Collier moved like a serpent. That was the only way to describe it. He was all supple grace, rippling away from blows with ease before stinging with his fangs. He did not wait for the others to strike first. They were surrounded by over a dozen men with blades, and he took the fight to their cheekbones, their eyes, their wrists, their bowels. Stab, swish, parry—lunge. Maia had seen Paeizian fencing masters before. In her former life, she had even trained under one in her father’s court. But this was not a controlled ritual. This was a fight to the death.
Someone’s eye was pierced and she winced at the sound of it, the impact followed by a yelp and shriek of pain. Blood bloomed like flower petals from her attackers’ shoulders, arms, and waists. She could see why the King of Dahomey had earned the nickname of Feint. His moves were completely unpredictable and utterly savage. Several of the men tried to rush him from behind, but he swept low, parrying multiple blades with a single stroke before flicking out his own blade like a serpent’s tongue, meticulously stabbing his opponents in vulnerable locations, dropping them with graceful ease and debilitating wounds.
One of the victims lost his blade at Maia’s feet, and she swept it up by the hilt. It had been years since she had handled such a blade, but she knew what to do. The foes were thinning quickly, but she sliced the arm of one of the men lunging at Collier’s back. The man growled in pain, scowled at her, and without further ado, fled into the crowd. They had attracted the eyes of everyone on the wharf and sailors hung from the rigging of their boats to get a better view of the fight.
Maia watched as a man in a black jeweled tunic approached them from the wharf with an ornate blade in his hand. He had a trim goatee and an earring in one ear. Sweeping back his cloak, he shouted out a challenge that sent several of their opponents scurrying away.
The man did not look to be a Hautlander and when he shouted again, Maia recognized his tongue as Paeizian. He was challenging Collier to a duel.
Using the distraction, another man slowly slipped up behind Collier with a dagger, and Maia kicked him in the ribs, knocking him down, winning her chuckles of approval from the gathering crowd. She stood near Collier, blade held defensively in a bell guard stance, and positioned herself to protect his back.
Collier’s voice was sardonic. “Thank you for making it so easy to find you.”
“Are you going to fight him?” she asked, watching the black-clothed man approach.
“Not many other options at the moment.”
The two men faced off, swishing their blades down in an informal salute. Maia felt the power of the Medium radiating out from Collier, sending tendrils of oily fear into the air. The two engaged without another word, their blades flashing in the morning light and clashing sharply against each other. Both men were masters, Maia could see, and the simple blows that had disarmed or set down Collier’s previous opponents would not work the same way against this man.
The two traded parries and lunges, their weapons whistling death. The newcomer, who was older and more worldly, frowned in concentration as he deflected the blows Collier aimed at him, then riposted ruthlessly. Their blades clashed and the feeling of fear in the air darkened and intensified. Maia could see that emotion in the eyes of the other observers, who backed away from the combatants for fear of their lives.
“He is good,” Collier said, sweat dripping from his nose. “Melle bene.”
The man with the goatee dipped his chin to acknowledge the praise.
Maia looked down the street and saw a retinue of Dochte Mandar marching toward them.
“They are coming,” she warned. “He is only here to stall us.”
“Give me a moment more,” Collier said, his voice strained as he arched his back and twisted away from his opponent’s thrust, but not quickly enough to escape a shallow cut that sliced open his shirt, exposing the kystrel beneath it and sending a rivulet of blood down his front. When Maia saw the kystrel, her thoughts went black and she struggled to keep her own mind.
No! No! Not now!
Collier slammed his elbow down on the man’s wrist, then punched his pommel guard into the man’s lip so hard his head tossed back. He twirled his body around and clipped the man’s boot, knocking him on his back. The blade clattered from the Paeizian’s hand. Collier poised over him and the man’s eyes went wide with terror as the blade jabbed at his chest. There was a chink of metal as the tip of Collier’s sword was deflected off something under the man’s shirt.
“Thought so,” Collier said angrily. “A Victus.” Then he adjusted his aim and plunged his blade into the man’s forearm, impaling it. There was a howl of pain and agony.
Collier’s face was flushed, his breathing heavy, but in a fluid series of movements he jerked his blade loose, grabbed Maia’s arm, and pulled her after him. “Run,” he ordered.
They charged away from the advancing Dochte Mandar, who struggled through the disintegrating crowds. Shouts and warnings threatened them from behind, but the crowds parted as they made their way through it. The naked swords they wielded ensured it.
“The Argiver!” Collier shouted, jutting his blade to point the way. The boat he indicated was already facing the right direction, making ready to sail. Cries of alarm filled Maia’s ears, and they ran as hard as they could, rushing along the wharf toward the vessel.