Duglas attacked in a straightforward, almost lazy manner, using his height and reach to bear down on Santiole like a warhorse trampling an infantryman.
Santiole was forced backwards, parrying his attacks a little slower each time, her body sagging from loss of blood, her face pale. Duglas pressed forward relentlessly, forcing Santiole toward the edge of the road and a drop of at least twenty feet.
Erika approached Duglas from the side, ready to take him unawares, but she was waved off by Santiole as the mistress-at-arms made her stand a yard from the precipice. Erika took another step forward. She wasn’t about to allow Santiole to die because of damned stubbornness. This was a battle for their lives, not a duel for honor.
Santiole’s sword blurred as she parried two quick thrusts and put on a burst of speed, counter-attacking with her own strikes that Duglas only barely parried. One more thrust and she was inside Duglas’ guard, her sword flashing forward.
She struck nothing but air. Duglas slid around the thrust with stunning swiftness and rammed his sword through Santiole’s heart in one quick, brutal thrust. The mistress-at-arms stiffened, letting out a single cry.
In the time it took Duglas to force Santiole off the end of his blade with one boot, Erika was upon him.
He parried with the same casual technique he’d used on Santiole. Erika beat it aside and stuck the very tip of her sword into his left shoulder.
She had to scramble backward to avoid his counter. She paused several yards away, giving herself a chance to glance at Santiole. She fought down a sob and felt her steadiness falter at the sight of the lifeless body.
Duglas touched the shoulder wound with one thumb and made a face. “Sloppy,” he said. “You should have killed me there.”
It had been sloppy. She had let emotion get the better of her and it had caused her attack to go incredibly wide. With more discipline, the fight would have already been over.
Duglas attacked without warning, dashing forward and making a series of thrusts and cuts that very nearly left Erika impaled on the end of his small sword. She fought off the attack, and then a second attack. A third attack drove her all the way back to the carriage and she almost stumbled over the body of the Longdog she’d killed.
Duglas paused and backed away. Erika watched him carefully, waiting for the next attack. He didn’t seem wary, and barely winded. Frost coated his mustache, and he brushed a strand of long hair out of his eyes.
“By all means,” he said, “Catch your breath.”
Was the bloody pillock toying with her? Or was he really unable to beat her as easily as he liked?
She raised her hilt to her face in a mock salute and took several more steps back. The man would play with her until he got bored, and then he would kill her and leave her body for the wolves. Behind her, Dominik had sat up and was watching the fight silently. Norrine sat in the snow beside him, her small hand pressed against his wound. If Erika failed, Duglas would kill them both.
She stuck the blade of her sword under one arm and removed the snuff box from her pocket, fingers fumbling from the cold. The lid off, she raised a pinch of black powder to her nose and sniffed.
A flash of warmth spread through her body as quick as lightning, and she felt the numbness fade from her fingers and toes. Her vision sharpened to the point of being almost painful and she could hear Duglas taking slow, measured breaths.
The master mage hunter was inspecting the wound she’d given him. He looked up and their eyes met briefly, before his darted down to the snuff box in her hand. Duglas tilted his head to one side as she took another sniff of black powder and returned the snuff box to her pocket. She could see the understanding in his eyes as he realized she was not, in fact, taking snuff.
“You bitch,” he snarled, leaping toward her.
The speed she had so feared seemed suddenly trivial as the powder coursed through her system. She brought her sword up and parried his first thrust easily. It took two more thrusts for her to take his measure, and then she went on the offensive.
Even to Erika’s powder-sharpened eyes her attacks seemed blindingly fast. She pressed forward, plowing through his counter-attacks, not letting him get the chance for a proper thrust. She could feel nothing, not even her fury, as the powder sang in her blood. Her sword rang against one of his buttons and she pulled back for a parry and then slammed the blade between his ribs.
Even with her sword sticking out of his chest, Duglas drew back to strike. Erika pushed forward, sliding the slim blade deeper, and closed the gap to snatch his sword arm by the wrist.
“Bloody powder mage,” he spat in her face.
She twisted her sword, letting his cry of pain be her reply. His body sagged and she pulled back and aimed the tip at his heart. He dropped to his knees, the fight gone from him, and he sneered up at her. She let him die with the sneer on his lips.
Santiole’s body was warm when she reached it. Her chest was still, her heart silent. Erika knelt beside her and let the sobs come.
She couldn’t have been crying long when Norrine joined her. The girl stared down at Santiole’s body, unshed tears in her eyes, and clutched at Erika. Erika took the girl in her arms.
“Dominik is hurt,” Norrine said, “but he says he can still drive.”
Erika cleaned and bound Dominik’s wound herself. The old driver had taken a bullet in the arm, but it had missed the bone and she managed to dig it out with her knife. Treating bullet wounds wasn’t common to a noblewoman’s tutoring, but Santiole had taught her enough.
Erika was forced to push Santiole and Tirel in a ditch and cover them with snow, with the hope of recovering the bodies come spring. For Duglas and his companions, she dragged their bodies over two hundred yards and dumped them into a deep crevasse, along with Duglas’ infernal air musket.
They camped there that night and Dominik seemed much recovered in the morning. She sat beside the ditch for nearly an hour, staring down at Santiole’s grave, haunted by memories of the fight. Duglas had been the better duelist. Without the black powder, they’d all be dead now. Had this powder mage girl been worth Santiole’s life? She clutched Santiole’s sword-a prized weapon made from the finest Starlish steel-unable to leave it in a ditch for some highwayman to find.
She finally decided that Santiole would wish to see this finished, and roused herself from her stupor. She had to be strong. She was heir to a duchy, after all. She couldn’t afford to mourn, not with Adro still several days away and so much at stake.
The road soon left the high mountain passes from Norport and descended onto the Amber Expanse. Known as the breadbasket of the Nine Nations, the fields and pastures of the Expanse seemed to roll on indefinitely towards the horizon. Erika was glad to leave the snow behind even if the fall air was still cold. Norrine rode in silence, avoiding Erika’s gaze.
The northern highway wound along the foothills of the mountains, looking out over the expanse, turning northward toward the city of Budwiel.
Budwiel sat between two great monoliths of stone where the mountain range split into a mighty valley. The Addown River, runoff from the Adsea, flowed through the city to water the Amber Expanse. The carriage crossed the river at nightfall and began a mile-long gentle ascent that ended at Budwiel’s gate. The wind picked up and seemed to blow right through the carriage walls. Erika put her head out the window and looked toward the dots of light that marked the city walls.
Soon they’d be in Adro and beyond the influence of Nikslaus and his Longdogs. They would finally be safe.