‘You’ll never know,’ she told him, launching an attack of blistering speed, aiming cuts and thrusts to face and body. Each one he blocked, and never once made the riposte. At last she fell back, confused and dismayed. She could not breach his defences, but what was more galling was that he made no attempt to breach hers.
‘Why will you not fight me?’ she asked him.
‘Why should I?’
‘I mean to kill you.’
‘Do you have a reason for this hostility?’ he enquired, the ugly gash of a mouth breaking into a smile.
‘I know you, Morak. I know why you are here. That should be enough.’
‘It would …’ he started to say, but she attacked again, and this time he wasn’t quite fast enough, her blade slicing past his face and cutting his earlobe. His fist lashed out and up, thundering against her chin. Half-stunned, Miriel lost her grip on her sword and fell to her knees. The newcomer’s blade touched her neck. ‘Enough of this nonsense,’ he said, moving away from her and picking up his cloak.
Gathering her sword she faced him again. ‘I will not let you pass,’ she said grimly.
‘You couldn’t stop me,’ he told her, ‘but it was a game effort. Now where is Waylander?’ She advanced again. ‘Wait,’ he said, sheathing his sword. ‘I am not Morak. You understand me? I am not from the Guild.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ she said, her blade now resting on his throat.
“Then believe this: had I wished to kill you I would have. You know that is true.’
‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Angel,’ he answered, ‘and a long time ago I was a friend to your family.’
‘You are here to help us?’
‘I don’t fight other men’s battles, girl. I came to warn him. I see now it was unnecessary.’
Slowly she lowered her sword. ‘Why are they hunting him? He has harmed no one.’
He shrugged. ‘Not for many a year, I’ll grant you that, but he has many enemies. It is one of the drawbacks of an assassin’s life. Did he teach you to use a sword?’
‘Yes.’
‘He ought to be ashamed of himself. Swordfighting is heart and mind in perfect harmony,’ he said sternly. ‘Did he not tell you that?’
‘Yes he did,’ she snapped.
‘Ah, but like most women you only listen when it suits you. Yes, I can see that. Well, can you cook?’
Holding back her temper she gave her sweetest smile. ‘I can. I can also embroider, knit, sew, and what else? Ah yes …’ Her fist cracked against his chin. Standing alongside the fallen tree he had no time to move his feet and steady himself, and a second blow sent him sprawling across the trunk to land in a mud-patch on the other side. ‘I almost forgot,’ she said. ‘He taught me to fight with my fists.’
Angel pushed himself to his knees and slowly rose. ‘My first wife was like you,’ he said, rubbing his chin. ‘A dreadful woman, soft as goosedown on the outside, baked leather and iron inside. But I’ll say this, girl – he did a better job of teaching you to punch than he did to thrust. Can we have a truce now?’
Miriel chuckled. Truce,’ she agreed.
*
Angel rubbed his swollen jaw as he walked behind the tall mountain woman. A kick like an angry horse and a punch almost as powerful. He smiled ruefully, his eyes watching the way she moved, graceful and yet economical. She fought well, he conceded, but with too much head and too little instinct. Even the punches she had thrown had been ill-disguised, but Angel had allowed them to land, sensing she needed some outlet for frustration at having been so easily defeated.
A proud woman. And attractive, he decided, somewhat to his surprise. Angel had always favoured big-breasted women, buxom and comfortable, warm between the sheets. Miriel was a mite thin for his taste and her legs, though long and beautifully proportioned, were just a little too muscular. Still, as the saying went, she was a woman to walk the mountains with.
He chuckled suddenly, and she turned. ‘Something is amusing you?’ she asked, her expression frosty.