Exton

I don't have time to watch Keon fight, for now the second redhead is upon me. His sword comes in low, going for my stomach; I block and swing it wide, then come back with a counterblow that he blocks effortlessly.

Having seen each other's capabilities, we're more cautious now, circling, watching for a weakness. He thrusts and I leap back, bringing my sword around and down. It rings off his, six inches from the hilt. He returns with a circling move designed to disarm me, but I reverse the circle and suddenly he has to leap back. I cut at his legs, miss, and recover before he can counterattack.

From the corner of my eye, I can see Keon and his opponent; but I have no time to watch, for mine unleashes a perfect fusillade of short jabs. A broadsword isn't a stabbing weapon; blocking his thrusts without a shield is wearying and time-consuming, and the sword feels heavier every instant.

My breath sears my lungs and the redheaded Fae smiles, such a smile as Star must have seen many times during her ordeal. A red mist slides over my vision and in my mind I call on Tyr to strengthen my arm. My lips draw back from my teeth and I snarl like an animal, like a wolf. My opponent grins and thrusts. I slap it contemptuously away and go for his guts. He brings his blade up barely in time, the point shearing across my chest. I can feel the blood bubbling to the surface, the stench of it in my nose. He swings in short. crescent-shaped swipes, going now for my legs, now for my throat; somehow my blade is there in time to save me each time.

But I'm losing blood, and that means I'm losing strength. I have to end this quickly.

I move stiffly, wearily, as though the wound is taking its toll; and in truth, the sword feels like lead in my hand. My adversary, sensing the end is near, comes closer, teasing me with those short jabs again. I block and block and block again, the shock of it running up my arm. I go for an overhand cut and he thrusts; I twist and catch his blade between my arm and body; my cut continues, catching him at the shoulder, making a deep gash. He cries out with the pain of it, and I cut low before he can recover. It opens his stomach and he stands there, unmoving, seemingly in shock, holding his entrails in with one hand, trying to fend me off with the other.

A broadsword was never meant to be wielded with one hand.

I go for a straight downward cut, then turn it into a curving slice. It strikes him where the shoulder meets the neck and cuts deep. Blood fountains up and he goes to his knees.