The Siege of the Three Bridges

The rain over the River Dunas neither fell nor rose: it hurled itself sideways, driven by freezing gales that made the cables of the pontoon bridges groan.

Amalia awoke with a cuirass of boiled leather strapped over her ribs and a dueling rapier with a cup-hilt resting in her right fist. Trench mud spattered her gaiters to the knees. Around her, soldiers in oilskin greatcoats stood sentry along the sandbag embrasures.

—The captain is ready! —a bugler shouted behind her—. The honor duel for the third pontoon!

A whistle pierced the squall. Amalia was nudged forward onto the floating timber platform moored mid-channel in the churning water.

From the southern bank advanced her challenger. He wore the slate-blue coat of the delta army, water streaming from his epaulets, face shielded behind a fine mesh fencing mask.

The officer halted ten feet away, planted the point of his foil into the planks, and flipped the wire visor back with a flick of his wrist.

Óliver.

He bore a jagged fresh scar running from his right cheekbone to his lip, dark hair plastered to his temples by the squall, and the hardened, predatory stare of a veteran of heavy artillery.

—Three touches to the breast, Captain Varela —he announced without greeting—. Whoever strikes the river yields the lock until the midnight watch.

—I don't care about your river lock, Óliver —she countered, holding her guard in tierce with the reflexive muscle memory of a body not entirely her own—. I want you to look me in the eye before you lunge.

Steel met steel with a sharp clang that rattled up the tang. Óliver feinted low to the flank; Amalia parried in quarte and riposted, nicking his collar button.

They locked blades at center stage. The wet timber groaned beneath their spiked soles while the swollen river roared below.

—You fence as if you've known my blade for twenty years —Óliver panted, bearing down with his hilt to break her balance—. And with a grief never taught in military academies.

—I know you from timelines where you had no scar and knew how to laugh without looking like a guard dog —Amalia shot back, ducking a high cut and planting the blunt tip of her blade squarely against his center button.

Óliver froze. The steel pressed into the sodden wool, an inch from his heart.

For five breathless heartbeats under the deluge, his pale eyes searched hers. There was no hatred in his stare; there was only a bottomless bewilderment, a fracture in his armor.

—Who are you? —he breathed, his voice barely cutting through the storm—. I've dreamed of your eyes on night sentry. Always with that same torn woolen scarf.