No blade had ever felt so heavy in Vetch’s hands. It was more than mere fatigue. Fever burned throughout his body, weighing down his limbs with unyielding pain. Even to keep his head from lolling on his neck required an effort that near doubled his vision. Staring down the wrecked dining hall at the sellsword commander and his two cronies, Vetch tightened his fingers around his sword’s grip, willing himself to keep the blade level. He couldn't afford to show weakness. He couldn't gift his opponents any obvious targets to exploit. In truth, there was little strength left in his tortured muscles.

  With nothing preventing the three from swarming him, Vetch couldn't help but wonder why his enemies remained motionless, declining to attack. The threat of Marigold's magic was gone, as was that of Fae's wild brutality. Vetch stood his ground in the doorway through which they had fled. He was the only thing standing in the way of these raiders following them. But they displayed no urgency to get past him. Perhaps it would be different if their mistress were awake to spur them on, rather than Slumbering behind her protective Barrier in the corner.

  When at last it seemed as if they would all stand there regarding each other for eternity, the sellsword commander made a motion with his hand that drew the other two men to him. He spoke some words to them. One man sheathed his sword. The other said something back. The commander—Murzagis—turned a silent look upon that one. Cowed, the man nodded and also sheathed his sword. Then, the two retreated from the room, back in the direction of the manor’s front entry, leaving their commander alone in the hall with Vetch.

  Murzagis also sheathed his blade. With a gesture of his hand, he indicated the bodies of his fallen companions littering the hall.

  "You did this? To recapture the old woman?" Vetch chose not to answer. Murzagis's face betrayed nothing as he said, "A man like you could make a lot of coin where I come from."

  Was he offering a truce? Inviting Vetch to join his ranks? Or merely making an observation? Again, Vetch didn't answer. Let him talk. Let him offer whatever he chose. It gave Marigold more time by which she could flee with Lily to safety.

  The moustachioed man's upper lip twitched dismissively at the lack of a response from Vetch. His eyes hardly blinked as he appeared to size Vetch up, doubtlessly tallying the visible wounds and noting the lack of armor. He began unbuckling and removing his own armor. He stripped his upper body down to his shirt, dropping his boiled leather breastplate at his feet.

  "For fairness," he declared.

  So, it was owing to some odd sense of honor. That was why he had held his men back from attacking the spent mages, and why he sent them away now. Honor, Vetch thought. What did this heap of yak shit know about honor? After what he had done to Moonfane Forge and its people?

  "Fuck you," Vetch said.

  The words appeared to make no impression on Murzagis. Coolly, the sellsword commander went to the body nearest him and used his boot to turn it face up. If the identity of his dead compatriot meant anything to him, Vetch could not read it on his pocked face.

  In the years Vetch had spent in the garrison training in sword combat, he had learned to gauge the body language of his opponents. This man was calm. The muscles of Murzagis’s neck and shoulders were relaxed. He was neither nervous nor cautious. He ignored Vetch as, like a man on his way to some negligible chore in his barn, he crunched over the broken glass on the floor to look at another body. Vetch watched from his place guarding the corridor and felt rage bubbling inside him. Did he truly think so little of Vetch as to turn his back on him? Did he even remember him from their duel on the forest path?

  Leaving his post at the doorway wasn’t a conscious decision. It happened without thought. Enraged by this dismissal, Vetch charged across the dining hall, bellowing a guttural roar and raising his sword high, aiming for a killing blow at Murzagis’s skull. He ignored the pain shooting through his battered body as he put all his strength into bringing his blade down.

  Murzagis turned at the sound of Vetch’s reckless charge. Faster than Vetch could account for, the sellsword, in one smooth motion, drew his blade and deflected Vetch’s downswing. The clash tingled up Vetch’s arms as his momentum carried him past the other man. As he went by, the follow-through of Murzagis’s sword nicked him on the chin. The cut it left was small, but the jolt of steel against his jaw caused his teeth to clack together painfully and make his ears ring.

  Left vulnerable, Vetch turned just in time to stumble back from a powerful horizontal cut that Murzagis leveled at him. He gritted his teeth and raised his blade defensively. He’d not had the strength to attempt a parry. His entire body fought him, injury and fever racking his limbs and insides with burning pain. Murzagis calmly reset his stance, holding his sword one-handed. The man was taller than Vetch, and wiry with the sinewy musculature of a lifelong battler. They locked eyes; Vetch stared fire into cold shadow.

  “Do you remember me?” Vetch asked raggedly.

  The raider’s eyes narrowed, as if thinking back. Then, in place of an answer, he displayed only a look of pity. Angered, Vetch surged forward again, stabbing for the man’s unprotected stomach, only to shift his aim higher the moment Murzagis reacted.

  Again, the raider was faster. Their blades sheared across each other as Murzagis sidestepped Vetch’s stab. At the same time, he brought his fist down in a heavy blow across Vetch’s arms, clubbing them out of the way so he could ram his shoulder into Vetch’s chest. Vetch grunted as he was knocked on his back. He rolled to one side to avoid a downward stab and rose to his feet, finding himself behind a floating pane of golden-hued magic, one of the Barrier spells still hanging in the air following Lily and Marigold’s magic duel with Lady Iris.

  Murzagis wasted no motion in quickly stepping around the Barrier and forcing Vetch to counter an overhand slash. This time, Vetch came back around with a cut of his own, though the attack was more wild and desperate than he had intended. The raider moved back to avoid it. Vetch pressed forward with another slash, forcing Murzagis to parry. Steel scraped against steel as the two men came together in a grapple. Vetch could smell spiced sausage on his foe’s breath as their heads clashed. He tried to elbow him in the face, but Murzagis grabbed his wrist. Growling, Vetch wrenched himself back to create space, only for Murzagis to suddenly let go and kick him backward. The kick took Vetch by surprise and he was unable to raise his blade in time to stop the sword cut that came directly on its heels. The point of Murzagis’s blade tore a glancing slice across Vetch’s ribs, from which hot blood seeped.

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  Vetch lashed out with a defensive swing of his blade to keep the other man away, but Murzagis avoided it and stood back out of reach. With a shake of his head, the sellsword commander chuckled humorlessly.

  In the brief moment of reprieve, the sound brought Vetch back to the battle on the forest path and how, even when healthy, he had lost to this man. His thoughts then flashed back further still. In this raider’s casual dismissal of him was his garrison’s defeat at Moonfane Forge. Vetch recalled the sight of his captain and garrison companions lying dead in the street. He recalled the fire and smoke billowing around him as he’d tried to defend his town. On this bastard’s face now was the same impassive look that had been there when his raiders were stepping over the bodies of innocents to loot burning homes and shops.

  There were no words Vetch could summon that would convey his hatred for this man. Roaring his rage, he rushed back in and attacked with abandon. There was no rationale or strategy behind his frenzied swings. Heedless of what additional wounds he might suffer, Vetch let the heat of his anger drive his attacks.

  For some men, the adrenaline of battle brought mad laughter to their lips, or unchecked tears to their eyes. It deadened pain and fatigue. That sensation had already come and gone for Vetch, used up in keeping himself alive long enough to help Lily and Marigold escape. He could no longer rely on that burst of battle frenzy. His hands quaked no matter how tightly he clutched his sword, and his legs felt like jelly. With every blade thrust that he directed at his enemy, he felt every wound of his own—every bruise, every cut, the pain of infection eating its way through him.

  Yet, he didn’t care. Though he felt anger and fever and pain—though he worried beyond all reason for Lily’s safety, and anguished for the life together they would never have—there was one thing he didn’t feel: fear. He already knew he would die this day. Whether it was by the infection or by his enemy’s sword didn’t matter. He was going to die. And because he knew he was going to die, he could fight without caution or self-preservation.

  He threw himself at Murzagis with a flurry of blade thrusts and was satisfied to witness the surprise that flashed across the man’s face at Vetch having any fight left in him. Vetch slashed and stabbed, backing Murzagis up, forcing him to defend. He knew he couldn’t sustain this for long, but before he was cut down, perhaps he could land a blow that would take this whoreson with him. That would be sweet enough revenge. For himself. For Moonfane Forge.

  However, Murzagis was more than capable as a swordsman. Vetch had already learned this back in Bannerman’s Wood, and he saw it still now. The man defended Vetch’s wrathful swings with impeccable technique. He gave ground, but wouldn’t allow himself to be boxed in, defying Vetch to land any decent blows. Every swing of the blade cost Vetch more, his sword becoming heavier with every tortured thrust. Sweat got in his eyes and caused his tattered shirt to cling to his skin. Every pain imaginable assailed him. He pushed through it all, driving himself to score with one good stab, one cut, just so he could die knowing he had avenged his garrison in some small way.

  But it seemed every attack fell just short of landing. No matter how he pursued Murzagis across the dining hall, the man dodged and parried everything. And when Vetch least expected it, he would surprise him with a quick counterattack—not one meant to land, but only to ward Vetch back. He would then return to defending having exhausted Vetch further. The third time this happened, Vetch was so fixated on his own attacks that he failed to see the change in his opponent’s posture, allowing Murzagis to slip past his defenses and run a searing slash across his outer thigh.

  Vetch staggered to one side, gritting his teeth against the pain. He was only barely able to deflect the stab that Murzagis followed up with. Shuffling backward to put distance between the two of them, he nearly stumbled over one of the dead sellswords.

  As he regained his footing, and felt the blood soaking through his pant leg, it finally dawned on Vetch what was happening. He had forgotten everything he’d ever been taught in the Moonfane Forge garrison. He had allowed his anger and desire for vengeance to cause him to rush in and squander his energy uselessly. Worse than that, he saw now how Murzagis had anticipated this and goaded him into it, luring Vetch to exhaust himself while he hung back and scored riskless blows at his leisure.

  It was the same trap Vetch had fallen into back on the forest path, the very same mistake that had left him with the grievous wounds now destroying him. He could imagine how disappointed Ennric would be with him now; how Captain Tarese would be shaking her head at him, were she alive and able to witness this. Shame flooded Vetch hotter than the blood streaming from his fresh wounds. That he had been named captain of his remaining garrison now felt like a joke. He was acting like a greenhorn fresh off the farm, not a captain. Had he learned nothing from his other fight with this man?

  Vetch stood trying to catch his breath. Something in the set of his face must have tipped his foe off to his revelations, for a little sneer of amusement appeared on Murzagis’s lips, as if to mock Vetch for taking this long to deduce his strategy. And Vetch recognized that even this was designed to make him lose his temper and attack again recklessly.

  This time, he chose not to take the bait. He planted his feet and raised his sword in a short guard, willing himself to remember his training. Fighting with anger and misplaced passion had never been the key. He had to temper his anger, and focus.

  The commander of the sellswords gifted Vetch no such time to gather his thoughts. With a confident growl, Murzagis went in for the kill, bringing his blade down in an arcing chop that cut through the air. Vetch sidestepped and blocked the brunt of the blow with his sword’s cross guard. He grunted and aimed a punch at Murzagis’s jaw that missed. Murzagis rejoined with a backhand swing that Vetch narrowly avoided. The sellsword commander wasn’t playing games anymore. He wasn’t seeking to wear Vetch down, he was seeking to end things.

  As Vetch dodged and defended, his mind raced. He couldn’t just defend, for that would wear him down all the same. So, as his opponent had been doing, Vetch began looking for little openings, picking his spots and trying for calculated counterattacks when the risk was small. As he fought smarter, he broke through a few times—a superficial stab to Murzagis’s chest, a cut down his bicep that streamed blood.

  For the first time, the fight became a proper one between two swordsmen, skill against skill, not the reckless wasting of energy and angry fervor Vetch had fallen prey to before. The two men dueled their way all across the dining hall in this fashion—attacking, feinting, bluffing, countering. The chamber echoed with the pings of steel, the grunts and exhalations of combat.