It was the sign of weakness he had put off as long as he could. He’d finally broken. Bikker took it for exactly what it was—a call to attack, which he executed with a flurry of devastating blows, one after another. Croy managed to parry them, but not without cost. He had to stagger backward, away from the fight, and wince as the pain threatened to overcome him. He forced his eyes to stay open, to keep watching, to keep assessing the situation.

His shield was reduced to a few sticks of sizzling oak held together by a melting boss. Far worse, the shortsword was etched and notched each time it parried Acidtongue’s attacks. Croy could feel his sword growing weaker and less stable with each passing moment.

The weapon was still in better shape than the man, though, and that was the real problem. Already weakened by multiple wounds and loss of blood, Croy’s endurance was reaching its end very quickly. Just lifting his sword arm took a great effort and he was gasping for breath. Sweat rolled down into his eyes and he could taste the salt when it trickled across his lips. Proper swordsmanship was as much about the legs as the arms—he could hear Bikker’s voice in his head from back when the bigger swordsman had taught him how to fight. You need to move when a sword comes at your face, boy, lunge forward with your knee when you riposte, dance if you want to stay alive. His legs felt like they were made of solid wood. He could barely get his feet off the ground without falling over.

A sweeping blow came at his injured side, Acidtongue spitting as it burned through the air. Croy barely brought the shortsword down to counter. Acidtongue flew back to recover from the parry and then whistled over Bikker’s head as he brought his corroded sword up for a high slice. Croy shoved the fuming remnants of his shield up into the blow but lacked the strength to hold it back completely. Using Acidtongue like a club, Bikker knocked the shield into Croy’s teeth. Croy’s entire skull rattled and he felt his brains slosh back and forth.

So tired.

Parry. He tried a riposte but found the shortsword tangled in Acidtongue’s withdrawal.

His body was failing him.

Parry. Step back, away from the lunge, one foot behind the other to make his body a narrower target. Acidtongue jabbed past his face, and he batted it away like a cat batting at a piece of string—and just as effectually.

He was going to collapse.

Yielding parry—catching Acidtongue just before it cut his throat, taking Acidtongue’s foible with the shortsword’s forte. A classic parry perfectly executed, which should have given him an ideal chance to counterattack. By the time he saw the opportunity, however, Bikker was dancing away.

Croy knew he was doomed.