Olveg was moving too soon, Qillion wasn’t in position. No matter: they were only Akindra. I drew my dirk and thrust it at the Duke, and was surprised when it gracefully parried the thrust with the parchment and brought the scroll down on my hand. I heard my wrist break.

In the whisper tongue, I called Olveg to assist; he gurgled in reply when the bitch slit his throat to the bone.

I knew when she moved, even before I caught her scent. She slipped from her horse as if her armor weighed nothing, took her helm off and threw it at Qillion’s head as he tried to drag the other knight down, stunning him. Then she sliced through his knees with her sword. On the return cut I was alone with two Akindra and the bitch.

She was on me before the Duke could hit me again, faster than air. She smelled of roses; her hair shone silver as fishscales and her eyes were green as Spring grass. I knew those eyes: I’ve served her father for five centuries. I saw the eyes, then her mailed fist; the world was bright, then dark.