The sword came out of nowhere, and Columba Riverford twisted to evade it, whipping his own sword from its sheath with barely time to block its second blow.
But the sword was just a sword—no warrior or sage wielded it.
The blade thrust itself at his face; he ducked and thrust his blade where his opponent should be. And cut through empty air.
He twisted and danced away, the courtyard just the size for a sword duel, the arena round, devoid of obstruction, the dirt packed. Columba ducked, parried, and blocked, grinning ruefully at the greeting he was receiving, his unseen opponent highly skilled.
The Hall of Swords, where the finest fighters from the four corners gathered, the magic in their steel propelling them to feats of legendary proportion, possessed an entrance of simple constructio
