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He spun toward me, and my saber glanced off metal. Chain mail under the jacket. Crap. Steel fingers clamped my sword hand, keeping it pinned. He turned and stabbed the rigid fingers of his right hand under my breastbone. I shied away from the stab to lessen the impact—it still hurt like hell—and grabbed his right wrist, jerking him toward me. For a second all of his weight rested on his left leg and I kicked it out from under him. He crashed to the floor and dragged me down with him, his fist locked on my sword hand. I hit the ground, letting go of Slayer. My hand slipped between his fingers and I rolled into the clear.
Half a breath later we were both on our feet.
“Pretty sword,” he said, twisting Slayer to catch a sun ray. The light danced on the opaque blade and sank into the black chain-mail shirt now showing below his jacket. “Why no guard?”
“Don’t need one.”
“Is it any good?”
I kicked a strip of leather I’d sliced off. “You tell me.”
His hand went back to check his chain shirt, and I kicked him, aiming for the throat. He caught my foot with a grunt, and dumped me on the floor. His knee pressed on my neck. He’d set a trap and I’d walked right into it. The light was shrinking. I could barely breathe.
“You kick like a mule.” He grimaced and ground his knee harder. I wasn’t getting enough air. He had my right hand pinned, but not my left. I bent my left hand, and a cold sliver of the silver needle slid into my palm from the leather wristband. “But I’ve been at this a lot longer…”
I drove the silver needle into his thigh.
His thigh muscle contracted. He grunted and fell off me. I leaped to my feet and kicked him in the face.
It was a solid kick and it connected. He sprawled on his back, blood running from his nose. I dropped next to him, slid my leg under his arm, and clenched it with my other leg, bending the arm backward in a classic shoulder lock. He growled. All I had to do was scissor my legs, and I’d dislocate his arm, and I still had both hands free.
I zipped his jacket open, looking for the maps.
“Wrong zipper,” he gasped. “Try lower.”
“In your dreams.” I reached into the inner pocket and pulled a plastic pack free. The maps. “Stealing’s a crime. Thank you for returning the Pack’s property. Your cooperation has been noted.”
He looked me straight in the face, smiled, and vanished.
I scrambled to my feet. The red bolt punctured the dirt between my feet, catching me on the way up. I straightened very slowly.
He stood a few feet away, pointing the crossbow at me. It was loaded. The hand-sharpened bolt head stared me in the eye. I couldn’t dodge a crossbow bolt from nine feet away. Not even on my best day.
“Hands where I can see them,” he ordered. I showed him my palms, the Pack maps still securely