The second Sash advanced on Degan, his sword dancing in the candlelight. The first had regained his balance now and was wiping away the tears caused by his broken nose. He’d be back in the fight any moment.
“Drothe!” said Degan, a desperate tone creeping into his voice. “Take the wounded one, damn it!”
Well, fuck.
I ran into the room with a yell. The first Sash took another swipe at the blood on his face, then turned to face me. I was still a handful of paces away when he stepped forward and threw an incredibly fast lunge at me while I was still coming into range. I barely got my dagger up in time to parry the blow.
Damn, he was fast!
I backed off and brought my rapier back while extending my dagger forward so the tips of the two weapons nearly touched before me. The small triangle of steel was supposed to give me better protection, but I didn’t feel particularly safe.
My Sash didn’t look to be in great shape, what with one arm hanging limp and blood running from his nose, but neither did he seem terribly bothered by this. I decided that, barring evidence to the contrary, I was still outclassed and in trouble.
We both paused to measure each other up. He had a heavier rapier, closer to Degan’s than my own, but it looked light in his hand. The breastplate would be a problem, too; the armor meant I would have to aim for extremities and his head—smaller, harder to hit targets. I wasn’t used to fighting people in any kind of armor, since very few Kin or Lighters bothered with it, let alone owned it. Unless you knew you were going into a fight, it was just too uncomfortable and heavy to wear day in and day out in a crowded city. Plus, it drew far too much interest from the Rags.
Behind my opponent, I caught glimpses of furious swordplay. While I dared not follow Degan and his Sash in detail, what little I did see looked frighteningly good: blindingly fast attacks, parries that left barely a hairbreadth of room for error, body slips, and the occasional attempts at a grab or a punch with a free hand. Moves, in short, that would have left me quartered and sorted on the floor in a matter of seconds.
And if that weren’t enough, Degan and the other Sash were smiling at each other.
Smiling!
Idiots.
As for the wounded Sash, he didn’t even crack a grin as he stepped forward and flicked a cut at my left hand. I moved the hand, trying to block with my dagger, and suddenly saw his sword coming right at my chest. He’d feinted and gotten me to open myself up.
I brought my sword up and across my chest even as I tried to leap back out of range. He must have been expecting that, too, since he immediately redirected his sword and buried its tip in my left thigh.
The sword had an amazingly fine edge—I hardly felt it go in. It wasn’t until the Sash pulled it back out, twisting and cutting down slightly as he went, that I felt the steel dragging against my flesh. That was when I screamed.
It wasn’t the pain that ripped the howl from me—it was the sheer frustration of being stabbed so easily. Five seconds into the fight and I was already being carved up like one of Prospo’s roast ducks. At this rate, Degan would be facing the both of them in less than a minute—not that I would be in a position to worry about it by then.
I backed away quickly, putting my left leg behind me, drawing my body into profile. My rapier went out before me while my dagger stayed in close to my body. I couldn’t threaten with the shorter blade this way, but I could—hopefully—have a bit more time to defend with it.
I was outclassed, wounded, and on the defensive, and I let it show. If I was lucky, it could work to my advantage.
The Sash came on almost casually. I managed to parry his next three attacks—a cut, a thrust, another thrust, all in quick succession—but it was a close thing every time. I didn’t even try to counterattack. The Sash grimaced at my hesitancy, rolled his bloody shoulder, and came in again. This time, I reacted.
As he thrust, I slipped my right leg back and extended my dagger out to catch his sword. I wanted to catch his blade and bind it with my dagger, even for a second, so I could follow it up with a thrust from my rapier. With his sword bound up and his left arm useless, I figured it was the best chance I’d get to put steel into him, preferably in the neighborhood of his head.
The problem was, I had to put all of my weight on my left leg to do this. I steeled myself and shifted my weight.
Fire shot through me, from leg to groin to body. I gasped at the pain, trying to ignore it as I brought my dagger and rapier forward. The dagger met his sword, but weakly and at the wrong angle—a twist of his wrist pried it out of my hand and sent it spinning off into the room. At the same time, he slipped his back leg behind him, turning his body out of the way at the last instant.
I cursed and took two quick, stumbling steps back. The Sash smiled.
“That’s the best you have?” he asked. “You should’ve left when you had the chance.”
Behind him, I caught a glimpse of Degan and his Sash—all whirling steel and blurring arms. No help from that front any time soon.
“I suppose it’s too late to take you up on that now?” I said as I let my empty left hand drift back behind me. I turned my torso sideways again, trying to provide the smallest possible target.
“It was too late when you walked into the room,” said the Sash.
So, Degan had been right in attacking—score another one for him.
The Sash moved forward and angled his blade across my own. I retreated, adjusting my own guard to block his line of attack. He advanced and angled again, and I responded in kind. Then a thought occurred to me.
It was risky and open to failure in any number of ways, but, at this point, I was dead no matter what I did.
I felt my left leg begin to tremble beneath me. I gritted my teeth and took another step back. Just a bit longer, I told myself. Either the Sash would fall for this or he would kill me; one way or another, it would be settled soon.
The Sash stepped forward and placed his blade over mine, just as before. As he moved, I snapped my left hand down. My wrist knife fell into my palm, the action blocked from the Sash’s view by my own body. He didn’t seem to notice.
I resisted the urge to smile.
I drew my body back, seemingly ready to retreat yet again. Then I let my back leg begin to fold. I yelled out in pain as my rapier’s tip sank toward the floor. I was collapsing, my leg for all intents failing from the agony of the wound, and it wasn’t terribly far off. In fact, I realized as the Sash grinned and began to step forward, his sword rising up for a final cut, I didn’t know if I could get back up at all.
Except I didn’t have a choice.
I pushed forward hard off my left leg, through the pain and the burning and the weakness, to turn my collapse into something resembling a forward lunge. At the same time, I brought my rapier up above my head, point aimed at the Sash’s face, the length of the blade between me and his descending sword.
I saw his eyes go wide, saw him begin to shift his weight as he turned the cut into a parry. Let him. I didn’t care about the swords, anyhow. While he was busy knocking my blade aside and saving his face, I was busy bringing my left hand around and driving my wrist knife up into him.
I felt the knife hit home just as his sword met my own. The impact of the two weapons ran down along my arm, gathering at my shoulder like a punch. Then the Sash ran into me.
The collision sent me tumbling over backward, the Sash on top of me. I screamed as both his weight and my own came down on my left leg in the tangle. Then everything went black.
I was with my late stepfather, Sebastian, standing in the clearing in front of our home in the Balsturan Forest. He was holding his sword and showing me how to false a retreat and then follow it with a counterthrust. Mother was in the doorway, watching, while Christiana sat on the ground, stacking wooden blocks. Christiana was full grown and wearing a court dress. I thought it strange that my little sister was suddenly older than I and getting her good clothes so dirty. She always got away with everything.
Sebastian called my name and tapped his sword on the ground. I nodded and tried to do what he had done, but my fingers wouldn’t close on my wooden practice sword properly. I looked down to find the handle slippery with blood. I looked back up, but everyone was dead except Christiana, who was now seven. She was crying. . . .
The pain returned with a rush, and I was suddenly conscious again. I felt the Sash on top of me, trying to push himself away. His knee was in my left thigh and he was cursing, but softly. I returned the favor and tried to push him away as well. He rose up and rolled to my right; I immediately rolled left—onto my leg.
“Shit!” I yelled, and kept rolling. It was tricky with my rapier in my right hand, but I managed to get onto my back, sit up, and extend the sword toward the Sash.
I needn’t have bothered. The Sash was still lying where he had rolled. My knife was sticking out of his right thigh, where the leg met the hip. A few inches higher, I realized, and my blade would have skidded off steel instead of penetrating flesh.
He was propped up on an elbow, staring at the blade, a confused look on his face. I could almost guess what he was thinking:
This is hardly anything; the arm wound is worse. So why the hell can’t I move my legs? Why can’t I breathe?
I set my hands on the floor, gathered my right leg beneath me, and got to my feet as best I could. My left leg had to get in on the act near the end, and I felt myself go light-headed for a moment. No mixed-up visions of the past appeared before me, though.
By the time I was standing, the Sash had fallen back onto the floor. His lips were turning blue, and he was beginning to go through the first set of convulsions. It would get worse shortly.
I bent down and put my hand over the wound in my own thigh. My left pant leg was already soaked red, and there were smears where I had rolled across the floor. I needed stitching. I looked up to see how Degan was coming with his own battle.
They were still at it, but neither Degan nor the other Sash was smiling anymore. Degan had lost his hat somewhere along the way and had what looked like a small gash on one side of his forehead. He kept raising his free hand to wipe at the blood running toward his eyes. The other Sash was no better off. He was holding his left hand close to his chest, blood dripping from the closed fist. When he parried one of Degan’s cuts, the Sash’s hand moved away from his body, and I could see he was now missing a finger.
I hesitated. I didn’t know if stepping in would help or hurt Degan, especially in my present condition. I might distract the Sash, but I might end up distracting Degan, too. Hell, I might just plain get in the way and get stabbed by accident.
I took a firmer grip on my rapier. Enough excuses—this was a White Sash, a man supposedly blessed by the emperor and a favorite of the Angels. Killing a White Sash was like defecating on an imperial shrine, only the shrine’s buddies didn’t get together and hunt you down afterward. It was too late to turn back. If that Sash got out alive, he’d report to the palace, and Degan and I would end up dead within the week—or less.
I limped toward Degan and the Sash as fast as my leg would allow. The Sash saw me coming almost immediately, saw his friend lying behind me on the floor. He wasn’t stupid; he began to retreat, circling back toward the door, away from us both. Degan followed.
I changed course, hustling as best I could to block off his escape. My leg burned with every step.
I reached the doorway just as the Sash broke into a full-out run and charged at me. The move caught Degan off guard—he was a full four paces behind the Sash now, trying to catch up. It was obvious he wouldn’t make it in time.
I stepped back and felt the curtain brush against me. I was squarely in the Sash’s path now—there was no easy way around me. I shifted my weight back on my right leg, bracing myself even as I tried to ease the pressure on my left. Not the most solid of stances, especially against a rushing opponent, but it would have to do. As Degan liked to say, you fight the fight you get, not the fight you want. I raised my rapier, took it in both hands, and extended it before me at shoulder level. Then I angled the point across my body and settled.
I had no illusions about the Sash throwing himself on my blade—my luck hadn’t been running that way for a long time. But I did hope I could slow him down long enough for Degan to catch up.
No such luck.
Instead, the Sash raised his sword and came on faster. I steadied my rapier, wondering belatedly if it would punch through his breastplate or shatter into pieces on impact. Too late to worry about it now. I let out my breath and readied myself for his blade to come crashing down on mine.
Which was exactly what he wanted. At the last possible instant, the Sash dropped his body low and came in beneath my blade, his own steel thrusting up.
I danced backward frantically, my own sword arcing down in a wild parry. I could feel the tattered curtain dragging at me as I backed into it, slowing my retreat and pulling me off balance. I sensed more than saw my sword intercept his, felt the catch of the blades followed by the finger-rattling crash of our two guards slamming into each other.