Dralan stepped into the trap.
Laronnar lifted his left arm and thumbed the jeweled button on the dagger’s guard. The two narrow parrying blades sprang away from the center blade. Laronnar trapped Dralan’s bright and shining sword in the three blades of the dagger. Sparks flew. Metal sang against metal. The dagger slid halfway down Dralan’s blade. Laronnar twisted, putting his weight behind it. The snap of the blade was a crack like lightning in the suddenly quiet tavern.
Dralan cursed and flung the hilt of the broken sword at Laronnar.
Laronnar swung into motion, dropped the dagger, and slashed with his right hand. He swung his bladed fist in a tight half-circle.
The blade caught Dralan on the shoulder as he tumbled backward. The sharp edge bit through leather and cloth and skin. Dralan fell, clutching his bloody arm.
Laronnar slashed downward, gloved fist grasped in his left hand. At the last moment, Dralan rolled sideways. Laronnar’s sword cut through empty air where Dralan had been, slammed into the heavy oak planks. Laronnar fell to his knees. Dralan kicked.
Pain exploded through Laronnar’s head as the commander’s heavy boot connected with his face. The force of the blow tossed him backward. His hand crumpled beneath him.
Laronnar groaned and tried to roll to his feet. He could taste blood on his lips, on his tongue, and he focused on it, on the sickening, coppery flavor. Clutching his head, he managed to push up on his knees and elbows. Regaining his balance, he saw Dralan being helped to his feet by Kaelay.
The draconian aide was holding Dralan’s dropped sword, giving it to the commander.
On his knees, Laronnar drew Haylis’s small crossbow from his belt and fired.
There was a sound from the tavern patrons, like the rising and falling of the wind, as the draconian fell backward through the rickety doors of the tavern, the cross-bow quarrel protruding from his forehead.
Rain and cold salt wind whooshed in through the demolished doors. Shuffling and pushing, the patrons crowded near the door, shifted back along the walls, loath to leave the fight, loath to get wet while watching it.
Dralan, chest heaving, stood dumbfounded for a moment. He stared at his dead aide and at the long sword, glinting dully on the boardwalk, still clutched in the draconian’s fist. Dralan looked at Laronnar. “Two good men have died because of our quarrel. Let us end this now,” he rasped, hand extended, palm up. “Honorably.”
Laronnar forced himself, by will alone, to stand. The cold air snuffed the candles, whipped the torches, leaving the room in flickering semidarkness. The chill helped to clear his head. He nodded in agreement and extended his hand-the gloved hand.
Something in his face, or his eyes, gave him away.
Dralan wheeled away, falling toward his aide’s body.
Laronnar hooked his fingers in the back of Dralan’s armor and dragged him into the tavern just as the commander grabbed the lizard man’s sword. Using the steel-augmented glove covering the back of his hand, Laronnar struck the back of Dralan’s head.
He could tell by the way Dralan lurched and slid down in his grasp that the blow had stunned him. But Dralan maintained his grip on the two-handed sword, dragging it with him.
Laronnar swiped at Dralan’s exposed neck with the spikes, raking the side of his head. Dralan roared like a wounded animal, threw himself forward. His weight tore his armor from Laronnar’s fingers.
Dralan righted himself and wheeled drunkenly to face Laronnar. Blood was streaming down the side of his head, spreading across his white collar. He clutched the draconian sword in his hands.
Dralan struck, but his grip on the sword was clumsy, his vision impaired. The blade hit Laronnar’s ribs, and he went down. The next blow was better aimed and the tip of the blade slashed into his thigh. Laronnar gulped in air. Pain shot up his leg.
The pain gave him fear. The fear fed him strength. Laronnar kicked out with his good leg. The sword flew out of Dralan’s hands, and Laronnar crawled away, clutching his bleeding leg.
Stumbling, Dralan scrabbled for the sword, found it, and came after his enemy. He tried to turn the heavy sword, to correct his grip on the huge pommel. Pausing, he swiped his sleeve across his face, to clear the blood from his eyes.