The Captive Heir

Chapter Seven

"Watch your feet!"

The warning shout caught Elisabet off guard, and she stumbled, her toes tripping over her feet. She regained her balance, but too late—she had taken too long, and Fitz was bearing down on her, sword primed for her heart and grin primed for victory.

A small cluster of preliminary groans arose from around them. She and Fitz were sparring in the training field, and they had gained an audience. A few had bet on Elisabet, but the majority continued to cheer for Fitz. Their support was not unwarranted. He had beat her twice before this already—but she retained the lead over him, with three bouts won.

"Well done, Fitz!" someone cheered across the clearing. "Run the piglet through!"

Elisabet's eyes narrowed at the insult, her determination renewing. She would not lose like this, with a root tripping her and a faceless bandit jeering at them. She would win and widen her lead to four; Fitz would remain at two.

Unfortunately, she had no time to block or make a counterattack. She'd flung her arm back instinctively when she lost her balance, and now her sword was at an unusable angle at her side. She'd never get it into position in time to halt Fitz's rush, and she had run out of space to retreat.

She had only one option.

She let herself fall.

Fitz's eyes widened in surprise. He had expected her to right herself, perhaps attempt a defensive move, but she instead dropped beneath his reach, and he had no time to correct his direction. His sword went whistling over her head as she thudded to the ground, and his momentum carried his long legs another step—past Elisabet altogether—before he could correct his position.

By then, she had regained her feet and her balance, and turned to face him, sword at the ready once more. Both paused, sizing up the other before continuing. Fitz grinned suddenly and inclined his head, looking impressed—and pleased. Elisabet returned his smile with something approaching giddiness and extended her free hand, inviting him forward. After you, the gesture said.

Happy to oblige, Fitz made the first charge.

Five minutes later, he had disarmed her with a particularly clever flourish and pinned her to a tree, his sword pressing into her heart as his free hand gripped her shoulder, holding her firmly in place.

"Yield?" he asked her, shaking his sweaty hair out of his eyes.

Elisabet laughed and raised her now-empty sword hand. "I yield," she said. He had earned his victory, bested her fairly. She wouldn't begrudge him for it, not when she had had so much fun in the match.

A few Esrens in their audience embarked on a short song of victory, while the handful of bandits who had wagered on Elisabet shook their heads glumly. Fitz stepped away from the tree, releasing Elisabet, as the group dispersed and Caleb and Alvan approached them.

"Nicely won," Alvan told him approvingly.

Fitz shot Elisabet a rueful grin. "She almost had me there with that fall," he said. "I thought for a second she was aiming below the belt."

Elisabet chuckled as she passed her dulled training blade back to Caleb. It hadn't even occurred to her. "If I can't beat you as a woman, I'm not going to attack you as a man," she said. As much as she loved to win, she would not sabotage an opponent's well-deserved victory with petty, unsportsmanlike means.

Alvan laughed broadly. "Glad you're still intact, then," he said to Fitz, who grimaced.

"I'm not too sure," he said, rolling his broad shoulders. "One of those last hits felt like the real thing." He stretched gingerly, testing the impact site.