I do not see him move.
A rush of air stirs to my right. I swing on a half-turn, meeting his blade. The clang peals out.
The Stallion deflects, lunging for my left flank. Our blades kiss before he spins away in a ripple of darkness. He returns, hacking at my neck with frightening calculation. A complex pattern of counter cuts keeps the Stallion at arm’s length, but he is ancient, this creature. He is no mere boy. I must remember that.
His next strike whacks my blade with back-breaking force. The impact rattles my arm, the roots of my teeth. Once more, he whirls away to enfold himself in the shadows. I scan the cave, weapon raised, my heartbeat marking the passing time. He has disappeared.
A droplet of sweat rolls with aching slowness down my spine. Tumbled gemstones, gold bricks, and shimmering silver ripple in waves of color beneath the roselights.
I am a blade.
A dark shape rushes from a murky corner. I pivot around his strike, yet slip on a few scattered jewels, crashing into one of the golden mounds. Coins plink across the floor. The Stallion lunges. I spin out of reach. A glance over my shoulder reveals his sword buried in the mound up to the hilt. By the time he yanks it free, I’m already across the room.
He reconvenes, brushing a lock of hair from his sightless eyes. His other senses must be highly attuned if he’s able to pinpoint my location so accurately. At the next attack, I leap sideways, stabbing toward the Stallion’s thigh. He skirts free with a high, tinkling laugh.
“You’ll have to do better than that if you wish to escape this place alive,” he says.
Again, he disappears. My attention leaps from mound to mound, blade at the ready. By the time I sense movement, his sword hacks with brutal severity toward my unprotected neck.
A clash rings out. Shock roots my feet to the ground, for Zephyrus has inserted himself between me and the kelpie, a sword hewn from air in his hand.
As they rain blows upon each other, I look beyond them. Harperstands in the arched entryway, eyes wide, a cloak clutched around her slender frame. I turn my back on her.
Zephyrus cuts toward the boy, who swipes low, nicking his opponent’s thigh.
“This fight is mine,” I snarl, striding forward.
Zephyrus attempts to gain the upper hand despite his poor swordsmanship. His strategy is to continually evade, never landing a blow directly. It reeks of cowardice.
“Your fight,” I call to the Stallion, “is with me!”
As Zephyrus pivots toward the archway, I ram him from behind, and he slams face-first into the wall, his sword clattering on the ground. He claps a hand over his face, blood pouring from his nose.
Positioned between two piles of gold, the Stallion advances, his nostrils flaring, taking in the coppery scent. I meet his aggression with equal fervor. The West Wind’s presence changes things. My strikes land with greater weight, my parries fleeting, memories before they’re made known. Blade to blade, we battle for dominance. Meirlach will be mine. It is a symbol, after all. And symbols hold power.
The Stallion ducks, and the flat of my dagger passes over the warm heat of his skin. I complete the drive upward, cutting across his face, forcing him into retreat. His back hits the wall, my dagger at his throat.
The boy pants through his teeth. Sweat sheens his skin, the color feverish in the low light, but he is not the one I wish were on the receiving end of my blade.
He must recognize this. “You will not kill me?” the boy whispers, and he does not seem so old now, with dirt streaking his ripped trousers and a slice reddening his cheek.
Wrath boils holes into my stomach, and yet, the Stallion is not my foe. Merely a scapegoat for my fury.
“A life is a life in the eyes of the Father.” Stepping back, I lower my dagger. “I will not kill you.”
Something like respect lines his features. “It is clear you are no helpless mortal.” He hesitates a moment. Then, holding out his hand, he offers me the blade. “Meirlach is yours.”
As soon as the hilt touches my skin, a warm current licks at my fingers and slithers up my arm. The sword is far lighter than it appears, its pommel a perfect counterweight to the steel blade.
My eyes lift to the Stallion as his bloodless lips curve. “Take care with that sword. Power is a dangerous temptation, after all.”
I am well aware.
“Farewell, Daughter of Thornbrook.” He transforms back into his equine form, eliciting a gasp from Harper. A blink of those sightless eyes and he vanishes into the river.
Footsteps, carried on a loam-soaked breeze. I turn, sword in hand, to study Zephyrus, who halts a few paces away.
“Are you all right?” There’s a harried look about him, the curls of his hair clumped with sweat and blood. Fool. He’s lucky he can wear his immortality like armor.
