Katana watched me like a hawk, her body in seigan kamae: right foot forward with most of the weight on the leading leg; sword directly in front, held with a slight bend to the elbows; the kissaki, the point of the katana, aimed at my eyes. A harmonious balance of both attack and defense.

Saber would fence. Katana would rely on a single strike at the right moment. One accurate cut. Such was the way of the samurai. Their best strategy would be for Saber to engage, with Katana waiting for an opening.

I didn’t have time for them to decide when to attack me. I turned ever so slightly toward Katana, shifting my weight to my right leg.

The saber fighter thrust with dizzying speed. Katana struck, a beautiful diagonal blow. A moment stretched into eternity. I shied back, blocking the katana and letting the saber slide a hair from my stomach, drove my blood dagger into Saber’s throat, jerked it out, pushed Katana back, and thrust the blood blade into her stomach.

Time snapped back to its normal speed, an elastic band let loose. The two women fell. I knelt, driving the two blades into their bodies, and kept walking. Nine.

The crows vanished. At the other end of the bridge a female mage slumped over, exhausted. I glanced back. Roman leaned on his staff, breathing like he’d run a marathon.

A man lunged at me. I sidestepped his strike and turned, ramming my elbow into his chest. He stumbled back and I sliced his neck open. Eight.

A woman, two swords, fast. I blocked one slash, let the other graze me, and kicked her in the head. She fell and I sank Sarrat between her ribs, ripping up her lungs and heart. Seven.

Curran roared. The male werehyena clamped his side. The female tore at his arm, locked around her throat. The sound of bones crunching—his ribs broke under the pressure of hyena teeth.

A man, a mace, a head rolling on the bridge. Adora. Six.

A woman, lance, too slow. I opened her stomach from side to side and stabbed her when she wouldn’t stay down. Five.

An arrow sliced into my left shoulder. Pain. Nothing major. The bowman notched another and fell as Derek shattered his skull. Four.

Curran roared. Blood ran down his face—one of them had gotten him right over the muzzle. The two hyenas circled him, slow. Fighting him tired you out.

Curran limped, favoring his left leg. I knew that move. It was called “come and get it.” He’d caught me with it three times, twice with a limp and once with a supposedly injured shoulder. He was inviting a direct attack.

The hyenas closed in, sensing a sure kill.

“For you, Sharrim!” Adora dropped her sword and sprinted forward.

“No!”

I ran after her.