Firebrand

She came back up with a sword and immediately fended off blows from her attacker. She was so desperate to save herself that she did not wonder how a sword happened to be lying there just when she needed it.

The clash of blades echoed through the room. Karigan was clumsy at first, so taken off guard had she been, and she held off the swordsman only by reflex, thanks to her training. But he was relentless, and she made herself focus, made her movements more intentional. Her opponent was not the hack and slash variety of swordsman, but used refined techniques, forms like those that had been drilled into her by Arms Master Drent.

As the swordsman went into Aspen Leaf, she knew the series of blocks to use. The same for Butcher’s Block and Viper. She was too much on the defensive, she thought, and attempted some more offensive moves trying to reach through his guard.

It was impossible. His sword flashed against hers, and there was a beauty in the rhythm, their footwork weaving them in and out of the columns and light. She thanked the gods she had been training hard with Drent since her return, especially when the swordsman bent unexpectedly and scythed his sword at his legs. She leaped just in time.

To her further surprise, he scurried away and vanished into the dark. She stood there panting and wiped sweat off her brow with her sleeve, keeping alert for his return, but she detected movement from her blind side and whirled just in time to meet another blade.

Clang! Clang! Cling-clang!

Karigan’s mind kept rhythm with the fight by reciting expletives that would have impressed the dock workers down in Corsa Harbor. This was an entirely different opponent—shorter, lighter, quicker, and clearly female for all that she, too, wore a mask.

The first swordsman had been relentless and this one was the same, but the woman’s speed was lightning quick, and she nearly skewered Karigan more than once. She was also versed in the forms, but altered and combined them in unpredictable ways. Karigan had to respond with split-second thinking to defend herself, then went on the offensive in kind, turning a half Crayman’s Circle into Aspen Leaf.

Hah! This is a test, she thought suddenly. Some kind of a—

The woman’s blade slashed through Karigan’s sleeve and into the flesh of her wrist. She cried out and fought to not drop her sword. Her hand turned icy and numb. Without feeling, she could not maintain her hold of the hilt. She darted behind a column to evade the woman’s swift sword and switched hands. Previous injuries to her sword arm had forced her to learn how to fight left-handed, and though she did well, she didn’t do as well as with her right.

When she re-emerged from behind the column, panting hard and blood soaking into her sleeve, she found the swordswoman had vanished. What game were they playing at? She hunted the shadows with her gaze. Just when she thought they might be done with her, heavy footsteps echoed through the chamber, and a huge form, again in black and masked, lumbered into the light.

Karigan knew that shape, and knew it well. “Flogger?” she demanded. Her old sparring partner who knew how to hold a grudge.

He just laughed, then fell upon her like an avalanche, the quickness of his blade belying his size. Each time their swords met, she felt the concussion through her entire body. Her arm, her elbow and shoulder, burned as he took her through some of the most complicated forms of her training, and at speed. She was so weary at this point that only adrenaline kept her moving.

She had no idea how long she’d been in this chamber fighting, but it felt like hours. Flogger had technique, but he also possessed brute force and he slammed her sword out of her hand. She backed away, one hand numb and useless, the other stinging, and then Flogger rushed her.

She dodged aside from his blade and then stepped in to trip him. He sprawled onto the floor, his sword sliding from his grip. Karigan turned to run . . . to run where? She could not see the doorway to this chamber. In her moment of indecision, Flogger scrambled to his feet and grabbed her around the neck from behind. She gave him the usual elbow to his gut, but it moved him little. Boots guarded his shins and feet. She twisted in his grip so she faced him and jammed her fingers through one of the eye holes of his mask.

He howled and let her go, clapping his hand to his eye. She kicked him behind the knee; it buckled, and he collapsed to the floor like a great tree felled. She found her sword and swept it round to take him out.

“Hold!” someone cried, and lamps flickered to life in a wide circle around her, and she could see that the chamber was indeed vast and round. Each of the lamps was held by a black-garbed, masked person, the angle of light turning their visages demonic. All of them were armed.

Karigan held the sword ready to plunge into Flogger’s back. “What is this?” she demanded. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill him now?” She jabbed the tip of the blade into his back to make her point, and he grunted.

“Because,” said a pleasant male voice, “we should hate to execute you for killing a brother-at-arms.”

THE CHAMBER OF PROVING

“What in the hells are you saying?” she demanded, jabbing Flogger again.

One of the people in black walked forward, lamp in hand, and removed his mask. Fastion?

“Peace, Sir Karigan. This was but a test.”

“What the hells kind of test?” She did not release Flogger.

Others came forward removing their masks—Brienne and Donal, Willis and Rory, and several others, and finally Arms Master Drent.

Drent’s presence in this escapade did not endear him to her at all.

“Let Flogger go,” Drent said. “This was your test for acquiring swordmaster status.”