Santiole as the mistress-at-arms made her stand a yard from the precipice. Erika took another step forward. She wasn’t about to allow Santiole to die because of damned stubbornness. This was a battle for their lives, not a duel for honor.

Santiole’s sword blurred as she parried two quick thrusts and put on a burst of speed, counter-attacking with her own strikes that Duglas only barely parried. One more thrust and she was inside Duglas’ guard, her sword flashing forward.

She struck nothing but air. Duglas slid around the thrust with stunning swiftness and rammed his sword through Santiole’s heart in one quick, brutal thrust. The mistress-at-arms stiffened, letting out a single cry.

In the time it took Duglas to force Santiole off the end of his blade with one boot, Erika was upon him.

He parried with the same casual technique he’d used on Santiole. Erika beat it aside and stuck the very tip of her sword into his left shoulder.

She had to scramble backward to avoid his counter. She paused several yards away, giving herself a chance to glance at Santiole. She fought down a sob and felt her steadiness falter at the sight of the lifeless body.

Duglas touched the shoulder wound with one thumb and made a face. “Sloppy,” he said. “You should have killed me there.”

It had been sloppy. She had let emotion get the better of her and it had caused her attack to go incredibly wide. With more discipline, the fight would have already been over.

Duglas attacked without warning, dashing forward and making a series of thrusts and cuts that very nearly left Erika impaled on the end of his small sword. She fought off the attack, and then a second attack. A third attack drove her all the way back to the carriage and she almost stumbled over the body of the Longdog she’d killed.

Duglas paused and backed away. Erika watched him carefully, waiting for the next attack. He didn’t seem wary, and barely winded. Frost coated his mustache, and he brushed a strand of long hair out of his eyes.

“By all means,” he said, “Catch your breath.”

Was the bloody pillock toying with her? Or was he really unable to beat her as easily as he liked?

She raised her hilt to her face in a mock salute and took several more steps back. The man would play with her until he got bored, and then he would kill her and leave her body for the wolves. Behind her, Dominik had sat up and was watching the fight silently. Norrine sat in the snow beside him, her small hand pressed against his wound. If Erika failed, Duglas would kill them both.

She stuck the blade of her sword under one arm and removed the snuff box from her pocket, fingers fumbling from the cold. The lid off, she raised a pinch of black powder to her nose and sniffed.

A flash of warmth spread through her body as quick as lightning, and she felt the numbness fade from her fingers and toes. Her vision sharpened to the point of being almost painful and she could hear Duglas taking slow, measured breaths.

The master mage hunter was inspecting the wound she’d given him. He looked up and their eyes met briefly, before his darted down to the snuff box in her hand. Duglas tilted his head to one side as she took another sniff of black powder and returned the snuff box to her pocket. She could see the understanding in his eyes as he realized she was not, in fact, taking snuff.

“You bitch,” he snarled, leaping toward her.

The speed she had so feared seemed suddenly trivial as the powder coursed through her system. She brought her sword up and parried his first thrust easily. It took two more thrusts for her to take his measure, and then she went on the offensive.

Even to Erika’s powder-sharpened eyes her attacks seemed blindingly fast. She pressed forward, plowing through his counter-attacks, not letting him get the chance for a proper thrust. She could feel nothing, not even her fury, as the powder sang in her blood. Her sword rang against one of his buttons and she pulled back for a parry and then slammed the blade between his ribs.

Even with her sword sticking out of his chest, Duglas drew back to strike. Erika pushed forward, sliding the slim blade deeper, and closed the gap to snatch his sword arm by the wrist.

“Bloody powder mage,” he spat in her face.

She twisted her sword, letting his cry of pain be her reply. His body sagged and she pulled back and aimed the tip at his heart. He dropped to his knees, the fight gone from him, and he sneered up at her. She let him die with the sneer on his lips.

Santiole’s body was warm when she reached it. Her chest was still, her heart silent. Erika knelt beside her and let the sobs come.

She couldn’t have been crying long when Norrine joined her. The girl stared down at Santiole’s body, unshed tears in her eyes, and clutched at Erika. Erika took the girl in her arms.