Dedreugh came in with another massive, cleaving blow. Count Janel danced away, slamming up his shield with her own, pulling her sword down hard against his elbow. A strip of his mail came loose, little rings falling on the sand like a rich man emptying his purse into a beggar’s hands.

The Count of Tolamer laughed.

Dedreugh came in again, furious, and Janel danced back. Brother Qown realized with startled shock she was copying Ninavis’s strategy: goading her enemy into attack after attack, exploiting the openings as he weakened. Then she stumbled, and he roared his pleasure.

It was a trap.

Her sword slash found the weak spot again, the same place she’d cut his armor previously. The sword sank deep, shearing steel and leather this time, sending sparks down into the sands and the smell of burning metal into the air. Her blade bit true into skin, muscle, and bone.

Dedreugh’s sword fell to the churned earth, followed a second later by his arm.

The whole crowd erupted in a deafening roar.

Brother Qown felt instinct kick in, beyond his control or desire to rein in. He yanked his agolé from Dorna’s hands as he climbed over the yard’s low wooden railing. If he could reach Dedreugh fast enough, before the blood loss killed him, Brother Qown might be able to save his life.

But the crowd fell silent.

The crowd fell silent, and Dedreugh didn’t fall.

Instead, Dedreugh stood there and gazed fondly at Janel. Dedreugh began to laugh, a sound that made all the skin along Qown’s arms prickle. No human could make such a noise.

The blood dripping from Dedreugh’s severed arm wasn’t red. It was black—the thick black ooze of old clotted blood seeping from a corpse.

An old corpse.

Dedreugh hadn’t fallen because Dedreugh was already dead.

He’d been dead the whole time, animated by the diabolical spirit possessing him. Such a spirit wouldn’t care if it pushed the body it possessed past all normal endurance. Such a spirit wouldn’t care if the body it wore took further injury. Easy to mistake such carelessness for supernatural strength. Easy to mistake it for the same curse that gave the count her infernal strength.

They had made a terrible mistake.

**AH, I KNEW IT WAS TOO GOOD TO LAST.**

No noise issued from Dedreugh’s throat. He hadn’t used anything as prosaic as his voice.

Every single person in the crowd, Brother Qown included, felt the demon scream those words straight into their minds.

“Oh, Selanol,” Brother Qown said, not caring who might hear him. “He’s not Dedreugh. That’s not Dedreugh at all.” Brother Qown reached over the railing and grabbed Dorna by the shoulder. “Dedreugh isn’t tainted by demons. His body is being possessed. Do you hear me? He is a demon.”