He motioned to the Sud with the fingers of his left hand. “Come on, let’s have the finale. I can’t waste any more time on your prancing. The lady is waiting, and I don’t want to be rude.”
The Sud leaped, unleashing a flurry of strokes, too fast to keep up. Richard parried the first, the second, the third, and counterattacked, holding his sword with both hands, sinking all of his strength into the overhead blow.
The Sud flashed, shielding his blade, but the sheer power of the impact staggered him.
Richard struck again, bringing a barrage of blows onto the Sud’s sword, forcing him back with every strike. Sweat broke out on Richard’s forehead. This attack was draining all of his reserves, but he was betting on the Sud’s ego. If he was lucky, the younger man would rise to the challenge. A wiser swordsman would simply wait Richard out and, once he tired, kill him at his leisure, but youth and wisdom didn’t always travel together.
The Sud lunged forward, grinding his blade against Richard’s, flash against flash. They struggled, locked. The Sud twisted, trying to catch Richard’s leading leg with his foot, aiming to trip him. Richard shoved him back. The younger man stumbled, off-balance. Richard hammered a front kick to his chest.
The Sud fell back and rolled to his feet like a cat. His face was a furious mask. He screamed and charged. Richard sidestepped his barrage of strikes, dodging, parrying, knocking the blade aside when he could. He knew the wall was behind him, but there was no place to go.
His foot touched the stone of the wall. The Sud whirled like his joints were liquid and thrust, aiming at the heart, so fast he blurred. Richard parried on pure instinct, sliding his blade under the strike. Their magic ground against each other, blue against white. The man’s entire weight pressed onto Richard’s blade, tearing a ragged snarl from him.
The swordsman’s blade slid up, gaining an inch.
Richard pushed back, his arms shaking from the strain. Holding the younger man’s deadweight was squeezing the last drops of strength from his tired body.
Another inch. The Sud’s narrow blade slid along Richard’s sword. He saw it move but was powerless to stop it.
The sword cut his left biceps, slicing through the muscle in an agonizing slow burn.
Sonovabitch. There was no way out of this position that didn’t end with his being hurt. Even if he could summon enough strength to shove the younger man back, the effort would leave him exposed for a counterstrike, and with his back to the wall, he had no way to maneuver.
The Sud grinned.
If he lost, Charlotte would die. He would fail, and Sophie would be left alone with her demons. He had to kill the other man.
He would endure pain if it meant he would win.
Richard dropped his blade. The Sud’s sword, abruptly free from resistance, slid forward and cut deeper across his arm, biting into the bone in a flash of pain. Thrown off-balance, the Sud pitched forward, and Richard hammered his fist into the man’s throat. The swordsman rocked back from the blow. Richard tore the sword from his opponent’s hand, flashed, coating it in his magic, and thrust it upward, under the rib cage. The blade carved through the lungs and heart like a knife through a soft pear. The bloody end emerged from the Sud’s breast and sliced into the underside of his chin.
The man opened his mouth, surprise making his face look young . . . Blood poured out from between his teeth, drenching them in red. Richard pushed him back, and the Sud fell, his unseeing eyes staring at the ceiling.
Richard slumped forward, trying to catch his breath. His left arm hung useless, the gash in his muscle burning as if someone had poured molten lead into wound. He stared at the man by his feet. What was he, twenty-five? Twenty-eight? His whole life ahead of him, good looks, talent, and now he was dead. Such a waste.
Richard gritted his teeth and looked at the cut. Blood drenched his skin and dripped on the floor. He didn’t have much of it to spare as it was.
Gods, it hurt like hell. He breathed in deeply through his nose, trying to separate himself from the pain, forced his face into a calm mask, and turned to Charlotte.
She sagged on the overturned chest, her shoulders slumped, her spine bent. “Let me see it.”
“No.” If she saw it, she would try to heal him, and he couldn’t let her do that.
“My lord—”
“I said no.”
“—don’t be a baby.”
A baby? He ripped a sleeve off the Sud’s shirt and wrapped it around his arm. “There. It’s fixed.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
He picked up his sword. His left arm felt like it was on fire, and it hurt to move.
“Richard, don’t ignore me. You just wrapped a filthy rag over an open wound, which is surely infected now.”
He walked over to her. “I’m fine. You’re spent.”
“At least let me look at it!”
“Are you well enough to go upstairs?”
She pushed herself up from the chest, that familiar ice flashing in her eyes. “Without my magic and with my eyes closed, I’m a better field medic than you are. You will let me look at your wound and dress it properly instead of wrapping some soiled sleeve around it. It will take two minutes, then we can go upstairs and hunt down the bookkeeper. Or we can do it your way, and you can faint from blood loss, in which case we’re both dead because I can’t carry you or protect you. Your arm, my lord. Now.”
He turned, presenting her with his left arm. It was easier than arguing. She pulled a bag from under her cloak, opened it, and a took out a plastic first-aid kit, complete with the Broken’s familiar red cross on it. Charlotte opened the kit, took out a small vial, and handed it to him. “Drink this.”
He pulled the cork out with his teeth and gulped the bitter liquid. Cold rushed through him, down the injured muscle, right to the source of pain. A welcome numbness came. It felt heavenly.
Charlotte splashed something on the cut and began wrapping his arm. “He cut the bone.”
“Mhm.”