I hadn't fallen for it. He recovered almost immediately, pivoting out of one pattern into another, far too fast for me to get behind him.
Hit the person, not the sword! It isn't the sword that's trying to kill you. And remember, taller opponents have a longer reach, but they often leave their legs exposed. It isn't only torsos and heads that are targets, girl! I made a slashing move on a downward arc, and got a glancing hit on Pritkin's left calf as he danced out of reach. I doubted it would even bruise, but with a real sword, it might have drawn blood.
Eugenie could have taken his leg off with it, but I didn't have her skill. Despite her best efforts, I never would. But unlike Rafe, she had never pulled her punches. We'd fought with wooden swords, too, which was how I knew they hurt like hell when they hit. And she'd had no compunction about spanking me across the shins or backside with the flat of her blade if I was giving less than my best. Over the years, along with a lot of bruises, I'd accumulated rudimentary skill that, it seemed, hadn't completely deserted me.
Remember to breathe. We may not have to, but you do, so use it. Strike on the exhale, it gives you more power. Great advice, but the trick was managing to land a blow at all, which was suddenly a lot harder. Parry, retreat, strike, lunge—I was moving on autopilot as Pritkin kicked it into high gear. I guess he'd decided playtime was over. And I hadn't even realized that was what we'd been doing.
Within a minute, the burn of tired muscles was working its way through my arms and shoulders, down to my spine. Sweat was dripping in my eyes, turning my vision hot and grainy, and an exhausted headache was building inside my skull. But Pritkin's sneaker-clad feet made hardly any sound against the polished wood floor, and he'd stopped telegraphing his movements. While the mirrors threw back images of him as an almost living extension of his weapon, his word flowing seamlessly into muscle and sweat and bone, I had to concentrate just to stay in the fight and not trip over my own feet.
There's no such thing as a fair fight! Use what you have, all you have: throw sand in their eyes, kick dirt, hit below the belt. Remember, your goal is survival, not a prize for chivalry. That last was one lesson, at least, that I'd never had to be told twice. I ignored the blade coming at me, concentrated on the space behind Pritkin, and shifted. A second later, I had the point of my sword in the small of his back.
I hesitated, foolishly assuming that would end it, but Pritkin apparently had other ideas. He whirled, his weapon catching mine and spinning it out of my hand, his sword point under my chin, all practically before I could blink. "I wondered how long it would take before you remembered you can do that."
I shifted before the look of amused superiority on his face had completely coalesced, and grabbed my sword from where it had skidded to a stop under the windows. I turned to find him almost on top of me, having crossed the room at a run, and I shifted again just before he got a hand on me. I tried something a little fancy, hoping to save the few seconds it would take me to turn around, and ended up facing him.
Unfortunately, my inner ears didn't appreciate the sudden change in direction and a wave of dizziness cost me more time than a spin would have. It also made me stumble into him as he started to turn and we tripped and went down to the floor together, trying to move our swords out of the way before we fell on them. I tried to pin him, but he rolled us over and grinned down at me, eyes bright, face flushed.
"That's thrice now, practically back to back. What's your limit again? Four?"
I shifted out from under him and heard him fall to the floor with a thump as I grabbed my sword back. Or maybe it was his; my hair was in my eyes, along with a lot of sweat, and I wasn't seeing too clearly. "It varies," I panted, denting the sweatshirt over his heart with the point. "On the motivation."
Pritkin's leg caught me behind the knee, and I stumbled, barely