Hanno had already learned better than to receive that blade with a full parry: he had no intention of allowing a second notch onto the edge of his sword. Instead he nudged the blow aside, quickening his movement with Light, and stepped in close as he pivoted. His armoured elbow caught the enemy’s helmeted cheek from the left, but the villain took the blow without batting an eye. Hanno danced back before a bronze-clad boot could smash into his knee, leaning back an inch to let that wicked blade pass just before his eyes. The dark-skinned hero withdrew even further, making space as his brow furrowed.

The fight was lasting longer than he’d wanted, in no small part because the Barrow Sword was proving significantly harder to handle than he’d expected. Not that the villain had announced himself, or even talked since that debacle with the riddles.

But the hellish landscape that Night had made of this tower had not been enough to obscure the identity of the man facing him, and neither had been the black paint half-heartedly slapped over a very distinct set of bronze armour. Still, Hanno would admit that the shadows were… disquieting. The way they moved just at the corner of your eye, hinting at faces and fanged maws, flapping wings and unblinking eyes. Looking at them too long was disorienting, the movements invited belief into depth and angles that did not exist – rooms seemed smaller or lager, crooked where they should be straight or flat when they were sloped.

And through the dark the Warden of the East watched them all, her intentions still inscrutable. Hanno flexed the stumps of his crippled hands, watching his opponent’s loose stance. The Barrow Sword was not aiming to win, he decided, but to delay.

“This does not have to end in violence,” Hanno said. “Take me to her, Barrow Sword. I will go with my sword sheathed, not to fight but to treat in good faith.”

The other man watched him through the slits of the bronze helm, face impassive for a long moment until it split into a broad grin. The kind some might have called nasty.

“What if we want to fight, hero?”

The voice was distorted, laced with sorcery. It made the air shiver, though focus let him ignore the pull at his mind.

“I do not believe you do,” Hanno evenly said. “So far your side has acted with restr-”

It was only instinct that led him to take a step to the side instead of backwards, which made the difference between life and death. The thrust of that eerie bronze sword – it felt Ligurian to his senses, but deeper somehow – cut the edge of his cheek, drawing blood from a thin wound. If he’d moved too slowly, or backwards, it would have punctured his throat.

“Your side keeps talking,” the Barrow Sword snorted. “Speeches and schemes, like all that strutting about isn’t what made you a load in the first place. Even now you’re trying to get one over the Rhenian, like this is the world’s saddest pissing match.”

The villain flicked his wrist, blood slapping down against cool stone.

 “Well, congratulations,” the Barrow Sword grinned. “You kept at it long enough the Warden lost her temper. Get in line, Ashuran, or get stepped on.”

Hanno’s eyes narrowed. Light pulsed under his skin. Perhaps this was more serious a situation that he’d thought. He needed to finish this fight quickly, so he should set out bait.

“There are limits to what I will tolerate,” he warned, “no matter the intentions.”

The man laughed in his face, loudly and scathingly.

“Tolerate?” the Barrow Sword mocked. “You can’t even get past me. What claim have you got on higher honour?”

That ought to do it, Hanno thought. Light flared as his back foot hit the floor, lending him an explosive start. Three steps in the blink of an eye, the villain belatedly raising his sword to strike. Parrying would be a mistake, so he did not. He bent low instead, caught the kick aimed to sweep him to the side and sent it back. The Barrow Sword’s footing stumbled and Hanno smoothly rose, catching the arm holding the sword before it could properly swing back and pivoting sharply. The throw he’d learned through one of the Sages of the West flowed smoothly, the villain’s armoured back slamming against the stone. Best to break the wrist of his sword arm, Hanno decided. He’d be less of a threat without the enchanted blade.

His knee was already rising when he felt magic flare behind him. It was an awkward moment, leaving him little room to maneuver. The mark of a skilled opponent. The dark-haired hero threw himself to the side, but he was too slow by a hair: the ice spike caught the side of his leg, in the weakness of the armour, and he felt sorcery spreading through his blood. A curse. Breathing out sharply, Hanno ran Light through his veins. It was an unpleasant sensation, like skin stayed close to an open flame too long, but he would not take a risk with curses. Landing in a pained crouch, he swept through the spike with a sword stroke and parried a second as he turned to watch his fresh opponent.

A man in rich dark robes, his face obscured by a spell. Too tall to be the Royal Conjurer, though too short to be the Hierophant. Hunted Magician, Hanno thought. That meant old magic, heavy on curses and enchantments, with some fae learning. Behind him the Barrow Sword was getting back up.

“I will ask the same of you as I asked of him,” Hanno said to the Magician. “Take me to the Warden of the East and this can still end peacefully.”

“It can end right now, that is true,” the Magician easily agreed. “All that’s required is your surrender.”

Hanno almost sighed. Was he truly going to have to fight his way to the summit of the tower before he could speak with the Warden, as if this were a Dread Empress’ lair being cracked open? He opened his mouth to reply with one last offer of diplomacy but the words never came out: the air had just shivered. Great power was being used above him, a staggering amount of Night. And it was being used to smother something, he found, eyes narrowing. Forcefully put out a light. Instinct tugged at him urgently, insistently. Whatever it was Catherine Foundling had just begun, it could not be allowed to finish. Hanno slowly raised his sword.

“Change of plans,” the Sword of Judgement told the villains. “I can no longer afford to hold back.”

“Tough talk,” the Barrow Sword scoffed, “but-”

Hanno moved, and there was no longer time for anyone to talk.

...

They would live, Hanno knew. The Barrow Sword’s leg could be reattached with a spell before he bled out, and the Hunted Magician would be able to cast when he finished swallowing his teeth. Hanno had broken his fingers, not his wrists, it should be enough for the man to be capable of basic healing.

- Book 7, Interlude: Occidental I