2
SAGE TOOK A place in the inner circle of fighters, facing outward. A ring formed around them, matching up one-to-one. She saluted her first partner and took a guard stance, idly wondering if she knew the man. With the bulky and often misshapen padding, there were only three or four men she could positively identify once helmets were on—and one of them because he was missing an arm. It worked both ways, however. Due to her size, most assumed she was a squire, which suited Sage just fine. The regular guards had gotten used to her presence over the last few months, but with all the new soldiers lately, things tended to get awkward if they realized she was a woman.
When the bell rang out, Sage and her opponent quickly fell into a rhythm of attacking and defending. As it was the first round, they both were more interested in warming up than scoring points. They lunged and blocked with increasing intensity until the bell signaled the end of the round after seven minutes. Both lowered their swords and saluted each other again. Her partner took several steps to his right so another fighter could move in front of her. She saluted the new man and set her feet for the next round.
After four rotations, Sage was sweating heavily under her armor but feeling confident in her performance. A few fencers slid in or out of the formation, one pair inserting themselves two positions to her right. She didn’t recognize either of them, but it felt like the one in the outer ring was watching her. Had he seen signs she was a girl? Hopefully not. As the man rotated closer, she watched him, too.
The scruff of a black beard showed under the padded helmet, so he was likely in his twenties at least. He was taller than her, but most men were, well-built without being bulky—though the padding made him look slightly hunchbacked—and his sword … It was a standard practice weapon, not a personal one, yet he handled it like an extension of his arm, with swift and smooth efficiency. Not a movement was wasted. A clip across her shoulder reminded her to pay more attention to her current opponent. Sage shook sweat from her eyes and refocused on her own match.
At the next bell, the man stepped before her. His helm exaggerated the movement of his head as he looked her up and down. Assessing her, no doubt. Though she couldn’t see anything—not even his bearded neck from this angle—when he saluted she got the feeling he was smiling. He plainly did not see her as a challenge. Well, she would show him she was no novice.
But in less than a minute, his superiority was obvious. Master Reed described her as advanced for her time and with promising grace of form, but her new opponent anticipated her every move and countered effortlessly. When he went on the offense, she could tell he moved slowly for her benefit. Part of her felt angry at being patronized; another part was grateful he hadn’t merely disarmed her in the first three seconds. After a time, she realized he was testing her, letting her show what she could do, and she began to appreciate him—until she leaned too far to the right in a parry. His sword whipped around and smacked her rear end.
Through the slit in the helm she caught the glint of his teeth as he grinned. Rage flashed through her—he knew she was a girl! Why else would he have done that except to mock her? Nearly blind with fury, she recovered her balance and attacked, which he easily blocked. Sage shoved away and stepped back, and he shook his head in warning. She struck out wildly, but he knocked her sword to the ground and laid the flat of his blade across her backside again.
Tears of humiliation blurred her vision. While she stood clenching her fists and trying to decide what to do, he retrieved her sword and offered it back to her. There was no sign of a smile behind the mask this time, and she understood. He’d warned her not to attack in anger and taught her a lesson when she didn’t heed him. Humbled, she accepted her weapon and assumed the guard position. He nodded approvingly, and they began again.
The bell clanged, ending the round, but the man gestured for the next fighter to go around. The other swordsman shrugged and moved past them. Her mysterious partner had taken an interest in her. Given his skill, it was somewhat puzzling—he gained nothing by staying. Then the bell rang again, and she dismissed her confusion to concentrate on the fight before her. After a few exchanges of blows, her partner stepped back and motioned for her to lower her blade. Cautiously, she did, and he shifted his sword to his left hand and approached to stand behind her. Without a word, he placed his hand on her wrist and corrected what she’d been doing, guiding her arm in a more efficient arc and slice. The man’s directions were better for her height and arm strength than what she’d learned.
“Thank you,” she said, the words echoing in her helm. The man nodded and took up his position again. When he switched his sword back to his right hand, he flexed his left several times, like it was numb. Her eyes widened.
No, it couldn’t be.
But the more she watched him, the more sure she became. When the round ended, once again her partner waved for the next fighter to skip them. The man at the bell called out that this would be the last round.
Their sparring changed. Her opponent became aggressive, forcing her back almost constantly. He plainly intended to make her yield by the end, though she knew he could do it at any point.
Winning this fight would require something other than skill.
She waited until the right moment, then faltered. As she knew he would, the man took advantage of the opening, but she was ready to move into it. Making it look like he stabbed her, she collapsed with a cry. Her partner dropped his sword and dove to catch her.
He rolled her onto her back and knelt over her, pushing her helmet off and feeling along her ribs. “Where?” he gasped. “Where are you hurt?”
Sage grinned up at him. “I’m fine, Captain, but you’re dead.” She jabbed him in the stomach with the dull point of her practice sword, and he glanced down.
Scrambling to take off his helm, he looked back at her with a mixture of pride and vexation in his brown eyes. “You’re a cheater, you know that?”
“As I recall, you taught me to use every advantage I could.”
Alex laughed. “So I did. I yield to my lady.” All the padding made it difficult for him to kiss her, but he managed.
3
CAPTAIN MALKIM HUZAR sat in the corner of the bustling tavern, nursing a pint of ale. It was a weak brew, but he endured it as he endured everything in this country. The rough weave of his cloak hung around him so only his forearms were exposed. From beneath the hood, his eyes tracked the movements of over two dozen other customers, three barmaids, and the establishment’s owner—a fat, greasy man who acted like he owned the barmaids as well, the one exception being a pretty girl with lips and nails painted to match the fiery tints in her hair. The barman gave her a wide berth. Two silvery scars under his left ear were likely the reason.
The redhead brought Huzar an ale to replace the one he’d finished. Before taking his empty mug, she traced a fingernail over the swirling tattoo on his bronze arm. “Don’t get many Aristelans here,” she said in a husky voice.
She mistook him for an eastern Demoran, but that was fine with him. Kimisar weren’t welcome in Demora, even before the current conflict. Huzar allowed himself a vague smile. The door to the tavern opened, bringing a gust of frigid March air Huzar could feel even in this corner. Finally.
“Another ale,” he told her. “For my friend.”