Kalyavan’s blade crashed into her shield again. This time however, the wood seemed to explode inward under the force of his blow. He pushed his blade against the battered shield on Satyabhama’s forearm. She went back, sliding in the muddy ground. Kalyavan’s sword was held just short of Satyabhama’s nose, but she did not panic. The War Mistress’ eyes were fixed on the scarlet edge of his steel. The bastard was right, his blade is Assyrian steel. It would cut through the shield if she did not move. Satyabhama finally got purchase as her heels hit a corpse and brought the two of them into a tangled halt. With his free hand, Kalyavan drove his fist into her mouth. But Satyabhama kept her feet, blood trickling from her nose down her lips. They spat in each other’s faces, blades scraping as they twisted their grips, shifted their balance, jerking their aching legs like a pair of drunken dancers unable to decide who should take the lead. Kalyavan punched again, but this time Satyabhama moved her head to dodge it, and bit the side of his palm. She wrenched her head back, gouging out a piece of flesh. Kalyavan’s blood felt like warm rain as it sprayed across Storm’s face.

‘I told you,’ Satyabhama said, spitting the bitten flesh from her mouth. ‘You have no idea.’ She grinned, her teeth pink with blood as she shook the ruined shield from her arm into the mud.

Kalyavan’s mouth opened wide in surprise as he stepped back, clutching his injured hand to his chest. And then he grinned. ‘Now we got us a fight!’

Storm cursed. Kalyavan seemed determined not only to win this but to make a show of it. To show everyone who had called him a Mlecchá that he was a warrior to be feared. He spread his arms wide, urging the crowd to cheer louder. Applause can be addictive, Storm knew.

She had bitten her nails bloody with the tension. Helplessness made her want to rip someone’s innards out. Satyabhama spun with savage speed, sword sweeping in a low cut. But Kalyavan jumped, bringing his Assyrian steel sword on the War Mistress’ neck. The ruby crowning the crosspiece glowed red, like the eye of a maddened bull. Satyabhama ducked and stepped around the blade. She kicked dirt into Kalyavan’s face. He staggered back, almost stumbling. Before he had a chance to regain his balance, she thrust at him. Kalyavan instinctively parried. Thrust, thrust, parry, slash, parry, block, block. They moved back, only to descend upon each other like vultures battling over the last piece of dead meat. And not once did the grin leave Kalyavan’s face.