Lady Dragon

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  “Get out!” Nijmege snapped. McCall was already on edge. Valmont’s verbal assault would only serve to unsettle him more.

  Chuckling, Valmont came to attention and gave her a salute before leaving the room.

  “Don’t let him upset you,” Orlaith said, turning to McCall. “He’s just trying to get under your skin, make you lose focus.”

  Disgruntled, McCall dropped into a chair. He wiped at his face. “Well, it’s working.”

  Nijmege came to kneel beside him. “You have no need to worry. I’ve been training for months since we heard news of Elisibet’s return. You and Valmont will be on the sidelines, offering mental strength—nothing more. He’ll only enter the melee if Davis is alive but physically incapacitated, and that’s not going to happen.”

  “You’re certain?”

  Nijmege smiled, patting his hand in a pacifying manner. “Of course. As soon as I get close enough, I’ll have her head. The duel will be over.” It seemed Valmont’s opinion of McCall held some merit. The younger generations hadn’t had as much battlefield experience and it certainly showed now. She wondered how he could be so powerful in council meetings but fainthearted when it came to confrontations. He’d obviously spent too much time using kizarusi rather than seeking his own sustenance. Providing she survived this ordeal, she vowed to take McCall hunting when they returned home. He needed to understand his Sanguire nature.

  It doesn’t matter. Tomorrow morning I’ll have achieved my goal. Serene in that knowledge, she continued to reassure her wilting comrade, heart soaring.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Whiskey stared at the blue digital readout above the elevator panel as it counted down. Just before it reached the recreation floor, she took a deep breath. It did little to quell the butterflies roller coastering through her stomach but did moderately bolster her nerves. When the doors opened onto the third floor, she gave a passable imitation of a confident smile and exited with her entourage.

  Valmont and Margaurethe flanked her, Jake leading the way and two aga’gída behind, a lethal phalanx protecting her as she walked down the crowded corridor to her possible death. This short span of hallway was lined with well-wishers, most of them employees of The Davis Group, all of them Sanguire. There was none of the happy excitement normally exhibited before a sporting event. As they passed the locker rooms she wondered if that was due to the nature of the dispute or from something more native to the Sanguire. She’d been occasionally surprised by them as a people, especially when they came together in large groups. She’d been raised by Humans and hadn’t known she wasn’t one herself until she’d fallen in with Fiona’s pack of malcontents over a year ago. The Sanguire people’s long-lived nature tended to dampen much of the Human hullabaloo with which she’d grown up.

  Or maybe they know something about today’s outcome I don’t.

  She pushed away the depressing thought as Jake reached the gymnasium entry. Two security guards stationed there opened the doors, and she preceded Whiskey inside. Whiskey followed, forcing herself to remain calm.

  Much like the corridor, the large glass-enclosed room was lined with spectators. These were higher-ranking delegates visiting Portland as well as local dignitaries and supporters of The Davis Group. A dozen or so Humans had been invited to observe the duel, friends or assistants to the Sanguire upper crust, and they peppered the gathering. Whiskey picked out various political leaders, giving them regal nods of recognition. Looking up, she saw that the fourth-floor offices overlooking the gymnasium held a good number of her people, including her pack. They’d have a much better view of the proceedings from their vantage point. She supposed if she’d been more like Elisibet, she would have installed gallery seating around the room for debacles such as this. She faked a confident grin for Zebediah’s eager thumbs-up signal.

  A number of individuals clustered in the center of the room. They were the Sanguire witnesses, the lú-inim-ma, who would join together and shield the combatants. Their purpose wasn’t to protect the duelers from outside attack, rather they would keep a mental wall in place to stop outside intervention from the fighters’ allies. It wasn’t unheard of that a duel without shields resulted in a free-for-all among the witnesses.

  Her Mayan trainer broke away from the lú-inim-ma. He waved her closer. Her two royal guards stayed back but Jake accompanied the others forward. Pacal took Whiskey by the shoulders, turning her this way and that. Brief embarrassment at being treated like a piece of meat in front of all these high-ranking people disrupted her nerves. Before she could do more than blush, he thumped her in the chest, bringing her attention sharply to him. “You’re strong, you’re competent, and you’ll beat that malandro without fuss.” He bent forward to stare into her eyes. “And if you don’t, I guarantee I’ll have you running ’chete drills for the next month.”

  His rough admonition broke through the fog of fear. Smiling, she said, “If I don’t then I won’t be here to run those drills.”

  Scoffing, Pacal straightened. “Always the smart aleck. Do as I say!”

  An impertinent grin remained on her face as she bowed. “Yes, teacher.”

  Satisfied, he patted her shoulders and stepped to the center of the room. He was one of lú-inim-ma, overseeing fairness on both sides. His companions were representatives from all other nations here, including Bentoncourt, Chano and Dikeledi. Whiskey found it odd that members of her board were on hand to keep the peace, and wondered if the others felt the same. She guessed that combining that many minds together—she counted a half dozen clustered there—would keep everyone on their toes. Not only would they guard against outside interference but also internal strife between them.

  “You heard him, m’cara. I know how you detest his machete drills.” Margaurethe leaned close, whispering into her ear, “I love you, Whiskey Davis. Finish this and come back to me.”

  Whiskey swallowed against the lump in her throat. “I will, minn’ast. I’ve only just found you, I have too much to look forward to.” She received a blistering kiss that nearly made her forget her place until Valmont whistled softly.

  “Perhaps you two should retire to the locker room for a quickie?”

  She broke away from Margaurethe and Valmont was treated to their mock glares. He pretended terror, stepping back in a faux cower. Laughing, Whiskey hugged Margaurethe tight. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.” She reluctantly let her lover go.

  “Ninsumgal.”

  Whiskey turned to her bodyguard. “Jake?”

  “No insult intended toward Sublugal Sañar Valmont, but I would have preferred you choosing me in his stead.” Jake glanced over her shoulder at McCall and Nijmege standing with Orlaith O’Toole several meters away. Leaning close, she whispered, “Nijmege’s wrists are both thick, indicating she can use a blade in either hand. In the boardroom, however, she predominantly utilizes her right. Be wary.”

  “Thank you, Jake. I appreciate your experienced eye.”

  Her bodyguard’s returned stare was substantive. She held Whiskey’s regard for a long moment before lifting a chin. “Luck, Ninsumgal.” She turned and trotted away, taking position beside Margaurethe.

  “Must we endure further delays?” Nijmege called across the short space between them. “Or can we, as the Americans say, ‘get this show on the road’?”

  “What’s the matter, Bertrada?” Valmont grinned at their opponent. “Can’t wait to see the gates of Hell?”

  Nijmege pointed a bared sword in his direction. “As you’ll be there before I, at least I’ll have the benefit of company.”

  Valmont frowned, tapping a finger against his chin. “I’m sorry. Was that an insult or a compliment?”

  Whiskey enjoyed Nijmege’s faint confusion before her face jelled into a steely determined expression. Nijmege wore leather for this fight though hers had the benefit of looking much older and more worn than Whiskey’s attire. The sword Nijmege carried was a military saber, ninety centimeters of tempered steel with a simple aged gold cross guard.
That gave her the reach of Whiskey, but not the strength. Whiskey carried a Mayan machete, the only edged weapon with which she had any experience. It was a sleek black blade of sixty-three centimeters with a wider curved and double-edged point. The lighter weight would give her a speed advantage compared to Nijmege’s heavier sword. Whiskey knew from training experience that the heavier tip of her machete could break steel weapons despite its lightness.

  McCall looked horribly out of place in sweatpants and a T-shirt. He tried to retain a hard glare, but uncertainty clouded over his face. He, too, had a sword strapped to his waist, a similar version of Nijmege’s. She’d probably allowed him to borrow the weapon, which heartened Whiskey. His apparent lack of experience corresponded with Dorst’s opinion of his capabilities.

  Valmont must have thought the same. “Samuel,” he called. “Quite a weapon you have there. How virile! Did you know when you arrived here that your cohort would be calling you to your death?”

  Tucking his chin, McCall deigned to answer. His skin held the color of curdled milk. Valmont raised his own sword, a slightly curved cutlass with an intricate basket over the hilt, and saluted him.

  “Don’t listen to him, Samuel. He’s just trying to get a rise out of you.” Nijmege glared at the officials. “Will you please take your places and get on with it? I’ve waited about as long as I care to.”

  The lú-inim-ma peered down their noses at Nijmege, dislike evident on most of their faces. Being chosen for this task didn’t make them any more or less superior to her, they were all of the same social standing within their countries. Their conduct suggested she’d suffer the consequences should she survive this encounter. Nevertheless, they broke apart, scattering around the room.

  Orlaith took that as her cue, leaving Nijmege’s side to take up position along the perimeter of the gymnasium. Whiskey glanced at Margaurethe on the opposite side, knowing that part of her lover’s emotional quandary involved her mother’s blatant support of Whiskey’s enemies. Had Whiskey been the Sweet Butcher, Orlaith wouldn’t have been as conspicuous. It was becoming commonplace how often Whiskey suffered the ill will of Elisibet’s enemies simply because she wasn’t the tyrant that her previous incarnation had been.

  Moments later, Whiskey felt a dampening effect on her psyche. She’d become so used to mentally sampling her immediate surroundings that it had become second nature. She glanced around the room, startled as her eyes told her the spectators remained present. The sudden lack of psychogenic connections made her feel almost bereft.

  “Takes getting used to, doesn’t it?” Valmont asked.

  “Yes.” She rubbed at her temple with one hand. “I hadn’t realized how much I use that part of myself.”

  Dikeledi’s strong voice cut off further conversation. “Are the combatants prepared?”

  Nijmege growled, teeth bared at Whiskey. “Yes.”

  Whiskey set aside her discomfort, searching for the anger in her heart. “Yes, I am.”

  “As the challenger, Ninsumgal Davis, will you withdraw?”

  “Hell, no.”

  Nijmege interrupted Dikeledi’s next question. “And no, I won’t recant either. Get on with it!”

  Dikeledi’s expression held intense dislike. “Lay on!”

  If Nijmege expected Whiskey to feint and parry around the room, she had a surprise in store. Pacal’s training included the benefit of immediate offensive maneuvers. He preferred them to feeling out an opponent, instructing his students that more could be learned from an enemy by prompt and vicious aggression. Whiskey leapt forward, closing the distance with startling speed. Taking Jake’s observations to heart, she launched an attack upon Nijmege’s left side, hoping to cripple it before Nijmege had an opportunity to surprise her.

  Unprepared for the confident onslaught, Nijmege froze a fraction of an instant. Whiskey’s machete sliced into Nijmege’s upper arm, splitting the leather armor and the skin beneath. Valmont hooted approval behind Whiskey. The rich copper smell of blood ignited her lust, her fangs sprouting from their sheaths. Nijmege recovered quickly, spinning away and bringing her saber up for a slice across Whiskey’s abdomen. Being within the weapon’s longer reach, Whiskey crow-hopped backward to avoid being skewered. She saw the glittering steel continue its rise as it missed her belly and scarcely turned her head in time to avoid receiving a mortal injury across her throat. Instead, sharp pain lanced along her right cheek, indicating where metal had parted flesh. Warm blood spilled down her neck, intensifying the gory aroma. It was McCall’s turn to shout encouragement from the sidelines.

  Nijmege ignored his distraction, pressing her attack. With a rattle of steel on steel, Whiskey blocked the saber, sparks shooting up between them as their blades clashed. She glared into Nijmege’s eyes, attempting to forge mental contact. The smell of wet autumn leaves flowed around her. She felt their damp texture against her skin as she concentrated. For a brief moment, she thought she’d found entry only to be rebuffed both mentally and physically. Nijmege gave her a mighty shove, dropping her blade with a quick slash that connected before Whiskey could dive out of reach. She stumbled back, faltering as she held her abdomen with her left hand.

  Nijmege allowed her to fully break off as she stumbled backward. Whiskey’s penetrating mental capabilities had probably made an impression. A quick glance at her belly showed a neat slice that oozed blood. Both leather and skin had parted, but the wound was only a centimeter in depth. Had Whiskey not been pushed away at impact, she would surely have died from the wound. Instead, it pained her but didn’t cripple her.

  “Whiskey!” Valmont remained in place, not allowed by rules of conduct to approach. She felt him along her mind, bolstering her. “Let me in!”

  She forced herself to stand tall, at least as erect as she could given the circumstances of her injury. “Not yet,” she growled, scowling at Nijmege. Valmont swore but didn’t press.

  Her enemy’s hawk-like face was twisted into a satisfied smile. “Not as all-powerful as you think you are, eh?” Nijmege flicked her saber, drops of Whiskey’s blood splattering to the gymnasium floor. “I thought you had the strength and knowledge of Elisibet somewhere in that pretty little head of yours.”

  Whiskey scoffed. “This? This is nothing.” She tucked her chin. “And I thought you were supposed to be some sort of swords master. I heard Nahib had insisted you learn it. Haven’t kept up your lessons, I see.”

  Nijmege pointed her saber at Whiskey. “Never say his name, za unu arra.”

  “Why?” Whiskey cocked her head in mock thought. “Oh, yeah! Because Nahib had integrity and honor, and you don’t.” As Nijmege shook with fury, Whiskey smiled. “I’m not saying Elisibet had those qualities either, but you certainly learned her lessons well.”

  With a wordless shout, Nijmege rushed forward. Whiskey raised her machete to block the madness-fueled attack, feeling the shock of it up her arms and into her aching torso. Again she engaged Nijmege’s mind, searching it for weaknesses, but the woman’s fury made one difficult to locate. It had been much easier dealing with the older assassin, Andri, several months ago. At least then she wasn’t simultaneously fighting for her life on the physical plane. She felt Valmont’s mental touch, used his essence to support her own as she struggled to avoid impalement. Again Nijmege drove the point of her saber toward Whiskey’s throat, this time in an overhand strike. Whiskey blocked it with her machete, another shower of sparks occurring as the blades grated along their edges. And again the point pierced Whiskey’s right side, not far from the original wound.

  She cried out in agony, ignoring the roar of approval from McCall and Nijmege’s gloating yell. Stumbling away, she fell into Valmont’s arms. He held her up, while she sucked air into her lungs.

  “Let me in!” he demanded, his brown skin dark with bloodlust.

  Whiskey shook her head, stopping as the room spun for a second. “No. Not yet.” Sweat dripped into her eyes. She wiped it away with the back of her weapon hand, a smear of blood accompanying it. It
amazed her how much exertion it took to fight. Though she felt like she’d been running a three-hour marathon, their skirmish couldn’t have been longer than two or three minutes.

  Nijmege returned to McCall’s side, taking a leisurely drink from a bottle of water she’d brought into the room. Despite her posturing, she felt the same enervation as she fought to catch her breath.

  Valmont used the impromptu break to kneel and peer at Whiskey’s injury. “Looks like she got you good that time. Stab wound, maybe four inches deep. Bleeding’s sluggish.” He looked up at her, concern in his eyes. “At least she hasn’t separated the muscle wall. Your guts won’t be spilling all over the floor just yet.”

  A wave of nausea went through Whiskey at the image. She smacked him on the shoulder with her free hand. “Stop that! You’re not helping.”

  He gave her a contrite look. “Sorry.”

  “Stand up. Let me go.”

  With reluctance, he did as she bid, stepping aside. “You have other…skills at your disposal, Whiskey! Remember, Andri,” he said, reminding her that she was a Ghost Walker. That talent had saved her life when the assassin had attempted to shoot her, his bullet passing through her ethereal belly.

  “Easier said than done. With him I had some time to concentrate. It still comes and goes on its own if I don’t.” She pushed away from his support. The wound had gone from burning agony to a deep throbbing ache. She adjusted her weight, hissing and wincing at the increased pain. As she adapted to its intensity, she tried to tell herself that it wasn’t any worse than a running cramp. Valmont added his essence to hers, his efforts drawing away some of the pain as she strutted forward with a slight limp.

  Nijmege’s eyes narrowed at Whiskey’s apparent health. McCall’s face was more expressive as he stared, faint alarm washing away the tentative smile. “Not had enough, eh? You do realize this fight is to the death, yes?” she asked as she prepared to join the fray once more.