“And if I win, we get safe passage to the harbor.”
“Yes,” Esmond said. “I so order my underofficers, in the sight of the Gray-Eyed Lady and by my own honor.” That would be a hard promise for Casull to break; the regiment would be seriously pissed off if he did. The rumble was back, but he ignored it as he strode out.
“May I see your face?” Franzois said.
Esmond pushed his helmet back, letting the light fall on his features. The Islander smiled.
“Very much the Emerald hero,” he said, taking a quick swig from a leather bottle one of his companions handed him. “My great-great—no matter—one of my ancestors fought against the Solingians at the Narrow Straits. He recorded that it wasn’t a very good idea.”
“My ancestors fought in the League Wars too,” Esmond said politely. He took the time to lean his sword against his hip and carefully dry hand and hilt. “Both sides came off with credit, but the Fates spin the thread of every war.”
He pulled the helmet back down and brought up sword and buckler, the small shield under his chin and sword advanced. Franzois nodded and took his own stance, slashing-sword up and back, leading with his shield. Esmond watched the way he held his weapons, the movements of his feet, the set of the thick blocky shoulders.
Fast heavy man, he thought; that was rare, and dangerous. Sword’s seen a lot of use.
* * *
“Watch out, for Allfather’s sake!” Helga shouted to Adrian.
The billhook crashed across the surface of her buckler. There was vicious weight and an urgent desire to kill behind the blow from the darkened alcove ahead, nothing like training back on the estate. Her left arm went numb for an instant, then gave a burning throb of pain that agonized from wrist and elbow right up into the shoulder. The weapon—a big straight razor on a six-foot pole, with a spike on top and a hook behind—slammed into the stucco of the courtyard wall, raining lime plaster and brick chips on her, leaving the billman bent over with the staggering surprise of not having his momentum stopped by his target. She stepped forward in a passing lunge, drilled reflex, sword out, her whole body taking off from the left foot and slamming forward behind point and arm, right foot coming down and knee flexing to add distance to the stroke. The soft heavy resistance as the point went in over the Vasean’s collarbone was still an unpleasant surprise; so was the grating of steel on bone somewhere in the man’s body.
So was the backstroke with the butt of the weapon, the iron ferrule thumping painfully into her thigh.
“Ow! Pigfucker!” she yelped, twisting and yanking to get her own weapon free.
The blood that splashed over her simply added to the drying, sticky mat that covered her from throat to shins; she’d learned to ignore the smell . . . mostly. With a grunt she braced a foot on the still-twitching body and pulled. There were ugly popping, rending sounds as she did, more felt through the hilt than heard through the ears.
“Don’t you ever look where you’re going?” she snapped at . . . Adrian Gellert, she remembered.
Confed folk wisdom had it that Emeralds had no bottom, no real guts; she’d seen enough today to make her seriously doubt that. It also held that Emerald wisdom lovers would step into a well while looking at the stars, and if Adrian was typical, that was pretty much true, at least. Her mouth twisted wryly as she fought to get her breath back. She’d had fantasies of rescue, of course; usually her father, or some handsome well-born young tribune in a crested helmet and figured back-and-breast. This slender young Emerald with the dreamy blue eyes and his air of listening to voices nobody else heard was a bit of a contrast, with his rumpled hair showing around his open-face helmet and bits of the iron plates wearing through the leather of his jack.
Well, he’s certainly good to have around, she thought, looking out of the corner of her eye at the mercenary troopers crowding forward for the rush into the next courtyard.