The men before him were Bontarc of Nadia and Retoc, slayer of his mother, destroyer of Ofridia.
Retoc saw him first, and cried out exultantly. His wrist blurred, his whip-sword flashed, the point singing, and Bontarc's sword flew from his fingers. "You!" Retoc cried.
The sword-point had slashed an artery on Bontarc's wrist. The blood spurted out and Bontarc stood there, dazed, holding the wound shut with his left hand.
"Are you all right, sire?" Bram Forest asked.
"I can manage until a doctor binds—"
Bram Forest picked up the Nadian ruler's whip-sword and faced his enemy, sword to sword, at last.
Retoc looked at him, and laughed. "I almost killed you once," he said. His hand barely seemed to move, but the point of his blade, whipping, flashing, was everywhere. Bram Forest parried desperately. "I'll finish the job now," Retoc vowed.
Then Bram Forest did an unexpected thing. He used the whip-sword not as a sword: he couldn't hope to match Retoc's skill as a swordsman. He used it as a whip is used, his great arm slicing back and forth through air, up over his head and down, the long length of the uncoiled blading whipping and darting like something alive across the sands.
Retoc retreated two steps, and lunged with what he hoped would be a death blow.