“Come down from your place of safety,” Ian yelled, “and fight with your men.”
Gareth gestured toward the Majis gathered behind Sol. “What fight?” he sneered. “You bring me an army of wastrels and peasants. You have chosen to come here and make a fool of yourself in front of the people you were born to lead. I shall not stoop to your level. May your death here today provide the blood for each of the five kingdoms to grow and prosper.”
Gareth lifted his arm. “Rid my castle of these usurpers!” He dropped his arm, pointing directly at Ian.
There was a single moment of silence as the gaze of every soldier in the courtyard turned from Gareth to Ian.
Then Zimri, gripping his sword, took the first step forward. He stepped off the side staircase, his Iseldan soldiers falling in behind him as the Chendas soldiers in their purple livery surged around them. The intricate armored plating that covered his leather shoes scraped loudly over the stone ground in the relative silence of the courtyard. His deep-set eyes were locked on Ian.
Then chaos erupted.
Ian lifted his sword, steeling his heart to meet Zimri’s forward charge.
Though he was prepared for the impact, Ian still slipped backward when Zimri’s sword clashed with his own.
Ian twisted his sword in a familiar motion to push Zimri off. Unlike his attacker, Ian was not wearing a full set of armor. He could not afford to let a single one of Zimri’s attacks land.
The muscled general deftly disengaged, only to turn the motion into another attack.
As the clashing of metal and cries of mettle sounded around him, Ian narrowed his focus to his own fight. He had spent his whole life sparring with this man, but this was no spar.
Zimri would fight him to the death.
They knew each other too well. This man had trained Ian, but he had also taught Ian everything he knew.
Ian fended off Zimri’s attacks, able to read his old teacher’s actions and anticipate his strategies.
Ian was not ready to shed first blood in this fight. But every attack that he let Zimri land without fighting back was a drain on his already-battered energy.
Zimri had made his choice, several times over.
And Ian had made his.
“Fight me, boy,” Zimri yelled as he swung his sword for the next attack.
While Ian had the disadvantage of not wearing armor, that also gave him a small edge of dexterity that Zimri did not have. And, Ian had learned from Robin how to use that to his advantage.
Ian leaned into Zimri’s next attack, spinning under the man’s sword arm while barely escaping the blow.
But for a brief moment, the side of Zimri’s neck was open to Ian.
Having no time to second-guess his actions, Ian drove his sword into that opening.
Zimri stopped, unable to finish his turn toward Ian. He grabbed at his neck with his free hand.
Ian withdrew his sword as a wave of nausea swept over him.
As Zimri dropped to his knees, however, Ian felt something—or someone, more likely—slam against his back.
“On your left!” Onric yelled in his ear.
The body at Ian’s back stabilized into a familiar touch—the press of a shoulder blade he had stood against during countless drills. Onric had his back. Crouching into his defensive stance, Ian raised his sword to meet the next attack.
There would be time for mourning later. Maybe.
His next few attackers wore the purple livery of Chendas. Ian mechanically defended his way through their onslaught.
His goal was to disarm, and he did not have the time to register if there was more death.
