A second man tugged on the big man’s sleeve. “Five chances the fancy mane goes down with the first hit.”
Dorna straightened. “Ah, now you’re running in my pasture. Put me down for ten thrones my count kicks your boss’s ass.” She tapped Brother Qown on the shoulder. “Priest, I need to borrow ten thrones.”
“Dorna, no!” Brother Qown said.
“You have to spend metal to make metal, you know.”
“You idiots,” their boss snapped, “I wasn’t serious!”
“This is Jorat.” The big outlaw folded his arms.
A woman with a white blaze down the center of her face said, “You don’t joke about contests in Jorat.”
“Are you lot this stupid?” The bandit leader made no effort to hide her exasperation.
Janel laughed and bounced the branch in her hand. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
At that moment, Arasgon trotted into the clearing.
In a sense, the bandit leader was right about Janel’s guard. If the count ever needed an escort, Arasgon qualified. He’d been her loyal companion from childhood. His mere presence while traveling had proved so intimidating that Janel had ordered Arasgon to stay away from camp lest he ruin her trap. But Arasgon wore no armor, carried no weapons, and wasn’t human at all.
The fireblood stood eighteen hands high, black as sable with a crimson mane and tail, what the Joratese call flame-kissed. The similarity to his cousin horse breeds ended there; red tiger stripes wrapped around his legs, and his eyes were the same ruby hue as his mistress Janel’s. He’d have made a magnificent horse, but firebloods were not horses. As firebloods delighted in reminding anyone foolish enough to call them a “horse” within range of their hooves.8
Arasgon voiced a noise that sounded like a cross between a neigh and something far more deliberate and sagacious. Brother Qown knew it was language, proper language, but he couldn’t understand a word, much to his endless frustration.
“I’m fine,” Janel said, glancing back over her shoulder toward Arasgon. “She’ll be no challen—”
Which was when the bandit kicked Janel in the head.
Three times.
The bandits cheered. They’d have broken out tankards and pennants if they could. And why not? Even with the fireblood’s presence, revered almost to holiness by the Joratese, the outlaws had them outnumbered four to one. This wasn’t a robbery; this was entertainment.
Easy enough to forget their leader fought a woman who could tear the limbs off trees.
Janel reeled from the blow, staggering so Brother Qown feared the fight would end right there. The brigand who had bet that outcome cheered.
Instead, Janel shook the fog from her head, her red eyes focusing on her attacker. “Oh, have we started? My mistake.” She wiped the blood from her mouth, leaving behind her bright smile.
The bandit leader stopped in her tracks. “How are you still standing? I’ve knocked him cold with that move.” She indicated the large man organizing the betting pool.
“I’m known for my stubbornness,” Janel answered. She punctuated the statement by wielding the tree limb, forcing the other woman to jump to the side as the wood hit the ground.
The thief who had bet on an easy win groaned and handed coins over to another bandit.
Janel closed in again. This time, as the bandit leader ducked under the branch’s swing, she also swept out with her leg, tripping Janel. The count just missed falling into the breakfast fire. Then the leader pressed her advantage, stomping down with her boot. Janel rolled to the side, putting a hand down into the burning coals as she stood back up again.
The cheering stopped, shocked.
Janel’s right glove was on fire. She looked down, sighed, and tucked the tree branch under her arm while she stripped the fabric from her fingers. The pitch-black skin underneath was very different from her face’s cinnamon hue. As far as Brother Qown could tell, she hadn’t been burned at all.
“That was my favorite pair of gloves,” she protested.
“Ah, foal,” Dorna said, “’twas your only pair of gloves.”
“That’s what I said, Mare Dorna,” Janel agreed. She steadied herself and swung the bough around her like a baton as she pointed at her adversary. “I underestimated you, thief.”
“Oh, likewise.” Wary concern tinted the woman’s laughter. “You’re wicked strong and sturdier than an ox, but you’ll never win with a tree branch.”
“Be grateful you didn’t choose the sword.”
The bandit’s laughter held a nervous edge. “You’d have to hit me first. I’m faster than anyone else here.”
The largest bandit turned to Dorna and confided, “It’s true. She’s the best fighter we have.” He tapped his chest. “And I went professional in the circuit.”
Janel smiled at her opponent. “I need only hit you once.”
Brother Qown forced himself to stop clenching his fists. Every imperial dominion had their own stereotypes. Khorveshans were great soldiers. Kirpisari prided themselves on their magical aptitude. Yorans were barbarians. The Joratese loved horses …
But he wished someone had warned him about the Joratese people’s love of fighting.
The whole time, Janel and the bandit leader circled each other, looking for another opening. The outlaw never attacked with her sickle, but she didn’t discard it either. Whenever Janel swung, the woman twisted aside or deflected the tree limb. Janel always ended up as the one punched or kicked.
Eventually, the thief would wear the count down.
“Not too shabby,” the woman said after Janel missed her for the umpteenth occasion, “but it’s a shame no one ever trained you.”
Janel lunged forward with the tree branch, and the bandit deflected, stepped to the side, and kicked her in the …
Her hindquarters, let’s say.
Count Janel stopped playing around, or maybe she just lost her temper. When she came in again, she wasn’t trying to dodge or avoid blows. She’d transformed into something relentless. The woman struck again, hard, but Janel just grunted, eyes narrowed. The count straightened and tossed the bough up in the air. It spun up and over end to end like a great leafy wheel.
She seemed unarmed.
Vulnerable …
The bandit leader didn’t waste the opportunity; she attacked.
Janel moved fast, jumping up and to the side. She caught the tree limb as it came down and swatted the sickle away, sending the ersatz weapon flying. Then Janel reversed the branch and slammed it down on her opponent’s leg, stretched out to deliver a hammer-like kick.
A loud crack split the air, followed by the bandit’s scream.
The woman’s leg bent in a way legs aren’t supposed to bend. She fell to the ground, sobbing.
Janel threw down the tree branch.
“Oh no,” she said. “I didn’t mean—” She blinked and stepped back. “Brother Qown! Help us!”
He ran forward. “I’m here, I’m here. Let me get my bag…”
The largest bandit took in the scene and frowned, crossing his hands over his chest. “That’s not how I figured this would go at all.”
Next to him, Mare Dorna held out a hand to gather her winnings.