Draylon punched, connecting with Illa’s nose in an audible crunch. His gauntlet cut into her skin, leaving blood trailing down her face. She screamed, rolling away, clutching her nose, and grabbing her sword from the snow.
Her bloody grimace made her look like some creature drawn from nightmares.
Draylon snagged his sword, dragging in frigid breaths that fogged on each exhale. She’d fought dirty in the past. Then again, so had Draylon; they’d always been well matched on the training grounds.
Illa attacked, grunting, slashing wildly with no finesse.
Desperate. She knew she’d lost. Still, Illa fought. If only she’d used her fighting skills with Draylon instead of against him. She swung wide, overextending.
Leaving her side open for a brief moment. Long enough.
Draylon’s double-handed swing bit through Illa’s chainmail, sending her reeling. Blood spouted from her side. Draylon braced, gripping his sword, panting and waiting for her next move.
They were both tiring, but by all the gods ever worshipped, if that blow hadn’t done enough, Draylon would go on making Illa pay for what she’d done to Yarif.
She stood on bloody snow, hair matted, breath creating wraiths of steam in the air. Her blade slipped from her fingers as she fell.
Draylon ran to her, dropping to one knee in the snow. He turned Illa over, face up. “Who are you working for?”
Her face scrunched in pain, but the light in her eyes had already dimmed. Illa moved her lips. Draylon strained to hear her hoarse words. “Your father.”
She brought up a knife from nowhere, aimed straight for Draylon’s throat. He grasped Illa’s wrist. In her dying state, she couldn’t break free.
Draylon reared back. “What? My father?” One thing to suspect, another to have all doubt removed.
Illa grinned. “I wish I could see what happens when you face him.”
Then she sagged, eyes slowly drifting shut.
Draylon left her where she lay, the ice forming inside him far colder than the air.
The snow had stopped falling for now but still blanketed the ground, partially covering a body. One of Jayra’s mercenaries.
The guide.
Draylon stumbled on, following the sound of battle. The clashing and grunting stopped abruptly. The pass quieted, the snow muffling all sound. He’d never known so much snow could fall in so little time.
Then, footsteps behind him. Draylon spun, sword raised.
A figure limped toward him, wrapped in a cloak, hood hiding its face, sword dangling from a gloved hand. Draylon braced for an attack.
The figure pulled back the hood.
“Jayra! Did someone find Yarif?”
She nodded. “Yes, he’s been found and is on his way to the village.”
“Who has him?”
“Rufe.”
Relief had never felt so sweet.
“He’s in bad shape, though. Go to him. I’ll clean up here and join you shortly.” Jayra pointed with her blade. “That way. The weather’s finally breaking. Follow the path I told you about.”
She bounded down the track before Draylon could argue.
He found his mule quickly enough, though he dared not ride and risk the animal breaking a leg or himself tumbling off. The beast thanked him by nipping at his hand the moment he removed his gauntlets to slip his frigid fingers into warm gloves. He shivered while donning the cloak from his pack, then pulled up the hood.
