The red-haired sergeant rounded the doorway, bayonetted musket in hand, paused a moment, then went after the enemy officer. He swept her thrust away, then turned and parried a cut from Winter, shouting what had to be Hamveltai obscenities. Winter gestured at the sergeant to move right, spreading out to get through the officer’s guard, and the woman nodded.

Whoever their enemy was, he was an experienced fighter. Rather than wait to be surrounded, he rushed at Winter, sword cutting downward in a desperate two-handed blow. When the sergeant thrust her bayonet at his back, he sidestepped, pulling his blade back from Winter’s parry and leaving her stumbling and overbalanced. Before she could step back, he lashed out with the hilt, a vicious short jab that drove the heavy metal pommel into her temple.

Black stars flashed behind Winter’s eyes, and she stumbled away, legs suddenly wobbling underneath her. The officer spun to engage the sergeant, who tried to slash at him with her bayonet and cut nothing but air. He extended his front leg in a textbook lunge and spitted her through the belly. The sergeant dropped her musket and closed her hands around blade where it had gone in, making mewling, gasping sounds. The Deslandai pulled the weapon free, and she sank to the floor, curled around a spreading bloodstain.

The officer whipped his sword around, sending a line of hot red blood across the floor, and turned back to Winter. He stepped forward, and Winter realized her own sword was lying on the floor, fallen from nerveless fingers. Blackness nibbled the corners of her visions, and her head pulsed with agony with every heartbeat. She wondered if he’d cracked her skull.

The man regarded her curiously, then looked back to the sergeant and shook his head.

“You Vordanai,” he said, speaking with a heavy accent. “I never kill a woman before.”

He sighed, and raised his sword. Before it could fall, there was movement in the doorway, and the man’s head turned. Winter got a glimpse of a blue uniform, and then Bobby stepped into the room.

“Winter!” she shouted, looking around. The Deslandai officer stepped into his swing, a heavy sideways cut at head level. Bobby looked up, far too late to bring her musket up to parry, and brought her left hand up into the path of the blade.

Her fingers closed around the steel. Winter, watching as though in a dream, saw blood well where the edge bit into Bobby’s palm, but she effortlessly brought the stroke to a halt. Before the startled officer could react, Bobby jerked the sword forward, tearing it from his grip. A twist of her fingers folded the thick metal in half as though it were made of paper.

The Deslandai could only stare, muttering something Winter didn’t understanding. Bobby dropped her musket and swung her fist square into the man’s face, and there was a crunch like someone smashing a sack of raw eggs. The officer was slammed against the wall, his head spraying blood across the wood where it struck, his face a red ruin. He sank down, slowly, and did not move again.