Sea dragon duels were always in human form, with blades. The vast majority of duels—unlike this one—were only fought to first blood, and a dragon’s natural form was too powerful, too deadly, to allow safe combat. Thus, all sea dragon knights trained scrupulously with the sword. Serious duelists might spend as much as two hours a day in human form, practicing.
But John had lived two years as a human.
He knew the reach of his human limbs as instinctively as the span of his talons. He moved as easily on two feet as he could through the sea. He had worn this form for so long, its instincts had become his own.
The Knight-Commander was a master of the blade, winner of countless challenges. He was hailed as the most skilled duelist in the entire Order of the First Water.
And John…was better than him.
The Knight-Commander realized it at the same moment as John himself. His aggressive storm of blows faltered.
Now John struck, taking advantage of the longer reach of his own greatsword. For the first time, the Knight-Commander was forced to raise his blades in defense rather than attack. He crossed his swords, only barely managing to catch John’s between them.
Their hilts locked, and the contest became one of strength rather than finesse. John dug his feet into the gritty ice for purchase, his biceps straining as he struggled to keep both the Knight-Commander’s blades trapped. They were so close that John could see the Knight-Commander’s rictus snarl beneath his helmet…and the fear in his eyes.
The Knight-Commander had the powerful arms and shoulders of a swordsman. But long shifts hauling heavy hoses and firefighting equipment had honed every muscle in John’s body. His own strength came from more than just endless practice drills and polite, formal combat.
He drove forward with that strength now, bringing to bear all the coiled power of his legs and back. His heavier blade smashed through his opponent’s guard.
Only the Knight-Commander’s diamond-studded armor saved him from being sliced in half from shoulder to hip. John’s sword screeched off the edge of one pauldron, striking sparks. It gave the Knight-Commander enough time to leap backward—but not before the tip of John’s blade scored a thin red line across his chest.
“First blood!” John’s sister called, exultant. She and Neridia had drawn back to a safe distance, clutching each other’s hands. “First blood to you, my brother!”
“First blood?” The Knight-Commander sounded positively indignant, as if he could barely believe the outrageous affront of it. “To him?”
“Yes.” John resettled his grip on his sword hilt. “And I will claim the last, too.”
He powered forward again, his leaping blade as swift and eager as a dolphin. The Knight-Commander fought back furiously, defending with one sword even as he struck with the other. John twisted aside from some attacks; caught others on his armored forearms and shoulders.
His sword tasted the Knight-Commander’s blood twice more, and still he himself was uninjured.
The Knight-Commander broke off, retreating a few paces. He circled, keeping his blades warily upraised. His ragged breath hung in the freezing air. He cast a quick glance around, as though searching for an escape route.
“There is no fleeing from dishonor, traitor.” John’s muscles burned with effort, but his own chest still rose and fell evenly. “You cannot escape. And you cannot win.”
The Knight-Commander’s shoulders set. His blazing green eyes glared at John from behind his visor, filled with hate.
“I might not win,” he spat. “But neither will you.”
The Knight-Commander reversed his grip on his left sword, raising the weapon to shoulder-height with the blade sticking straight out in front of him. It was such a bizarre stance, John instinctively angled his own sword across his body, ready to defend himself from any possible attack.
Which meant he was caught completely unprepared.
In a swift, vicious movement, the Knight-Commander hurled his sword straight at Neridia.
Chapter 33
“He’s going to win.” Jane’s hand crushed Neridia’s. “My brother’s going to win!”
Neridia was no expert at judging sword fights, but even she could see that the Knight-Commander was flagging. Though he still cut and lunged with ferocious speed, his movements didn’t flow together quite as smoothly as they had at the start at the fight. Crimson drops speckled the surface of the ice around him.
John’s torso was sheened with sweat, but still unmarked by the Knight
-Commander’s blades. He moved with the unconscious, fluid grace of a hunting predator, wielding his heavy sword as if it was an extension of his own body. His calm, steady eyes never left his opponent’s.
Neridia could feel his intent focus down the mate bond. All of him—mind, body, and soul—was utterly concentrated on destroying the threat to her.
All she could do was send back her shining faith in him. Her utter certainty that he would always, always protect her.