Daggers of Ice

Chapter 5

1010.

The Tenth Year of the Golden Age.

Arianna.

She glared at the man blocking her path: the unfortunate soul who'd had the misfortune of being in her way when the bells began to ring. The sound filled the night, sharp and discordant, echoing through the cliffs and the sea beyond. Cair Paravel's alarm; a sound that could wake an army.

How poetic.

The soldier before her held his sword like he meant to use it, the blade gleaming in the torchlight, arrogance painted across his face. Cocky, like all Narnians. Brave to the point of stupidity.

She said nothing.

Silence was her armour.

The hilt of the stolen sword was slick in her grip: borrowed from the guard whose body she'd left folded into a broom cupboard, his neck bent as if he'd been trying to look directly behind him. It wasn't her weapon of choice. Too long. Too clumsy.

The soldier's foot twitched.

Fool.

Her muscles tightened.

She leapt.

The world blurred. The air screamed past her, cool against the sweat and blood on her skin. His blade slashed through nothing but shadow, his snarl trailing behind her as she landed and rolled, rising in a single fluid motion.

She had to admit; the Just King had trained his Guard well.

He came again. Steel flashed. She bent backward, her body folding as easily as a whip, the blade cutting the air above her throat. Her palms struck the ground, she pushed off, twisting midair. Her boot caught his jaw with a satisfying crack.

He stumbled, spitting blood, eyes widening.

She landed lightly in a crouch, sword in hand, breath steady. Her lips curved, just slightly.

For a heartbeat, she wondered if Edmund was watching from one of the high windows.

Surely beneath the anger, beneath the disbelief and suspicion, he could see it. The precision. The skill. The control.

She was no wild thing to be hunted.

Their blades met again, the ring of steel-on-steel echoing in the courtyard. The rhythm matched the pulse in her chest.

He snarled.

Good.

She pressed the advantage, sparks bursting between them with each blow. He didn't underestimate her – his strikes came harder, faster. But she was the storm. She met him hilt-to-hilt, close enough to see the sweat bead on his brow, the terror beginning to creep into his eyes.

Her foot found his chest.

She kicked, hard.

He staggered, coughed: blood splattered the stones like ink, dark under the moonlight. Still, he grinned through broken teeth, lifting his sword again.

The next blow grazed her thigh. Silk split. Flesh followed.

She didn't flinch.

Pain was a companion she'd long since made peace with.

She ducked beneath his next strike, spun low, and felt the cold bite of steel along her forearm as she blocked. It tore deep, down to the bone. Her grip slipped for half a heartbeat – but that was all she needed.