witch. Blood dripped from the wound in his arm, mingling with the rain. Shit, he thought, readjusting his slippery grip and shaking his head to clear the dizziness from Igor’s blow earlier. Shit. His opponent was taller and stronger.
And Ramson was rusty.
Think, he told himself desperately. He needed to buy time.
His enemy lunged. Ramson met the twin blades with a blow of his own, slashing downward. Metal screeched. He twisted his blade sharply, using a technique he’d learned from his swordmaster, momentarily locking the two daggers together. The bounty hunter looked up at him and bared his teeth.
“Just a reminder,” Ramson called over their entangled blades. “Lord Kerlan probably wants me in one piece, right?”
“I’ll bring you in one piece,” the mercenary snarled. “After I cut you up and stitch you back together again.”
It wasn’t a confirmation, but it was just as much: Kerlan was hunting him. Though Ramson would, ironically, bet his life that Kerlan wanted him back alive. If Kerlan wanted you dead, you’d wake with a dagger against your neck and your throat slit before you could even scream.
Most people, anyway. There was a reason Ramson had been Kerlan’s Deputy.
As long as Kerlan still wanted him alive, Ramson had a bargaining chip.
With a grunt, Ramson turned and twisted his blade free, pivoting full circle so that he was several paces back, sword raised. “No need to be so angry over your dead partner. With him gone, you’ll now have twice the reward.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about him.” The mercenary raised a dagger, pointing over Ramson’s shoulder. “Once I take care of you, I’ll make that witch feel living hell before she dies.”
Ramson’s blood turned stone-cold. He knew these types of men: cutthroats who’d known nothing but violence their entire lives. To Ramson, violence was a means to an end. To these men, violence had no end.
You could run, a voice inside him urged. Leave the girl to him and take the chance to escape.
He’d kill her. Do worse things to her.
You don’t care, the voice insisted. You made the mistake of caring before. And they ended up dead anyway.
Logic urged him that escape was the best course of action. Calculation told him that the mercenary was taller and stronger, and that his own odds of winning were narrower than a new moon.
Yet something more powerful than logic and more compelling than calculation roared in his veins as he angled his blade at the mercenary. Ramson dug his heels into the ground. “She’s mine,” he snarled. “And I don’t share.”
With a growl, his enemy rushed forward. Ramson darted back, dodging each whip-fast slash of the two alternating blades. Swerve, duck, twirl, parry, as though he were in a deadly dance, his moves light and fluid. The lessons of his youth were coming back to him and he felt as though he had been transported to another time and place, when his swordsmaster was bearing down on him beneath the brilliant blue of a Bregonian sky.
As fluid as the river, as strong as the sea.
This was just another lesson; just another dance.
Ramson leapt out of the way as the mercenary’s blades slashed at him, so fast that they were a silver-gray blur in the rain. Blow after blow, the mercenary bore down, his slashes growing faster and stronger. Ramson dodged. Face, throat, chest, legs—back and back, the song of their blades rising to a crescendo.
Ramson feinted left; his opponent lunged.
Ramson slashed right; his opponent dodged.
Bit by bit, Ramson’s exhaustion began to show. His limbs ached. Soon his weakness would cost him.
Ramson leapt back as the mercenary swung his blades down, but he felt the sharp sting of metal across his chest. Blood warmed his clothes. He barely had enough time to glance up when the mercenary’s fist collided with his face.
Pain exploded in his jaw. Black spots filled his vision and the world spun as he reeled off balance. He plunged backward into cold, wet mud.
Gasping, he rolled to his side, reaching for his sword.
A dark shape burst from the curtain of rain, and the mercenary was on him, landing one, two, three vicious punches in his abdomen. Ramson retched; stars erupted before him.
A flash of metal. Kneeling atop Ramson, the mercenary drove his blade down.
Ramson’s hands flew up. His arms screamed; his legs felt like cotton; his head was light from the breaths that he could not draw.
A savage grin split the mercenary’s face as he threw his body weight into pushing the dagger down, its