"Stupid horse," Rurik murmured with a weary smile, running a gloved hand along the animal's neck. "I hadn't thought your senses so sharp. I should have heeded you more often."
He gave the gray a pat, then motioned it to stay back. The air was still, save for the faint rustle of the leaves. Rurik drew the Dragon's Breath, the steel whispering free with a cold metallic sigh. The blade caught the waning light as he turned, fixing his gaze upon the Frankish rider across the clearing. He meant to end this quickly.
Steel rasped against steel as the Frankish knight, too, unsheathed his sword. Their eyes met—one sharp, cold, and unwavering; the other cautious, measuring, and grim. In that instant Rurik felt the weight of danger pressing upon his chest. His instincts prickled with warning.
Damnation. A seasoned fighter.
