Free Sword of Hemlock (Lords of Syon Saga Book 1) by Jordan MacLean

circumstances, in spite of the fact that she was
fighting another knight instead of the demons in the war, it felt good to be
fighting again.  Not sparring, not mindlessly moving through her daily
exercises, but actually fighting.  By the gods, it felt good.
    Sure you’d not take it all back.
    A chill of danger touched her spine as she entered the
alley, and she drew Alandro to a stop.  Even with the sun rising, the Maze was
dark.  The only light that fell was feeble firelight coming from the hovels
lining the path, and ahead she could see no sign of Gikka nor of the knight. 
Then, from a shadowy alcove just ahead, she heard the faintest huff and the
shift of a pained hoof.  Strategies raced through her mind, but slowly, far too
slowly. Before she could prepare herself, Sir Bernold’s horse lunged at her.
The knight charged her from the darkness, sword drawn.
    She parried his blow away but his sheer power and size
overwhelmed her, and she felt herself losing her balance.  Instead of fighting
it, she let herself fall from Alandro’s back, tumbling over her shoulder to
land on her feet with her sword toward Sir Bernold.  Her horse still stood
between herself and the Wirthing knight. She circled around him and drew her
second sword, taking the split second of luxury to scan the alley for Gikka.
    She heard a splintering crack and a horse’s scream of
agony.  Alandro kicked again and his hooves connected squarely with the other
horse’s chest.  The Wirthing mount reared back in pain and bucked furiously,
throwing Sir Bernold to the ground. It nearly trampled him in its rage and
raced away streaming blood from its muzzle and chest.  Renda doubted the horse
would live without attention to his wounds.
    Sir Bernold rose to his feet with menace in his eyes and
stalked toward Alandro.  “I would kill this ill-mannered beast, Brannagh,” he
seethed, “but I shall have need of a mount after I kill you.”
    “I doubt he would give you his back,” she answered with a
smile and gave an elegant flourish with her swords.  But the gesture was not
idle and, with a quick neigh, Alandro turned and galloped away, down the alley
toward Zinion and Gikka.  She judged the sound of his hooves to have stopped
only twenty yards away.  Good, Gikka was near.  Just like during the war.
    “Shall we, sirrah?”
    “Indeed,” he growled, circling toward her with his sword
drawn.  In the gray darkness she could see the white lining of the shirt
peeking out from the slashes in his doublet and occasionally the whites of his
eyes, but the rest of him she could see only when he moved.  Twice, he nearly
struck her before she saw the attack, and twice she managed to get her blade up
barely in time.  She felt a trace of panic rising in her heart.  How had she
gotten so slow?  She quelled it, focusing as she had been taught on calm, on
fighting the enemy, not her fear.  Almost at once, her breathing slowed.
    “You disappoint me, Brannagh,” he laughed.  “Praise your
B’radik that I am drunk, or I should have dispatched you by now.”
    “I think not.”  Her accustomed skill was coming back to
her.  Control regained, she sliced at him with elegance, anticipated his
parries and sidestepped them with renewed attacks.  She watched his blade rise
to block her strike and, to her delight, she was fast enough to take advantage
of the opening he created for her.  Her left blade bit into the flesh of his
thigh.  He flinched at the pain, but then he laughed. The blade had not bitten
deeply enough to do harm.  Had the sword been her right, he would already be
writhing in agony from the poison.  She brought her other sword up to push
aside his next obvious attack from above, then slashed at him once more with
her left blade.
    He stepped in to bring his blade across her waist, but she
was no longer there, and he overextended himself clumsily.  In only a moment,
he found himself held helpless against her with her sword edge locked