Maids with Blades

by Glynnis Campbell

  Her heart wasn’t completely invested in killing him.

  But an instant later, all that changed, for it was clear that Rand had become fully determined to kill her. He stealthily edged around the end of the pallet, armed with his dagger and his sword. He might not see her perfectly, but it was obvious by his movements that he knew where she was.

  Scowling in determination, she pulled out her sais, hunkered with her knees bent, and prepared to engage him at close range.

  Before he could get near enough to strike, she lunged forward with the blunt sais, missing his sword with one, but catching the blade of his dagger with the other and, with a twist of her forearm, snapping it off.

  Now he had only his broadsword.

  But he was unbelievably fast with it. Before she could leap away, he swung forward, slicing through her garments and grazing her belly with the sharp point.

  The sting made her suck air between her teeth. But she couldn’t afford the luxury of pain. She was fighting for her life.

  Snagging his wrist between the tines of one of her sais, she thrust his sword arm away and ducked past him to slide beneath the pallet again for refuge.

  He wasted no time. While she huddled there, he jumped atop the mattress and stabbed his sword down through it.

  The first thrust missed her hip by inches. The second landed short of her shoulder. The third carved a sliver of flesh out of her thigh. She gasped in pain, then rolled out from her haven before he could land another.

  As he made the fourth downward thrust, she came up beside the mattress and jabbed her sais forward to catch his ankles, sweeping him off his feet. He landed first on his hindquarters, then tumbled backward off the pallet onto the floor. Best of all, he was left weaponless. His sword yet lodged in the mattress.

  She quickly pulled her second bay sow from her arsenal and prepared to fire it at him. But just before the blade left her fingers, something knocked her hand askew, and the weapon landed harmlessly on the ground beside him.

  When she glanced down at her stinging knuckles, she found she’d been struck by her own shuriken. He must have retrieved it from the wall. She picked it up from the floor with the intent of sending it back into his throat. But he was no longer there.

  Her heart tripped.

  Where was he?

  A quick glance told her he hadn’t reclaimed his sword. It still protruded from the mattress like a holy cross.

  She scoured the chamber quickly, looking for a flutter of movement. Then it came. A scrabbling in the corner. On instinct, she hurled one of her sais toward the sound.

  As it clattered heavily upon the floor, she saw, by the faint moonlight, a startled mouse race across the planks.

  The next thing she saw was the planks rushing up toward her. Her head hit the hard wood as her feet flew up behind her, and she dropped her remaining sai.

  For one stunned moment, she lay there, blinded by a veil of stars, felled as surely as a tree by a woodsman’s axe. Only desperation, and the knowledge that she would die if she remained, moved her to slither away with all haste.

  She heard him grunt, heard the scrape of his broadsword as he pulled it free of the pallet’s stuffing. But she could see nothing. Praying for invisibility, she scrambled back against a wall, making herself as small a target as possible.

  Suddenly she was seized by the front of her clothing and hauled upright. Her vision cleared, and she saw him draw back his sword with the intent of plunging it through her belly.

  Before he could thrust forward, she kicked him as hard as she could in the ballocks. As he sank, moaning in pain, she poked her fingers hard into the spot above his breastbone, making him reflexively pull his head back and drop her.

  She scrambled a hasty retreat. Her eyes watered, blurring her vision. Her head swam. Her thigh was bleeding. She had cuts across her belly and her knuckles. But she dared not succumb. It was a matter of life and death.

  Her gloves slick with sweat, her heart thundering, the breath rasping through her lungs, she somehow managed to struggle to her feet. Rand staggered toward the window, reaching for the support of the sill, his sword dragging along the floor.

  He was a clear target now. The moonlight illuminated him. With a trembling hand, she unsheathed her woo diep do. She didn’t dare throw it, for she couldn’t afford to lose her last weapon. Instead, she feinted to the left, throwing her empty arm wide, at the same time diving forward with her right.

  She thought he wouldn’t have time to lift his heavy blade.

  She was wrong.

  He knocked the dagger from her hand with a hard blow of his pommel, then returned with a wide slash meant to lop off her head.

  Only her quick reflexes saved her. When she drew her head back, the blade whistled across her throat, but cut only deep enough to slice away the fabric of her hood.

  Still, the attack left her at a disadvantage. The folds of the slashed hood fell over her eyes, blinding her. Panicked, she clawed at the hampering remnants of cloth.

  His hand clutched the front of her garb, and he hauled her up close just as she tossed her head free of the stifling hood.

  Chapter 24

  Rand froze. It was as if he’d been struck in the belly by a catapult missile. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.

  Nay. It wasn’t possible.

  Sung Li was The Shadow, not…

  Miriel.

  Nevertheless, he couldn’t deny it was his beloved who stood before him. There was no mistaking her glittering blue eyes, her flaring nostrils, her trembling lips.

  “What…? How…?”

  He felt like he might lose his supper at any moment.

  She took advantage of his confusion, wrenching from his loose grasp and giving him two sharp jabs just below the ribs, then beating a hasty retreat.

  While he stood with gaping jaw, cradling his aching, nauseous stomach, she bumped into the pallet, scampered backward across it, then half fell, half dove to the floor.

  How could this be? How could Miriel be The Shadow? Where had she learned to fight like that? And why the bloody hell was she fighting him?

  As he stood there, staring at the far side of the pallet, where she undoubtedly crouched, waiting for his attack, he began to tremble with the reality of what he’d done.

  Hell, he’d tried to kill her.

  He’d sliced her belly, slashed her knuckles, nearly cut off her head. The idea left a bitter taste at the back of his throat.

  He glanced down at his sword, its edge marked with her blood, and suddenly the weapon seemed a vile, white-hot serpent. He dropped it, and it clanged heavily on the floor.

  His voice quaking, he whispered across the darkness. “Miriel.”

  There was no reply, only a silence, impossible to decipher. Was she surrendering or stalking him?

  “Miriel,” he breathed, taking a step toward the bed, “come out. I won’t hurt you.”

  Still she didn’t respond.

  He took another step. “I’m unarmed. Come to me, Miriel.”

  She was quiet so long, he feared she might have hurt herself, hurtling over the pallet. Or maybe his blade had cut deeper than he knew. The possibility sickened him.

  “Miriel,” he rasped, slowly stepping around the end of the pallet.

  No sooner did he note that Miriel had disappeared under the pallet than he felt an incredibly sharp sting at the back of his ankle, like an unruly hound nipping at his heel.

  He staggered back to discover one of those devilish stars stuck in the back of his leg. When he reached down to pull it out, her fist whipped out from beneath the pallet, coming down hard atop his hand. The blow drove his hand down onto the sharp point of the star, and he groaned in agony.

  Sick with the reality that his lovely Miriel had done this, that she’d intentionally caused him such excruciating pain, he crawled into the corner to extract the miserable weapon from his flesh, dizzied by the spurt of blood that issued forth from his hand.

  Able to see the entire room f
rom his vantage point, he took a moment to tear a piece from his undershirt and bind the bleeding wound. As he wrapped the cloth around his burning palm, he glimpsed Miriel’s arm reaching out from under the bed like a stealthy wraith toward his broadsword.

  He should have dove forward, claimed the weapon, held it to her throat, and forced her to surrender. Then he might have made her listen. Then he might have found out why she was trying to slay him.

  But he had neither the heart nor the will. He hurt, inside and out, from the wounds of her hatred.

  Instead, he let her claim his blade while he tied off his makeshift bandage with his teeth, then watched her as she jumped nimbly to her feet, holding the weapon in two hands before her.

  “Miriel?”

  But she wouldn’t speak to him. And neither, did he suspect, would she listen. There was too much anger, too much fear, too much desperation in her eyes. She was beyond reason.

  When he stood to face her, she took a swing at him, close enough to make him flinch. On her return swing, he ducked under the blade and charged her, bowling her over onto the floor. The thought of inflicting harm upon her was distasteful, but he had to do what he needed to survive.

  The weapons Miriel wielded were deadly, and it was clear she had every intention of using them.

  Even flat on her back, she had remarkable defenses. She drove her knee up hard, catching the point of his chin. When he reeled back, she plowed her fist into his belly, stealing the breath from him.

  When she started across with his blade again, intent on beheading him, he had no choice but to strike her forearm with full force, causing her to drop the sword. Even so, he winced as her bones gave beneath his blow.

  “Yield,” he gasped, hoping she would surrender then.

  But she seemed bent on killing him, with or without his sword.

  She skittered away beneath the pallet, and he picked up his fallen blade, struggling to his feet. Someone had to put an end to this. He didn’t want to hurt Miriel, but neither did he want to die.

  Miriel quivered beneath the pallet, cradling her bruised forearm. This was not going well at all.

  What had started as a simple assassination was now mortal combat. Now she had to kill or be killed. And unless she could recover them somehow, she’d exhausted her supply of weapons.

  “Come out, Miriel,” Rand’s voice rasped.

  She steeled her jaw. Of course he wanted her to come out. She made a much better target when she wasn’t huddled beneath the pallet.

  She watched the silhouette of his boots as he strode past once, twice, like a restless cat standing guard at a mouse’s hole. Then he retreated, and she heard the squeak of a stool.

  “I’m sitting down,” he told her. “My sword is on the floor before me. I just want to talk, Miriel.”

  She didn’t trust him for a moment. Talk? Everything he’d ever told her was a lie, from my name is Sir Rand of Morbroch to I love you.

  She no longer believed anything he said, including I won’t hurt you.

  He intended to kill The Shadow. For the reward.

  She scowled, shutting out painful memories, concentrating on the dilemma at hand.

  She had no weapons.

  He knew exactly where she was.

  His sword might be lying on the floor, but if she came out of hiding, he could snap it up in one instant and run her through in the next.

  What could she do?

  Sung Li had taught her that the most lethal weapon was the mind. Even a more powerful, more seasoned, more expert opponent could be outwitted. Miriel wondered if she could outwit Rand la Nuit.

  What would take away his killer instincts? What would bring him to his knees? What would make him forget all about murdering The Shadow? What would leave him most vulnerable?

  She narrowed her eyes. Of course.

  She began with a light sniffling, just enough to make him lean forward on the stool. Then she progressed to soft sobs, muffled in her hands.

  “Miriel?”

  She smiled grimly. He was like a coney, sniffing at a snare. There was something about a woman’s weeping that could reduce the most heartless man to a quivering lump.

  She wept harder, more pathetically, and she heard him rise from the stool.

  “Miriel, are you all right?”

  With one last, long, piteous wail, she drew back her legs and watched as he crouched down to look under the bed.

  “Miriel, don’t cry. I’m not going to—”

  She cut off his words with a hard kick to his face. Then, before she could see the results of her violence, she rolled out from under the pallet and onto her feet.

  Searching for a weapon, any weapon, she found a crockery pitcher and cracked it down hard along the edge of the table, making sharp shards of the rim. Armed again, she turned to Rand.

  He lay silent on the ground. His face was bloody. His body was splayed across the planks, unmoving.

  The only sound in the chamber was the rasp of her breathing, though it seemed her heart pounded like a drum as she stood ready with the broken crockery.

  Gradually, she lowered the pitcher. Had she kicked him so hard? Was he unconscious? Was he dead?

  The possibility, as desirable as it had been a moment ago, horrified her now, sinking into the pit of her stomach like a ball of lead.

  Dear God, what had she done? Had she truly killed a man? Had she killed…her betrothed?

  She took one cautious step nearer. Fresh blood glistened upon his lip. His jaw sagged sideways. And nothing indicated he was alive. No flutter of eyelashes. No rise and fall of his chest. No pulse visible in his throat. No whisper of breath from between his lips.

  She swallowed hard and stepped closer.

  Lord, had she slain him?

  It seemed impossible. Yet that had been her intent. It was why she’d come into his chamber, to seek out the man who had lied to her, betrayed her, then turned in her beloved xiansheng to be executed, all for money. She’d meant to kill him.

  And now it appeared she had.

  She should feel victorious. Instead, she trembled as the weight of his lost soul settled upon her shoulders and uninvited tears welled in her eyes.

  God help her, she’d adored him. As foolish as it was, she had. And now she’d killed the only man she’d ever loved.

  Swallowing down the thick lump in her throat, she forced herself to forget what she had done, steeled herself for what was to come.

  Sung Li would be disappointed in her. It didn’t matter that she’d done it for her xiansheng, that she meant to save Sung Li’s life. He would never forgive Miriel for taking vengeance in his name.

  Revenge is a fool’s weapon, he always said, a weapon born not of reason, but of passion.

  She couldn’t tell him what she’d done in the name of passion. Not at first. Somehow, she’d find a way to rescue him from the dungeon and make sure they were well away from Morbroch before she confessed that she’d killed his captor.

  Taking a steadying breath and wiping a stray tear from her cheek, Miriel inched closer, bending down to make sure he was dead.

  Rand waited in agony, resisting the urge to breathe, resisting the need to assess his damaged face, resisting the instinct to curl into a protective ball as his attacker neared.

  He’d been a fool. She’d drawn him into her trap, feigning tears, only to betray him. But two could play that game.

  He supposed he deserved a bloodied nose for falling prey to such an obvious ruse, but love had blinded him. He’d made the mistake of believing Miriel would react like a woman when in truth she reasoned like a warrior. He wouldn’t let it happen again.

  The moment he sensed Miriel draw near, felt her breath upon his cheek, he sprang into action. Encircling her ankles with his arms, he jerked her feet out from under her, sending her tumbling against the foot of the pallet. Then he struggled to a crouch, spitting the blood from his cut lip, edging one hand behind him to locate his sword.

  But just as his fingers discovered the
blade, she crashed something against the side of his head, and he lurched sideways from the impact.

  Blinking back the black clouds that wanted to overwhelm his vision, he caught her by the throat in one desperate fist and found his sword with the other.

  She punched and kicked at him while he lifted her with one arm, half-strangling her in his grasp. But with all the other injuries she’d dealt him, he scarcely felt her pummeling.

  He tossed her onto the bed, and she immediately scrabbled backward until she came up against the plaster wall. With a snarl of rage and frustration, he swept his weapon up to her throat, pinning her at sword point.

  For a long while they only stared at each other, their eyes flashing fire, their breath wheezing in the quiet night, neither one backing down, neither one blinking.

  There was no fear in her gaze, only hatred and bloodlust.

  He knew now why she wanted him dead. She’d discovered who he was. She’d learned of his lies, his false pretenses, his deception. She’d trusted him, and he’d betrayed her. And there was no storm more violent than a woman betrayed.

  It was his fault. He couldn’t blame her. He was a fool to have believed that when she learned the truth about him, learned that he was not Sir Rand of Morbroch, but Rand la Nuit, a bastard mercenary, learned that he’d come, not for Miriel, but to hunt The Shadow, somehow love would conquer all.

  But Rand could see by the blaze in her eyesthat not only did she no longer love him. She despised him. Enough to want him dead. And if he didn’t kill her now, she would surely slay him at the first opportunity. Bloody hell, she already thought she had killed him.

  He’d been in such predicaments before. Men he’d had no quarrel with he was sometimes forced to kill, or else they would hunt him down and deliver him into the Reaper’s hands.

  But he’d never killed a woman. He’d never killed anyone he knew. God’s eyes, he’d never killed anyone he loved.

  He didn’t think he could.

  It didn’t matter that his body was covered with slashes from her weapons.

  It didn’t matter that his back throbbed and his hand stung and his nose felt like it was nothing but a mass of splinters.