On the eastern side of the pass, the cliffs rose up nearly vertical only a few paces from the snow-covered packed earth. On the western side, the cliff had crumbled, leaving a sheer drop down to a river delta, frozen over on its journey towards the sea.
There was no way past him. No way to circle around to approach him from more than one angle. There was barely enough room for two combatants.
‘This isn’t like fighting the monster,’ Isobelle whispered. ‘Let’s take a breath and think of some way to do this that doesn’t turn you into an outlaw—’
‘Thereisn’ta way,’ Gwen retorted, cutting her off irritably. ‘Don’t you see, I’vebeenan outlaw since I rode in that tournament, Whimsitt just hasn’t been able to touch me yet. So what if this speeds his revenge? The odds are I’ll never be going b—’ She halted herself with a strangled sound and a visible twitch of effort across her lips as she turned away.
Isobelle felt rather like she’d been struck hard enough in her chest to knock the breath from her. She could feel her own thoughts slogging as if through hip-deep mud, slow and agonising.
‘Never be going back anyway, you mean?’ she whispered. The cold air was burning her nose, her lungs, her eyes – they watered, stinging. ‘Gwen, you arenotgoing to die here. Not fighting Grimshaw, not fighting the sea monster. We will get past this, and we’ll go home together!’
In the distance, Grimshaw slammed his boot down against the powdery snow. He gave a shout that echoed eerily through the pass and sent a few more eddies of snow trickling down from the cliffs above. He had no interest in standing there while they argued.
‘I’ll fight him.’ Orson was still a few paces behind them, and his eyes were fixed on the distant figure of the Darkhaven master-at-arms.
Isobelle scowled at him, having no interest in fighting his misplaced chivalry alongside Gwen’s increasing desire to face death in some dramatic way. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, you’ll have the same problem if you kill him.’
‘Will I?’ Orson’s horse moved forward a few paces, offering Isobelle a glimpse of his profile – that gleaming, handsome countenance that had always seemed so heroic. Almost always, anyway. ‘I have had no prior offences. In fact, I was the one who provided Whimsitt with the information he needed to make his first attack on Gwen, before she killed the dragon; as far as he knows, I’m on his side.’
His eyes didn’t move, but his jaw tightened, the blondstubble softening but not eliminating the shadow beneath his cheekbone. The idea that his betrayal of Gwen and Isobelle would now come in useful did not sit well with him.
He went on quietly. ‘I’m not the one Grimshaw was sent here to bring back, and it will be entirely up to him whether he chooses to attack me. I can claim it was self-defence, and I will be telling the truth.’ Finally, he turned to look back at them, eyes moving between Gwen and Isobelle. ‘And the most compelling difference of all: I’m a man. Whimsitt doesn’t hate me.’
His gaze came to rest not on Isobelle, but on Gwen, who was gripping the hilt of her sword as though her very sanity depended on it.
‘Don’t … this is ridiculous,’ Gwen managed. ‘I can’t let you … fightforme.’
‘Why not?’ Orson’s question seemed to dumbfound Gwen, who said nothing, but joggled sideways as Achilles responded to some tightening of her legs. ‘I’ll tell you why not. You have spent your life trying to prove you can fight for yourself. And now, that you can fight for Isobelle.’ His blue eyes swivelled to meet Isobelle’s briefly, a warmth in them that reminded her of how he’d been when they were children. ‘You feel like you’ve still got something to prove … you don’t, Gwen.’ Into the silence that followed, Orson murmured, ‘But I do. Let me do this for you. For both of you.’
Isobelle did not see what passed between her friend and her champion – she did not see Gwen nod or gesture, but Orson must have read surrender in her face, for he wheeled his horse around, drew his sword as the big black gelding broke into a run, on into the pass.
By the time Gwen and Isobelle had caught up, keeping their horses’ pace slow, the two men had dismounted and exchanged the first few tentative, glancing clashes of swords. Isobelle snuck a sidelong glance at Gwen and saw her watching intently, eyes never leaving the figures – now and then her head bobbed or her hand twitched, as if willing Orson to dodge at the right moment, or lift his sword just so.
Beyond the two combatants, Isobelle could finally see signs of life within the carriage. Rope had been wound through the handle, effectively locking the girls in, but there were faces peering through the rear window. And when Orson made a lunge that forced Grimshaw to scrabble back, off-balance, a muffled yell of triumph came from inside the carriage.
Isobelle lifted the reins in her hand, about to urge Princess Buttercup to edge around the arena of combat, but Gwen – somehow still keeping an eye on her while watching the fight intently – made a quick gesture to halt her. ‘Wait – we don’t know how stable the canyon is at the edge.’
Isobelle looked up at the crevices and shelves ladenwith snow, and bit her lip, her urgent desire to release her friends warring with her respect for the laws of nature. For the time being, common sense won, but it was quite a mental arm wrestle.
Steel rang out again, the sound sharp and echoing in the narrow pass. The two men circled warily, boots grinding in the snow, blades sweeping in cautious arcs that flashed cold in the winter light. Grimshaw struck first this time, a brutal downward hack meant to batter past Orson’s guard. Orson caught it, but the impact drove him a step back, snow spraying from under his boots. With a grunt he pushed forward, shoving Grimshaw’s blade aside and countering with a quick slash that might have opened his opponent’s arm if Grimshaw hadn’t twisted away at the last instant.
The fight grew faster, heavier. There were no quick dodges or graceful feints, only the pounding rhythm of muscle and steel. Orson drove Grimshaw back a pace, then another, their swords locking crossguard to crossguard, faces inches apart. Grimshaw bared his teeth in a humourless grin and shoved hard, breaking free.
Orson pressed, sensing the advantage. He lunged, blade whistling towards Grimshaw’s side. But Grimshaw pivoted, quick as a wolf snapping at a hound, and brought his own sword around in a tight arc. The edge caught Orson beneath the shoulder, slicing through mail to flesh. Orson hissed and staggered back, one hand snapping tothe wound as blood sprayed the churned snow beneath his feet.
Isobelle felt a cry wring itself from her throat, and Gwen swore, beginning to swing a leg over Achilles to dismount and join the fight anyway. But Orson, one leg bent and kneeling in the snow, held up his good hand to stop her, his eyes on his opponent.
‘Why are you helping them?’ spat Grimshaw, panting breaths fogging the air. ‘One who spurned you, and the other who humiliated you?’
Orson, also trying to catch his breath, pulled off a glove and shoved it under the mail to press against his wound, securing it there by a strip off his tunic. ‘I humiliated myself,’ he retorted, staggering to his feet again. ‘For god’s sake, man, what does it matter if she’s a she? She killed adragon, while you and your men were huddled in a ballroom discussing strategy.’
Grimshaw passed his sword from his right hand to his left, flexing his fingers, before passing the sword back again. ‘She makes us all look like fools,’ he snarled, eyes darting to where Gwen stood. ‘She works to unman all of us, and they cheer her for it.’
‘If you so fear being unmanned, look to yourself for the reason.’
‘You’re one to talk,’ Grimshaw said, voice low and insinuating. ‘No one ever sees you chasing skirts at the tavern or going wooing, after all. Maybe you’d rather wewrestle, like the ancient Greeks. Maybe you’re likethem.’ Grimshaw swept his sword aside to point at Gwen and Isobelle.
Orson pulled the makeshift bandage tight with his teeth and then spat back, ‘I should be so lucky. To love someone who loves me in return? We shouldallbe so lucky.’
