“There is no such thing as readiness,” Croy said. “One fights, and lives, or one prepares, and one dies. You taught me that.”

“Do you regret it has come to this?” Bikker asked.

“Yes.”

Bikker sighed. “As do I, to be honest. Shall we count to three, and then strike?”

“One,” Croy said.

“Two,” Bikker responded.

“Three,” they said together.

Acidtongue whirled through the air, coming down hard and fast from Croy’s left, his weak side. Croy tried to lean out of the way but knew he wouldn’t be fast enough. Ghostcutter shifted in his hand and came upward to parry. The two blades met with an awful grinding, sizzling noise. Acid bit into Ghostcutter’s silver edge and notched the iron underneath. Bikker pushed forward suddenly and Croy went sprawling, his left hand out to catch him as he fell.

Not enough, not nearly enough—Croy had wasted his one cut—it was the end—in a moment Bikker would remise, following through on the stroke Croy had parried, bringing the blow home, and—

—Ghostcutter broke free of the engagement, ringing clear of Acidtongue. The acid had made the blades slick and unlocked them. Croy turned at the waist as he fell, trying to catch himself before he fell on his back, and Ghostcutter whistled through the air in a tight arc. Croy used every bit of control he had over the weapon and brought it low and inside Bikker’s guard. Busy gaining leverage for his remise, Bikker had his arms up, and that left his side unprotected.

Ghostcutter was a heavy blade. Its own momentum sliced through the chain-mail shirt over Bikker’s hip and deep into the flesh beneath. It didn’t stop until it had sliced halfway through Bikker’s spine.

Bikker gasped and took a step backward, and Ghostcutter came free of his midsection as easily as it was pulled from its own scabbard.

“Sadu take you,” Bikker shouted, and lifted Acidtongue again for another stroke. He lunged forward, but before he was halfway to Croy he stumbled and blood came vomiting out of his mouth.

Acidtongue dropped to the grass. It was dry by the time it landed—it secreted vitriol only when held by a strong arm. Bikker dropped to his knees beside it and then fell face forward into the earth.

Croy crawled toward his old teacher and rolled the man over on his back. Bikker’s face was congested with blood and his eyes weren’t focusing. His mouth moved but the words that came out were inaudible whispers. Croy bent his ear over Bikker’s lips to hear what he said.

“When you find an heir for my sword,” Bikker told him, his voice no louder than the breeze that ruffled the grass, “teach him that stroke. It’s a good one.”

Croy closed his friend’s eyelids, and wept.

He was not given time to grieve, however.