But a sharp whinny cut through the air and he shot bolt upright. Again, it came—he had not misheard. He swiveled in the direction of their camp, his teeth tightened as he yelled, “Saorla!”
He raced back, knowing if something had frightened her, then it was not she alone in danger. A boar? A bear? His heart roared as he tore back through the wood. He broke through the trees into the oak grove.
Shock coursed through him.
Knelt over the druid’s body was a cloaked figure.
Skyre wrenched loose his blade. “Get the fuck away from him.”
The figure glanced up. Peppery hair… grassy eyes… Skyre hardly registered what he saw. All he knew was anger.
“Sían thí,” said the man, holding up his hands.
“I said move!” Skyre growled.
The stranger rose to his feet. The moment there was distance between he and the druid, Skyre lunged at him.
But his advance did not get far.
The Vaich stood, stunned—his blade caught between silver. He hadn’t seen the stranger draw and his eyes flicked up to his face, watching a devious smirk curl across it.
“My, my…” the man cooed, “you are a testy one.”
Skyre’s jaw set. He yanked on his blade, tearing it free and squared himself before him. Thin and wispy he was, though not small. He was lean as a hunting hound and just as swift. And young, despite the greyish shade of his hair.
Skyre jumped at him, but the stranger dodged—a blur of motion and fog.
“You ken,” he said delightfully, “I did come to help you, but this ismuchbetter.”
“Be quiet!” Skyre hissed, wheeling about. He charged again, but the stranger twisted aside, sending the king stumbling. A haunting laugh followed.
“Do you rush headlong into everything? I must say—very poor strategy.”
Skyre’s skin heated till he thought his blood would boil. “Stand and fight me!”
“Why? I’d never win like that.”
Enraged, Skyre swung. Again and again he thrust his blade, each time he met only air.
The stranger tiptoed out of his reach, less like a warrior and more like a dancer. Skyre had never seen anyone fight like that. It wasn’t the sort of skill one fell into on accident. To say the man was experienced… that was an understatement. Skyre recognized the look of a creature who’d been trained for a single purpose and the more he watched him, the more he understood. His eyes recorded his steps, near too quick to follow, but noted the patterns as the man bobbed away.
The king mirrored.
They circled each other as if in a grand hall with the harp and drum leading their jaunt. Skyre’s blade arced right. The man darted left. The king planted his feet, feigned a leftward slash. His quarry moved on the tips of his toes. Skyre drew back, repositioned, thrust his blade at his center and—
The sharp metallic clatter ripped through the air.
“You’re clever.” The man’s smile deepened. He had brought his dagger up as shield and, with a flourish, he turned the Vaich’s blade away
They stepped again. This time to the right, and again, the man was forced to counter. Again, Skyre followed, his attacks swifter. The stranger parried. With each thrust he was forced to draw, was pressed back. Skyre saw his opening—a brief hole in his defense.
He struck out.
This time, the man did not parry and instead pointed both blades.
They held each other at the throat.
The stranger chuckled. “I like you.”
