Page 111

The horse must have seen or smelled Kham, because it was galloping—and when breaks in the trees let me catch a glimpse, the animal’s ears were pinned back against its skull, and the man on its back urged it forward, faster.

Then, soon after we passed him, Kham began to slow—which meant he’d soon lose what little height he maintained over the trees.

I caught a glimpse of Koa, circling high above, and clung to his neck strap, knowing he’d be forced to land soon. Koa wouldn’t be far from Grace.

Kham found room to land, along a bank of a river, a space that gave enough air for his wingspan, and then I was on the ground and running again, looking up every few seconds to center myself on Koa’s location.

“Grace?! Grace!” I screamed, praying Grace would call out, or make a noise so I could locate her, horrified that Breckon might stumble on her first.

I could hear the hoofbeats of his approach—and had to split my attention between looking for Grace, and watching for him as well, in case he knew something I didn’t and he could lead me to her. But then Koa was directly overhead, making small circles and figure eights, screaming.

Then the horse’s hoofbeats thudded into the space between trees, and I turned an impotent circle. “Grace?! Grace, where are you?”

My heart thudded in my chest and I darted between trees to keep myself out of Breckon’s eyeline, but as he cursed and threw himself off the animal, I finally saw the copse of Lysanthimum and hissed—tearing toward it, because Breckon was closer, and caught sight of it too. He launched into a run, but I tackled him, took him down so hard, he audibly grunted on impact.

Yet, though his middle had thickened with age, he wasn’t a soft man.

He rolled over, cursing, grabbed my hair as I threw myself up over him, grappling, doing everything I could to tangle his legs until I could get a grip on one wrist and lever the arm back to—

There was the thinnest whisper of sound. My senses—already shrieking alarm—screamed higher, and I threw myself to the side on instinct the moment I saw the glint of a blade catching moonlight.

I went for the blade buried in my sleeve. I was a hairsbreadth too slow as Breckon swung, out and back, intending to bury the knife in my side as I lay over him—but I threw myself off, rolled to my feet, my own knife now gripped securely—but Breckon threw himself forward before I was balanced on my feet, thrusting with the knife, so that I was forced to leap back.

Once. Twice. A third time as he used the momentum of each swing to bring the blade back into play—so after dodging, I couldn’t get close enough to him to attack without putting myself in the range of his blade.

We circled each other, both holding knives, but he’d taken first attack, and I could do nothing but evade until—there!

There was a split second. Breckon swung so hard—and came so close to laying open my leathers, my heart fluttered—but the force of his momentum meant a blink between reaching the end of his swing and turning the momentum back.

I slipped in—catching his extended wrist before he could swing again, and my training kicked in.

Arms braced to keep his hand away, I turned, pulling his arm across my body as I shoved out with my hip, pressing into his momentum so he was thrown off his feet and I could roll him.

But the same moment he hit the earth on his back with a thud and an involuntary grunt, as I was forced to pull back to shift my weight to get my blade to his throat, he rolled and slashed with the other hand.

I yanked my hand back, but the half-second it took me to release left my forearm in reach of his swing.

Stinging, hot pain sang up my forearm as I twisted and scrambled back.

With shocking alacrity, Breckon heaved himself up, snapping both feet under him and bringing the first blade back up in defense.

We faced each other, both half-crouched and holding knives, weaving and looking for the opportunity to attack.

I was shocked by his skill. He breathed harshly though—far harder than me. His increased bulk added strength, but winded him more quickly.

I needed to push the advantage of my fitness. So, I kept moving. Darting, thrusting, dodging even when there was little chance of reaching him—kept him reacting, moving, forced to work for his balance, and defense.

His eyes were narrowed. His gaze black in the moonlight. I would have taunted him, but the moment I opened my mouth, there was a small, pathetic whimper from the copse of Lysanthimum.

I didn’t have to look. I could measure the location and distance without a glance—but the sound of his prey broke Breckon’s concentration—and because he was closer, his eyes snapped toward her. He caught himself, and was returning both his gaze and his balance back to me, but that tiny opening was all I needed.

I feinted with the blade—and he overcorrected to block the swing he expected.

Instead, I lunged, grabbing a fistful of dirt from the ground and throwing it into his eyes as I twisted to throw one arm under his blade hand and turned, presenting my back to him as I grabbed that wrist and curled myself into the bend of his elbow, throwing both of us back—so his only choices were to stab me with the free hand, or use it to break our fall.

Unsurprisingly, his reflexes threw the free arm out in an attempt to catch himself and control the stagger, letting that blade go as he sought a handhold, but I used my body weight to keep him overbalanced.

We hit the ground and I threw my head back to slam into his nose, letting his chest take my full body weight. And in the second he lay stunned, I slammed that bent elbow down so the nerve would take the brunt of the blow—and his hand opened to drop the second blade.