Chapter 22
“There’s a village here?” I ask in surprise before the rest of it soaks in.
I still have no idea where Roiven’s brought me, beyond this courtyard and the next.
Without a dragon or a Hellion, I know I can’t reach Barivum in time to stop anything.
But I’d feel a lot more comfortable if I at least knew how to get to a boat.
“Do we have a deal?” he asks. I hesitate.
“That depends on the challenge. You can’t fight with that enchantment on you.”
“I can’t hurt you, but I can still spar.”
“I’m not doing something where you have the advantage.”
“And if I have the advantage in everything?”
“Fencing,” I growl. I may be two years out of practice, but he wasn’t even wearing a sword when we fought. And I spent my life training against knights of all sizes. His height and heavy muscles won’t make a difference to me.
“Nice try. I’m not giving you your sword back.”
“Practice swords.”
“Oh, of course, let me just grab some. Where do you think we are?” He drawls sarcastically.
“How should I know? You’re the one keeping me locked in the courtyard.”
The Witch King snorts.
“Point taken. There are no practice swords.”
“Live blades, then,” I say, lifting my chin.
“As I said, I don’t trust you with one.”
“So you agree I’d beat you. Feel free to surrender.” I smile.
Roiven scowls.
“Someone could get hurt.”
“I’m good enough to stop that from happening. Are you?”
The Witch King stares flatly at me for a long moment.
“Wait here,” he says. Roiven heads through the arch in the courtyard. A few minutes later, he returns with a sword in each hand. I recognize mine instantly. The other is already unsheathed. It’s plain steel, long, the blade wider than mine.
“If you step on the plants, you lose immediately,” Roiven says, tossing me my blade. I catch it easily by the sheath and glance around. There are pathways in the courtyard and some things growing out of pots, but plenty in the ground. The flowers surrounding the table are especially a problem.
“Can’t we duel somewhere else?”
“You aren’t leaving the courtyard. First to three…”
In a swift movement I rip my sword from its sheath and level it at his throat. Roiven straightens, his nostrils flaring as he glares down at me.
“Point to me.”
“We hadn’t begun, knight.”
I press the tip of the sword to his neck, not hard enough to puncture. Just enough for him to feel it. Roiven doesn’t move. His burning eyes don’t leave my face.
“If I could kill you, that’s a point,” I say. “Not my fault you were too slow to block.”
Without warning, Roiven spins to the side and swings his sword up, knocking my blade off-course away from him. He’s fast, and he holds the sword with comfortable familiarity.
I toss the sheath onto the table and lunge. When he goes to block, I snake sideways and get the sword inside his guard again. Roiven narrowly twists out of the way. He blocks and runs his blade down mine. I disengage and jump back before he can land a blow.
“You aren’t bad,” I admit. Not as skilled as I used to be, but formidable. And fast.
Roiven smirks and drives me to the side, boxing me in with his sword and his body, and giving me no way to go but to my left: towards the table.
The flowers surround the table, with plentiful spaces to step between them, but I can’t watch my feet and fight at the same time.
“You aren’t terrible yourself,” the witch tells me, as I block an overhead strike.
Roiven bears down, trying to use his weight to overcome me.
His face is less than a foot from mine now.
I keep my eyes on his collarbone, so I can see every movement his body makes, but I feel his gaze locked on my lips.
“I’m two years out of practice,” I tell him through gritted teeth. If I were still training daily, this would already be over.
I angle my sword sharply down to the left as I move right. His weight carries him through the blow as I move out of the way. I swing my sword towards the opening on his right, and tap the flat of the blade against his muscle-padded ribs.
“Point.” It’s impossible not to feel smug. Victory is so close I can taste it on my tongue. “If you surrender now, I can spare you the disgrace of losing three to none.”
Roiven scowls and steps back, sword raised in a guard position.
“I don’t surrender.”
“You prefer to lose outright, then.”
He rushes forward. I block two strikes easily. He twists out of the way of my return cut, but his sword is low as he does, leaving his head open.
With a grin, I strike from above. Roiven picks his leg up and shoves the heel of his boot into my stomach. He gets his sword up at the last second to block my strike.
I stumble back. He didn’t hit hard enough to hurt, just to knock me off balance.
“I win.” Roiven tucks his sword beneath his arm, as if we’re done.
“It’s three blows, and with a sword.”
He raises his eyebrows and nods down to the ground. My teeth clench hard as I see the trampled yellow flower that he kicked me into. I’ve destroyed it, and all because of his cheap trick.
“In a real fight,” I start to growl.
“I won. You lost. Give me the sword, and let’s get started,” Roiven says, holding his hand out for the blade. His stupid handsome face looks smug.
I could kill him right now. While I still have the blade. He can spar, but he can’t actually hurt me. For a moment I’m tempted, and I draw a deep breath, trying to steady myself. But I can’t kill a man who can’t fight back. And all it would do would get me killed in return.
My face burns as I go to fetch the sheath, but I give him back the sword without further complaint.
“You know I still bested you, right?” I tell him. Roiven gives me an annoyingly smug look. Some day, I’m going to wipe it off his face.
“Come along, knight.”