Then he lunged.
His sword came fast, faster than his men's clumsy swings, a straight thrust aimed at my chest with the precision of someone who'd killed before.
I twisted sideways, the blade passing inches from my ribs, and countered with a slash toward his neck.
He parried, steel screaming against steel, and immediately riposted with a cut at my shoulder.
I blocked, the impact jarring my arms, and disengaged, putting space between us.
He's good.
We circled each other, boots scraping against dirt, both looking for openings.
He attacked again, a high slash followed immediately by a low sweep, trying to catch me off-guard with the rhythm change.
I read the pattern, parried the high strike, and jumped back from the sweep. Before he could recover, I lunged forward, driving my blade toward his midsection.
He twisted, my sword catching only cloth and drawing a thin line of blood across his side.
But not deep enough.
