Lose toes? Better than losing his life.
The newcomer nodded, unwrapping cloth from around his head. Captain Rufe? Yarif’s heart soared. “Is”—his teeth chattered nearly too hard to form words— “Draylon here?”
“He’s fighting,” Rufe said. “Rest. He’ll be here soon.”
Draylon? Draylon came?
Yarif barely registered the warm broth the men fed him, one tiny sip at a time. Warm. He was warm. And being fed.
Soon he’d see Draylon again. Wait! “Still fighting?”
Rufe nodded. “Don’t you worry. That sorry excuse for a commander is no match for him.”
But what if, even now, Draylon lay wounded in the snow?
Yarif should get up. Go help.
Blackness decided the matter.
Chapter Twenty-two
AnotherswordsmanfelltoDraylon’s blows. How many now? Five? Six? There’d been sixteen at last count. Ill-prepared, ill-trained, wearing only a leather breastplate for protection, Draylon’s opponent hadn’t stood a chance.
Draylon would have to thank Vihaan one day for loaning him warm clothes, even if he did find the woolen trousers itchy. The armor might have been old but served its purpose.
Screams, moans, and the clash of steel echoed all around. Draylon stumbled, not seeing the body on the ground until too late.
A sword slashed the air where he’d been a moment before. He rolled, kicking his attacker’s legs. The man collapsed with a weak scream of rage, pain, or defeat. Bloody ice covered the man’s chest.
Draylon kicked him away and lay on the ground, panting. There was no need to worry about his adversary, who’d die in a few moments, even without help. Draylon staggered to his feet.
Two piercing whistles sounded far behind him. Yarif? Someone found Yarif. Draylon trudged toward the sound.
A figure loomed out of the chaos. Commander Illa wore the colors of Delletina, as had the last man Draylon encountered. She’d lost her helmet and wore no gauntlets. Blood stained her chain mail armor—the only decent armor Draylon had seen thus far. “Ah, another worthless princeling. How sweet. The happy couple will die together.” Illa lunged, baring bloody teeth, her sword swing slow, erratic. Not at all like the practiced soldier Draylon once faced in training. “If one dead prince is good, two will be better. I’ll be rewarded so handsomely for this.”
Fingers within his gauntlets stiff and body colder than Draylon recalled ever being, he lunged, barely missing Illa’s head. “It’s not I who’ll lie dead in the snow this day.” He stopped talking, saving all his focus for combat. Several times before he’d had to fight one of his own in payment for some crime, but he’d never met one on the battlefield who’d been taught to fight by the same teachers.
And knew all Draylon’s methods.
Then again, he knew Illa’s.
Draylon swung his sword, the blow glancing off Illa’s chain mail but still probably breaking a few ribs. She howled in pain, grabbing at her side but not dropping her weapon. She probably regretted leaving her solid plate armor behind to resemble a Delletinian soldier. Chainmail didn’t offer the same protection.
She attacked, landing a blow on Draylon’s left shoulder scale, sending him off balance. His shoulder ached from the strike, but he easily righted himself, whirling to meet Illa’s sword. Metal sang against metal.
Draylon’s muscles ached. So far, he’d been bruised but taken no serious cuts. Any blood on his clothing belonged to someone else.
The same couldn’t be said of Illa, who bled from her side, a gashed cheek, and from somewhere inside, judging by her bloody teeth.
Draylon attacked, and Illa countered, locking swords together and raising her booted foot to Draylon’s waist. She kicked, knocking him backward. His boots slid over ice. He barely regained balance in time to avoid crashing to the ground.
Illa charged, teeth bared. She hit the ice, falling hard on her back. In practice, Draylon would have helped her to her feet. Not now, when she’d made herself the enemy.
Draylon pressed the advantage, swinging down on Illa where she lay.
She rolled, blocking Draylon’s swing, then came up in a crouch. Once more, she charged, slamming into Draylon with her full weight. That had to hurt her battered ribs.
Draylon fell onto his back, sword flying from his grasp. He kicked, knocking Illa’s blade free of her hand. A spitting, hissing mountain cougar pounced, fingers gouging at Draylon’s eyes.
