Belkram shook sweat out of his eyes for perhaps the sixtieth time and sprang back a pace to avoid any lunge the bard might make while he was doing so. Had this fight been in earnest, the awe he now felt would have been stone-cold fear. Storm, as she had been doing since she discovered both her opponents were good bladesmen, was smiling as she fought. Smiling merrily and, between gasps for breath, humming a sprightly tune that Belkram had often heard harped in Everlund.

Anyone who could toy with him-and with Itharr, who was as good as himself or better-as this lady was doing, and spare thought and breath enough to hum a tune, could be the death of him whenever she desired. Belkram had seen many quick swords in the years since he'd joined the Harpers, but never the equal of Storm Silverhand. He was old enough to realize the gift she was giving them: A chance to strive against one much better with a blade and have time enough in the fray to try all they knew against her. To feel, face, and master their fear rather than being paralyzed with terror and, an instant later, sinking into eternal red-edged darkness.

Belkram matched Storm's smile as he remembered a crossing attack he'd seen in a sea fight long ago. He arched to his left, parrying Storm's blade with a series of short, binding, feathering strokes of his own blade. His own side was exposed now, but Itharr should be attacking from that side, protecting it.

Then, not for the first time in that clash of steel, Storm was gone. Ducking smoothly to one knee, dropping below Belkram's parries, she spun back to face Itharr, tossing her sword to her left hand and raising it to parry his descending blade. In the same motion, her now-empty right hand grabbed Belkram's ankle and jerked.