the pond, they should have seen him fighting. Why did they not come? He needed the help. He was a fine swordsman, and he had fought men bearing steel before—but never alone, never two against one. And he had not repeatedly had to touch the steel as he parried. He was chilled and shaking. His guts knotted tighter and harder with each touch of his weapon against the other's and sickness clogged his throat, making it hard to breathe.
Then the other man cried out, not in pain but in shock and disgust. There was a thud and a splash. Denoriel's opponent was distracted—no more than a twitch of the head and a flick of the eyes to see what had happened behind him, but it was enough. Denoriel's blade slid up then pierced the man's sword arm, his silver blade carrying Denoriel's spell of pain and poor healing. The attacker howled and dropped his blade but made no attempt to retrieve it or to run, either of which Denoriel guessed he feared would have been fatal. Instead, he flung the poniard he held in his left hand at Denoriel's face.
Aware of the damage a scratch from the weapon could do—even a glancing blow could raise a dangerous welt—Denoriel staggered back. The attacker took the chance he had made for himself; Denoriel could feel him dart past and thrust at him but missed. He could not see well enough to stop him. From the sound, he had run for the garden gate. Then Denoriel knew the guards would not come, that they had somehow been disposed of. He started forward as FitzRoy shouted a warning, whipping his blade back and forth although his vision was so blurred he could not see the other man's weapon.
A shriek and a shock told Denoriel that his blade had connected and he drew and thrust, still without really seeing his opponent. An oath gave evidence of the accuracy of his strike, but his blade did not penetrate. He struck hard armor under the man's doublet and