Brennan’s eyes bulged. “Casside, what the hell are you doing? Have you lost your mind?”
“I’m not Casside.” Richard glanced at the Grand Thane, a question obvious on his face. The old noble pondered him for a moment.
Let him do this, George willed. He needs this.
“You have my permission,” the Grand Thane rumbled.
Richard stepped between the old man and Brennan.
To the left, Charlotte jumped to her feet and stood utterly still.
Brennan stepped back, raising his sword. It was a plain, functional sword of a simple but brutal design that had served Brennans for centuries, carving their path to the throne. It had a thirty-five-and-a-half-inch double-edged blade, sharp and polished to a satin smoothness; a ten-inch hilt with a seven-and-a-half-inch grip, wrapped in plain leather cord that allowed Brennan to wield the sword one-or two-handed; a round pommel and cross-guard. George had held a sword like that before, made by the same smith—Declan had it in his armory. The balance of the blade was at five and a half inches, and it weighed about two and a half pounds, a combination that made the sword nimble despite its size. Holding it in his hand had made him feel indestructible.
Richard’s sword was single-edged and curved ever so slightly. It was razor-sharp, weighed only a pound, with a twenty-five-and-a-half-inch blade, and a four-inch grip. Brennan’s sword was ten inches longer, a pound heavier, but also slower, a powerful butcher blade to Richard’s sleek scalpel.
Brennan slashed to the right, aiming for Richard’s right side, just below the ribs. Richard moved to parry, but instead of following through, Brennan reversed the strike and lashed at Richard’s left. Richard brought his sword across, point down, meeting Brennan’s blade just in time. Brennan was testing for speed, George realized.
“If you’re not Casside, then who are you?”
“You call me Hunter.”
Brennan struck again, the sword dancing in his hand. Right slash, left slash, right slash, left. The swords rang from each other. Richard moved back under the onslaught, his movements short, economical. Brennan drove him across the room. Blades flashed, Richard moved a touch too slow, and the point of Brennan’s sword grazed his shoulder. Blood swelled across the white sleeve. Damn it.
“No!” Jack growled.
“It’s just a paper cut. He’s fine.” First blood was to Brennan. Not a good sign. George’s pulse rose. Richard couldn’t lose. He simply couldn’t lose this fight.
The two men circled each other like two predators stalking. Richard, a lean wolf, and Brennan, a pampered tiger.
“Why?” Brennan asked.
“You profit from the sale of human beings.”
“A true believer, then.” Brennan bared his teeth. “And who are you to judge me?”
“Just a man,” Richard said.
Brennan grasped the sword in both hands and struck, bringing it in a circular motion across Richard’s chest. Richard moved back, and the sword whistled past his shirt. Brennan reversed the swing and struck diagonally down. Richard parried, deflecting the blow with the flat of his blade. Steel rang. Richard staggered back. Brennan was bigger and at least thirty pounds heavier, all of it solid muscle. George knew Richard had ungodly stamina, but the flash punch had clearly taken its toll.
Brennan swung again, a high, horizontal cut. Richard parried in a clamor of steel. They crossed swords again and again, blocking with the flats of their blades. Brennan grunted and hammered at Richard, blow after blow, sinking his enormous strength into it. Richard was backing away, staggered by the hits. George clenched his fists. Get out of there. He’s going to pin you against the wall. Get out.
“He’s just beating on him,” Jack squeezed through his teeth. “He isn’t using any technique at all.”
“He decided Richard was too damaged to survive a long fight. He wants to end it fast.”
Brennan was familiar with all the techniques of proper swordplay—and knew all the tricks as well. Members of his family received expert instruction in the martial arts from early childhood. George hadn’t been allowed to start practicing until he was nine. At his age, Brennan had already been learning swordplay for six years. He was banking on his raw power now. This wasn’t a duel; this was a fight to the death, fast and brutal. Only one would walk away, and Richard looked desperate.
Brennan cut Richard’s right shoulder. Another graze. Damn it. George hid a growl. He wanted to run out there on the floor and finish this.
Jack tensed next to him, gathering himself like a cat before a pounce.
“Don’t you dare,” the duchess said. Hearing her voice was like getting a bucket of ice water dumped on him. George recoiled.
“This isn’t your fight. You must stay out of it.”
Brennan slammed his shoulder into Richard, shoving him back. Richard crashed into the wall.
Get out, get out, get out . . .
Brennan thrust. Richard knocked his blade aside and spun left, breaking free.
Brennan pulled a dagger from the sheath on his belt. The brute assault had failed. He was going for the smarter plan now. Brennan cut from the right. Richard deflected the blade, and Brennan slashed his hand with the dagger, flinging blood into the air.
Argh!
Richard spun and thrust. Brennan knocked the blade aside and carved at the inside of Richard’s forearm. The sword hand was vital. One cut in the right place, and Richard would lose mobility, strength, or his sword altogether. Brennan was taking him apart piece by piece. Richard looked like he was on his last breath. He was slowing down. His shirt was crimson with blood.