Free This Scepter'd Isle by Mercedes Lackey, Roberta Gellis Page A

attacker's arm with all his strength when the man tried to thrust through his wild swings. He was aware of movement behind the man he fenced with, aware that he could not prevail against two fighters of the same caliber.
    "Run, Harry!" he shouted, wondering why the guards had not yet arrived.
    With the boy's cry and his shout, they must have heard. From where they stood at the gate to the garden with 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 another terrible shock ran up his silver blade to his arm. Denoriel bit back his own scream and, completely blind with sickness, thrust again, lower, at the man's belly where he would not wear armor. The thrust did not connect, yet the man screamed again.
    Through tear-filled eyes, to which vision was returning, Denoriel saw his opponent go down on one knee, body twisted to look behind. His sword was still up, guarding, but for that moment the man was nearly immobilized. Then a gleam of sunlight caught his moving blade and through blurred eyes Denoriel saw it. He stepped inside its reach, praying his silk tunic would protect him if he were hit, and thrust violently at the hand, not the sword.
    One last shriek as the weapon dropped from the bleeding hand, the spell generating far more pain than the piercing blade. Then the attacker leapt to his feet and, limping badly, fled wide around Denoriel in the direction the other had taken. Denoriel sank to his knees on the muddy ground, gasping, cried out as his bare fingers touched the fallen sword.
    It was pulled away. Denoriel's eyes widened; there must be another man. He tried to rise but could not; he could not even raise his sword. But his half blind eyes could see no man shape and no burning, killing stroke came. He heard the scrape of metal on the ground and the nausea induced by the continued nearness of the steel diminished.
    "Here, quick, put on your hat."
    FitzRoy's voice, breathless, anxious. Denoriel had not even realized he had lost the hat, and then he also realized that in his anxiety and haste, he had not invoked the illusions that hid his ears and the slit pupils of his eyes. He knew, with a sinking heart,