Gal tested the edge of his saber with his thumb without looking. His hands had learned to judge a blade by touch long ago. A fresh nick marked the tip. It was shallow, not enough to change the way the saber cut, but he knew he would notice it once the battle gave him time to think about anything besides staying alive.
The pale scar across his left forearm no longer tightened when he closed his hand. Yuri Igorevich's church lay months behind him, and the shoulder that had taken three separate blows that day only ached when cold weather lingered long enough. Neither injury limited him now. They were reminders, not problems.
The street kept climbing. It had done nothing else since the Golden Gate fell that morning. Every rise led to another, each one steeper than the last. Near the river the ground had been flat enough that a horse barely noticed the distance it covered. Up here, every stride demanded more from both rider and mount.
