Page 54 of Forbidden

Duncan and Simon nodded.

“Shall we fight here?” Simon asked.

“Down there. And afoot,” Erik added. “Duncan’s horse is no match for yours.”

The battleground Erik had chosen was a meadow whose autumn stubble had been softened by rain. Beneath the thickening clouds, mist flickered like silver flames.

Together, Duncan and Simon dismounted, cast mantles over their saddles, and walked to the meadow. The smell of sun-cured, rain-drenched stubble permeated the air. When they reached a relatively level, mud-free stretch of ground, they turned and faced each other.

“I ask forgiveness for any wound I might give,” Simon said, “and offer the same for any I receive.”

“Aye,” Duncan said. “I ask and offer the same.”

Simon smiled and unsheathed his sword with a feline grace and speed that was as startling as the black finish on the blade.

“You are very quick,” Duncan said.

“And you are very strong.” Simon smiled oddly. “’Tis a battle I’m accustomed to.”

“Are you? Not many men are as strong as I.”

“My brother is. That is one of the two advantages I have over you today.”

“What is the other?” Duncan asked, raising his blade to meet Simon’s.

“Knowledge.”

The blades kissed ritually with a muted metal cry, then slid away. Both men began circling and feinting, testing for weakness in the other.

Without warning, Simon made a catlike leap forward and sent the flat of his blade whistling toward Duncan. It was the same lightning attack that had felled Donald and Malcolm.

At the last possible instant, Duncan twisted and brought up his borrowed sword. Steel met steel with a horrible clash. Then Duncan whipped his blade back as though it weighed no more than a breath, leaving Simon only air to lean on.

Most other men would have gone to their knees at the sudden loss of balance. Simon managed to catch himself and simultaneously twist under Duncan’s descending blade, delivering a blow to Duncan’s legs at the same time with the flat of his sword.

Very few men could have remained standing after such an attack. Duncan was one of them. He grunted and pivoted on one foot, turning with the force of the attack. The turn took much of the power from the blow.

Before Simon could follow his advantage, Duncan made a backhanded slash with his heavy broad-sword. The move was unexpected, for it required a sheer strength of arm and shoulder that was rarely found.

Simon slipped the attack with a cat’s grace. Sword met sword with a force that clashed up and down the meadow. For long moments the swords stayed crossed, each man straining for the advantage.

Finally, inevitably, Simon gave way to Duncan’s greater strength. One half step backward, then two, then more.

Duncan followed eagerly.

Too eagerly.

Simon twisted aside, leaving Duncan off-balance. He went down on one knee and then lunged quickly to the left, barely avoiding Simon’s attack. Duncan scrambled upright just in time to lift his sword to meet Simon’s attack. Steel clashed and screamed. The heavy blades crossed and held as though chained together.

For a brief time both men stood braced, breathing hard, their breath rising in silver plumes above the crossed swords. With each breath they took came the sharp fragrance of harvest past, wet earth, and cured grass.

“It smells like Blackthorne Keep’s best hay meadow, doesn’t it?” Simon asked casually.

Blackthorne.

The word went into Duncan like a dagger, slicing through shadows to the truth beneath. But before he could see that truth, the shadows flowed together over the wound, healing the tear in the darkness as though it had never existed.

Disoriented, Duncan shook his head.