She immediately sprang into distance, feinted a head cut, and then, when her husband’s blade came up to parry, attempted a strike to the chest. Thamalon reacted to the true attack in time. Retreating, he swept his sword to his left to close the line. The two blades rang together, and Shamur waited to counterparry his riposte, but instead of attacking in his turn, he simply took a second step backward. “For the love of Sune,” he said, his black brows drawn down in a fierce scowl, his cheek bloody from the shallow gash she’d cut there, “at least explain what this is all about.” “I told you,” she said. “I know what you did.” She advanced and attacked again, beating his blade aside, then lunging and driving her point at his throat. He hopped back, and the attack fell short. Shouting, her skirts whispering on the fallen snow, she ran at him, striving to plunge her point across those last few inches. He pivoted and brushed her weapon out of line. Now her blade was passe, beyond his body and poorly positioned for either offense or defense.
