By late afternoon, her right arm burned and her mind buzzed from fatigue. The other recruits had long returned from lunch, and they now laughed and drank rum while Valac played fiddle on the quarterdeck.
Only Fiona’s lesson stretched on, and their laughter began to grate. She had the feeling they were laughing at her.
Lir circled her, watching her cut the air with her blade. “Your fingers are suffocating the hilt. It needs to be flexible in your grip. Again.”
Fiona took a deep breath, trying not to snap at him. She didn’t have the wrist strength for this. He was clearly punishing her for something—for being soft. She loosened her grip on the hilt, parrying.
He stared, arms crossed. “You must maintain control. Again.”
“I’ve got it. I don’t need to keep doing it.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew she’d screwed up.
His green eyes widened, and he took a step closer. “Oh, you’ve got it, have you?”
“I mean, it’s as good as…” she stammered. What she wanted to say was, Can’t I have a break? But that would only confirm she was soft.
“As good as it needs to be?” He finished the sentence for her, though it wasn’t what she was going to say. She’d been thinking something more like, It’s as good as I’ll get today.
Surely she’d already learned as much as the others had. Rohan was only a scholar, after all, and he didn’t seem athletic. “I know it as well as the other recruits.”
He licked his lips. “So you think in a fight between you and Ostap, you’d have a chance.”
She swallowed, unwilling to back down. Screw it. Probably going to die on this ship one way or another. Might as well go out with style. Cupping her hands around her mouth, she bellowed, “Ostap!”
Valac stopped fiddling, and the other men lowered their pewter cups to stare at her.
Ostap rose, brushing off his trousers. At some point he’d taken off his shirt, and she got a glimpse of the network of tattoos that covered his torso—among them, a coiled snake. “What do you want, little girl? You need a man to take care of you?”
She lifted the sword above her head in one hand. “Care for a duel?”
22
Fiona
Ostap grinned, climbing down the ladder.
Captain Nod jumped from the quarterdeck, entirely bypassing the rungs. “See? I told you Fiona would be fun.” Grinning, he crossed to the mast. “Since these swords won’t kill, the first person to extract a concession is declared the winner.”
That sounds… violent. It would have been nice if the winner were decided through a careful evaluation of technique instead of a forced surrender, but apparently pirates weren’t big on civil competition.
She turned to Lir, whose lips were pressed together in a tight line. He probably thought she was about to embarrass him.
She ignored him, flicking her eyes to Ostap. The Russian wiped a hand across his damp forehead, and planted his feet near the mainmast.
Fiona approached, pointing the sword at his chest. The sea had grown choppy, and she widened her stance for balance on the shifting deck.
Ostap placed a hand on his hip, lifting the sword with his other. With his long dancer’s limbs, he had a distinct advantage over her. He smirked, flexing his wrist to roll the blade.
The longer she stared at his enormous frame, the more she wanted to take a flying leap off the side of the ship, but she forced herself to stand her ground.
Gritting her teeth, she lunged for him, and their swords clanged. They shifted positions, circling each other before Ostap countered. Retreating to the quarterdeck, she parried, and Ostap’s blade sliced the air near her face with a whoosh.
With the stupid smirk on his face, he didn’t even seem like he was trying. After hours of training, Fiona’s sword arm ached, and Ostap drove her toward the wall.
Sensing she was about to be trapped, she faltered, and Ostap’s blade cut her forearm. Pain seared her arm, and she nearly dropped the sword, but the smug look on Ostap’s face tightened her grip. Almost instantly, the wound healed itself, but Ostap struck again, stabbing her shoulder. She gasped at the pain. She was going to lose before she’d even begun.
Her breathing grew ragged. Maybe Lir is right—maybe I don’t belong here. Then again, she didn’t belong anywhere.
She spied the quarterdeck’s ladder out of the corner of her eye and climbed two rungs, still facing Ostap. She was striking from a greater height, but Ostap parried the blows with ease. The air filled with the sound of clashing steel and the frenzied jeers of the other recruits.
Lir’s words played through her mind. Find your opponent’s weakness. Did Ostap even have a weakness? It didn’t seem that way. Even if he did, she was trapped on the ladder, and her entire body begged for rest.
She struggled for breath as his attacks became more forceful, and she nearly lost control of the sword. Might be time to retreat.