The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) (37 page)

“Movin' on,” said Cob, strained.

Lark gave him a look, but Fiora nodded and said, “So we get in, get equipment, and then...”  She turned to Dasira, brows raised sympathetically.  “Are you sure you should come along?  No offense, but you haven't been at your best.  If you give us a heading, I'm sure the Guardian can get us across the desert...”

“I'm recovering,” said Dasira.  “Don't worry your pretty little head about me.”

Fiora stiffened against Cob's side, and he grimaced.  “Oh no, I'm not concerned about you,” said the girl in a saccharine tone, shrugging his arm half-off.  “You're a tough old bitch, that's obvious.  But we're heading into danger, and that requires more than putting one foot in front of the other.  We wouldn't want you to drag down the team.”

“I can put my foot through your teeth, if you'd like.”

Shit
, thought Cob.  “C'mon, don't—“

“Can you?” said Fiora.  “I think you'd be eating turf if you tried.”

“Is that a challenge, little girl?”

“Oh no, of course not.  But if you want to be useful, you need to move on from stretches.”

“To a spar?”

“For your rehabilitation?  I'd be happy to help.”

“We're tryin' to plan here,” said Cob, glancing to the others for assistance.  Arik and Lark both looked startled; Ilshenrir just stared at him expectantly.

Rising, Fiora said, “You can plan, dear.  She's given her input.”

“I don't want you t'do this.”

“Not everything is about you, Cob.”

“It's all right,” said Dasira, climbing to her feet on the other side of the fire.  “I promise not to do any permanent damage.”

“It's just a spar,” confirmed Fiora.  “Swords?”

“I don't have one.”

“I have two—”

“Leave the silver sword out of this or you'll be meeting Serindas.”

“I will volunteer my wooden blade,” said Ilshenrir, brushing aside his cloak and drawing the green-enameled sword from the apparent nothingness in which he kept it.

“Don't encourage them!” said Cob, but the wraith merely gave him another pointed look.

“Oh come now, Cob, it's just a friendly scuffle,” said Dasira, holding her hand out for the sword.  Ilshenrir offered it hilt-first and she frowned as she hefted it.  “Heavier than it looks.”

“Don't try to feed me that hog-crap,” Cob snapped.  “You two've been at each other's throats since the manor.”

“Then isn't it best we get it out of our systems?”  Dasira made a dismissive gesture.  “Just sit back and enjoy the show.”

“I'll get my stuff,” said Fiora, heading for the cave entrance.

“Wear your armor.”

“But that wouldn't be fair.”

“Do it.  I don't want to kill you by accident.”  By Dasira's tone,
on purpose
was still an option.

As Fiora ducked inside and Dasira turned away, Cob stood, scowling.  “Don't do this,” he said as he stepped past the fire, reaching for the bodythief's arm.  “It's stupid and if one of you gets hurt, we don't have the time to—“

She slapped his hand away.  “You can't stop this.  It happens now, or it happens when we least need it.  Do you understand?”

“It doesn't have to happen at all!  You're on the same side—my side.  If you care for—“

“Don't you dare,” she said, grey eyes cold.  “I love you, Cob, but that doesn't mean I won't beat you bloody.”

He recoiled, not sure how to respond to that.

“Sit down,” she said.  “This won't take long.”

Feeling chastened, he returned to the fire and watched her move downhill to a clearer space, then shrug off her coat.  Beneath, she looked leaner than before—some of the muscle gone in trade for the repairs—but her build was still solid and her stance balanced.  Her dirty-blonde hair was already tied back, and she rolled up her ragged sleeves to show the bracer and the grey flesh around it, then stripped off her weapon-belt and tossed it and Serindas aside.  A few whisks through the air with the enameled sword, then she turned her stare to the cave.

“Dominance fight,” Arik murmured, leaning to pat Cob's leg comfortingly.  “Will be all right.”

Cob scowled.  “This isn't a wolf-pack.”

“Perhaps you should exercise your authority,” said Ilshenrir.

“They don't listen!”

“You are attempting to mediate, not to lead.  You must—“

“Shush!” said Lark as Fiora emerged from the cave, then strode past them without a glance.  As the two combatants moved warily into position, the Shadow girl sat forward with an intent expression.  “They're starting.”

Cob reluctantly fell silent, and watched.

*****

Well, here goes nothing
, thought Dasira as Fiora picked her way downhill, chainmail glinting in the early light.

She wished she hadn't recommended the armor, but it was necessary.  She couldn't kill the girl—not now, and probably not ever.  No matter what her instincts screamed, she could not act on them because she had no way to prove Fiora was a threat.

What did her suspicions amount to, anyway?  An artificially-induced nightmare about subversion and pregnancy, a mysterious happening in Erestoia, the arrowhead, the tea and the Trifolder handbook.  Not much evidence, especially when she could not dredge from her mind the reason the handbook had bothered her.

If she was wrong, fighting Fiora would be an exercise in futility.  Even if she was right and something abnormal happened, what would it change?

At least I'll get to try to feed that little bitch her own teeth.

The armor would make them equal.

Fiora took up a position a few yards away, just far enough that they could not touch blades.  “They call us 'Swords' but they bless our shields instead,” she said, gesturing at the cave.  “Figured it wasn't fair to use it.  Anyway, it's always annoyed me how the temple would rather we hide than fight.”

Dasira nodded, observing.  By Fiora's stance, she was already missing the shield; she tried to stand like a fencer with her body in line with the sword, but kept shifting on her feet as if to turn forward.  Too much time spent training in one style.

In response, Dasira loosened her stance and faced the girl fully, swapping the wooden sword back and forth between her hands.  Over the past forty-five years, she had wielded just about every weapon possible, in nearly every style—though in varied bodies, so that her instinct with halberds and the like was suited more to a seven-foot-tall man.  Swords, though, she knew in any form.  This one was long enough for one-handed or hand-and-a-half style, and heavy enough for clubbing.  It made her reevaluate the wraith's level of threat.

“First blood?” said Fiora.

“I'd prefer yield.”

“If you insist.  Any other rules?”

“No.”

Fiora's eyes gleamed, and Dasira repressed any hint of a smile.  She didn't care what tricks the girl tried.  If she called upon her goddess, Cob would be incensed—and if she did something else, then everyone would see.

She intended to press Fiora until one of them snapped.

“Whenever you're ready,” said the girl, raising her sword in a brief salute.

Dasira did not return it, simply said, “Go.”

Both stepped forward—no circling, no fencing.  Though their battlefield extended three feet to either side and a good six yards in length, they moved immediately into each other's space.  Their blades scraped together, flat to flat, then locked at the hilt as both put weight behind their sword-arm—a mutual shoulder-check, a moment of eye-to-eye hatred.

Then Dasira grabbed for the girl's hair, and the fight was on.

It was no duel.  First hit would have been called when Dasira whipped her knee into Fiora's gut, first blood when Fiora's thumbnail cut into Dasira's cheek en route to her eye, but the two events were nearly concealed in a flurry of elbows, fists and spitting fury.  The swords were there as threats to be neutralized, assets to be fought-over; the instant the women moved in close, they stopped being blades and became glorified brass knuckles.

Dasira was more than happy to grapple.  Sword-fighting was all well and good, but punching the enemy's face in always felt better.  She split Fiora's stance and forced her down backward while the girl clutched her by the tunic and tried to cram the Trifold sword's crosspiece up her nose, and that was fantastic—the glare, the bared teeth, the vicious resistance.  She hadn't met that in a while.  The chainmail softened her sword-hilt kidney-punch, but not the short knee-drop she managed on Fiora's chest once the girl went down.

A burst of air came up, but no cry.  Even with Dasira's knee planted between her breasts, Fiora grabbed for her arms and wrenched around until they both went tumbling across the rock, then rose to her knees and tried to plant her sword's pommel in Dasira's face again.

Dasira blocked with her bracer and felt the impact reverberate along her nerves.  She slid a leg out from between Fiora's straddling ones and nailed the girl's hip with her knee, forcing her to rock back enough for Dasira to pull her other leg free and plant both heels in her chest.  The girl nearly fell away, but then brought her sword down at Dasira's legs, and the bodythief brought her own across to block it before trying to ram her boot into Fiora's jaw.

The girl had already lurched away though, gaining her feet, and another swipe came for Dasira's head that she barely parried.  Lunging up, Dasira led with her shoulder, intending to overbear, but Fiora turned to meet it and they hit again in a dead clinch.  This time Dasira spat in her enemy's eyes, then clipped Fiora's recoiling face with her forehead.  The girl's nose crunched against her brow.

Fiora took one step back, then snapped forward with equal force, and Dasira saw stars as skull met skull.

Something tore.

A wave of dizziness took her, and the next thing she knew, she was on the ground with Fiora's knee between her ribs and the girl's fist coming down at her face.  She tried to raise her bracer arm but it wouldn't move, so she used the other.  The sword rose with it, somehow still clenched in her backward grip, and as Fiora's fist eclipsed her vision she saw the edge cutting toward the girl's throat.

She twisted it.

The flat of the wooden sword struck Fiora in the neck right under the jaw, and Dasira put all her muscle into it as the girl's fist glanced across her brow.  Half-rising, forearm pressed to the blade, she shoved harder, and Fiora grappled at her then toppled away to avoid having her jaw sliced open.  Dasira tried to rise but the dizziness hit again, limiting her to one knee, and she took a boot to the face before she even saw it.

She saw the sword coming, though, and lurched aside to avoid being skewered through the eye.

“Hoi!” she heard Cob shout from above, but she was already springing up to take Fiora in the gut with her shoulder.  Hooking her sword-arm around the girl's thighs, she lifted with all the strength in her legs and heard Fiora yelp as she left the ground.  Then Dasira flung her off backward.

Metal and bone hit stone with an awful sound.  Switching to a proper grip, Dasira turned, head still buzzing, to see Fiora dazedly trying to sit up.  The girl's back was to her, and she pulled her foot back to give her a punt to the base of the skull.

Something ropy yet firm caught her leg before she could.

She hacked at it instinctively, the wooden sword cleaving the new-grown root, then looked up to see Fiora stagger to her feet and bring her own blade to bear.  The Trifolder girl snarled, curly hair wild and dark eyes full of fire, then came on again.

Dasira swept her blade up to smack the strike wide, then stepped inside Fiora's reach and nailed the girl in the throat with her elbow.  Fiora choked and backstepped, raising her blade to guard against Dasira's follow-through thrust.  For a few moments of sword-on-sword, the duel nearly stabilized, but then Dasira felt the tingle of sensation returning to her left arm and rushed her foe, raising the bracer to block Fiora's sword.

Roots hooked both her legs and tripped her to the stone.

“That's enough!” Cob shouted again.  She glanced up through her loosed hair to find Fiora similarly entrapped, legs wrapped from ankle to knee in crackling brown roots.  With teeth bared, the Trifolder tried to fit the tip of her sword between leg and root, but another reached up like a snake to bind the blade.

Dasira started to swipe at her own vines, but another broke through the rock to strap down her forearm, and more quickly clamped on the sword and twisted from her grip.

“Don't interfere!” rasped Fiora, hoarse from the throat-shot.

“No.  You're done,” came Cob's voice from not so far above.  Dasira managed to turn her head enough to see him stalking down the hillside, face fixed like stone, hands fisted, the Guardian's armor coating him in bark.  “I shouldn't've allowed this in the first place, but everyone seems to think fightin' fixes things.  The two of you are never to pull a weapon on each other again, d'you get me?”

“But what if she—“

“
But nothin'!
” Cob roared in a deep, unnatural voice that shuddered the rock.  Dasira cringed; even though he was not using the punishing aura, his demeanor when he went full Guardian frightened her.  His eyes were flat black, the antlers beginning to branch from his brow; the ground radiated his anger like a pulse.