Continued from chapter 2.1

He was just about to turn around and head back to the camp, when Amengual raised his hand and then curled it into a fist.

Almost immediately the turban-less woman, whom Beorg noticed earlier, jumped off her horse, drew a sword and started off towards him. Except, she didn't really run run, in the common sense of this word. No, the movement was so quick, that she turned into a blurry shape approaching the nord. Fast.

Then she got to him, and the only reason Beorg's internals remained unpunctured was because countless decades of honing his combat reflexes made his arm unsheath and raise his blade for a parry before his mind decided what to do with what his sight just registered. It was pure instinct.

Clang. Clink. Clang.

The blades made contact three more times. Still images and glimpses of the nord's opponent filtered through to his consciousness. No movement. Just snapshots of the woman and her sword close to his face.

Only after a few long drips and several more instinctive blocks his senses finally heightened and the nord began to recognise her actions as such and not mere images flashed before him in rapid succession.

Which didn't provide him with even a semblance of initiative.

Performing one desperate parry after another, Beorg struggled to make sense of what was happening. He has had plenty of experience duelling with the best of them, but no one ever had been this quick with the blade. Not even the legendary Grogg Mithergall. Such a relentless, inhoominly fast torrent of slashes and thrusts was something even an aberrant would not be able to perform. The "Olga" was in a league of her own.

After a few more moments, his desperate attempts at staying alive were taken over by that primal, instinctual part, thus he found himself in a weird state where his consciousness could analyse the performance and technique of his opponent in hopes to find a way out.

He failed to assess anything.

There should be an emergent form of order in a duel. The combatants ought to first measure each other up, assessing the skill, speed and experience of the opponent. Then they usually dance about, prying and probing the responses, in an attempt to identify each other's technique and weak points. What should follow would be a few clashes, parries and withdrawals. Only when the opponents get a good feel of each other, they let their skills and speed shine in a final resolution.

This encounter did not follow any of those rules. Or any rules whatsoever for that matter. The "Olga" woman was fury incarnated, a whirling death made of flesh and metal, as relentless as a force of nature.

Then the insight hit him.

There was no technique. Beorg wrongly assumed that a fighter of such speed would have it backed up by a sharp finesse. But not "Olga". She simply kept swinging her sword as if it was merely a pointy stick, pummeling her opponent to the ground with sheer, brute speed, but falling into the same trap which plagued all beginners - a repeatable, predictable pattern.

And so Beorg tried for a riposte. He tried for his signature flicks, when there’s a hard contact between the blades. He tried for weak parries, which should have allowed her sword to slide off his sabre in a predictable manner, leaving an opening to exploit. He tried simple kinehex tricks, altering the path of her weapon or pushing her out of balance.

It then dawned on him why she lacked any refined combat skills. She didn’t have to learn anything. Even against any of his own cunning moves, she would just withdraw her sword faster than the eye could see and swing again, which the man then struggled to block or dodge because he would still be recovering from his own, now failed, manoeuvre. Any riposte was just sidestepped as if she knew beforehand where it would land, and the hexergy seemed slower than usual, missing its mark and actually having the opposite effect, on one occasion almost ending the duel prematurely, when the feedback knocked him slightly out of balance.

What’s worse, she was gaining on him. Not only in terms of speed but also in footwork. The nord was fighting off a back foot and had to constantly give field, sometimes being forced to go sideways, because Olga just went forward, pressing on and constantly closing distance, negating one of the few advantages Beorg still had. She was the one in full control of the combat space, not him.

It was irrelevant whether she decided to just throw extra speed at the problem until an overdue solution was achieved, or he was simply becoming tired. It was getting painfully obvious that the time for finesse was over. So was the time for his patient craft, honed and tempered with time and experience. The time for desperate measures has come.

Beorg made a few more frenzied, last-moment blocks, waiting until she reached a specific thrust in her pattern and instead of parrying it, he stepped into the blow… whilst punching her in the face with the knuckle guard of his sabre. Her nose exploded in a red blot, but she still managed to rip the sword out of the wound, leaving a wide gash on the nord’s left shoulder. She then blinked and stopped, dropping her guard for a moment.

Which was enough for the nord to whack her again on the head.

She came down hard, like a sack of potatoes.

Beorg moved back a few steps, breathing heavily. For a few long drips the only sensations he felt were that of pulsating waves of blood flowing through his body, chest to toes and head in the jittery rhythm of his own heart, beating and rattling violently. That, and the sharp, uncomfortable bivlight, assaulting his eyes. He immediately felt very much exposed, especially considering that there were five hostile men nearby.

Were they?

There was a new sensation on his face, a warmth, which certainly was not caused by the Bivos. He touched his cheek and felt something wet and sticky. Blood. Fresh blood, dripping down the side of his face, from a wound which definitely wasn’t Olga’s doing. A quick glance around confirmed what he already suspected: the situation had been resolved, and not in the most diplomatic of ways.

Two dead brigands stretched on the ground no more than a dozen mers away, their abayas spattered with blood, and smoking weapons scattered around meant they must have died suddenly and violently. Horse of one must have fled. The other one stood not far from the bodies, blowing and groaning nervously. 

Another of the goons was slightly closer, only half of his body stuck out from under his horse. The animal was on its side, kicking wildly and screaming in pain and terror. There was a mangled mess of blood, meat and bone where its eye should have been, promising that the agony wouldn’t last much longer. This was of no help to the novikov, trying to crawl from underneath its belly. As the nord watched, one of the hooves struck the man squarely in the head, caving his skull with a sickening crunch, and any and all attempts on escape immediately ceased.

Maanica then appeared in Beorg’s field of view. Brandishing a pistol in each hand she headed somewhere to his left. Her target soon became obvious: the last of the brigand companions knelt there in the dust, desperately holding his guts with both hands.

McKeone slowly turned around and saw Niven standing outside the fort’s perimeter. He too was bloodied. There was a nasty-looking wound on one of his legs, but he was still maintaining a combat stance and aiming his stelandian rifle at someone. Like a broken automaton the nord followed the line of fire and found Jamolke, still on his horse, shakily holding the pistol with both hands and blinking in shock. His face was a picture of pure terror.

The nord wiped the sweat from his eyes, shook his head and then slowly directed his steps towards the bandit leader. He wasn’t even halfway there, when a gunshot sounded from somewhere behind and to the left, followed by a dull thud, both of which Beorg ignored, keeping a cold gaze on the mounted brigand.

-“Deliver a message for you?” - tried Amengual in a weak voice.

The nord shook his head slowly. His eyes were completely empty.

Jamolke understood. He didn't say a word or waste even a drip more of his time. He let off his pistol, and just turned the horse around and spurred its sides, but didn't manage to make more than a dozen mers when two gunshots echoed and he fell to the ground with thud.

The shots were not clean, hitting the man in the back and on the side of the neck. He fell off the horse, clutching his throat, blood spurting between his fingers. He thrashed about, writhing in pain, wheezing and grunting. Maanica leisurely strolled towards the prone figure, preparing another pistol. After what seemed like forever, but couldn't in reality be more than half a triskol, she stopped near him, very carefully aimed at the man's head and finally pulled the trigger, mercilessly ending the grim spectacle. 

- “An dat a dat.” - she said, grinning from ear to ear.

Beorg could not tell whether the long execution was intended by his employee or simply a result of imprecise aiming, but his pressed-together lips indicated disapproval - Jamolke's prolonged death was inefficient. He then turned back and looked around. The smoke slowly cleared, uncovering the sore sight of the impromptu battlefield, littered with bodies and discarded weapons. Blood stained the ground in dark patches. He shook his head.

- “Yo mista Emkay, yuh a wounded.” - said Maanica.

Beorg looked down.

- “Suh Miam…” - he replied, frowning - “...buh, luk tuh yuh usband fos.”

Indeed Niven was not in that good shape either. The bullet took a small chunk out of his right thigh, leaving a mess behind, but the islander was propping himself on the rifle and still smiling.

- “Wi gwaana di tent, wi a hab ah luk at ih.” - she said, grabbing his arm and helping him towards one of the tents - “Yuh a luki yuh married ah docta.”

Then Beorg noticed something was not quite right.

- “Wait ah triskah. Weh a di bady ah dat wommin?”

Olga’s unconscious body was not where they left it. Only her weapon remained. 

- “Any ah yuh si har leave?” - asked Beorg.

All four of them exchanged glances and then looked around searchingly. Maanica jumped on the cart and scanned the horizon, then looked back at the nord and shrugged. He went into the cave and emerged a few triskols later shaking his head. 

- “Eh as eff shi hav portalla aweh.” - said Niven, scratching his forehead.

Beorg nodded.

“Portalled away.” - he muttered to himself - “Now where did I hear this before?” 

The adrenaline high was now wearing off and the pain was getting more and more unbearable, but he made the last effort to stoop and pick up Olga’s weapon from the dust.

It was an arming sword made of good steel but so old, and sharpened so many times, that the blade was a good two cimers narrower in the middle than it was at the base. Still, it was a decent weapon, well balanced and well tended to, made a long time before the mass-produced cheap munitions-grade arms became popular. The original leather cover on the handle has been replaced with a tightly coiled copper wire and a barely visible sigil stamped on the blade just under the crossguard identified the origin of the sword as the Order Armoury of Graat Koch 1411 IVE. So, almost exactly two hundred years ago. Quite a long way for an old maargardian sword to go.

There was a smear of blood along the leading edge, near the point. Beorg had a strong suspicion this was his own. He balanced it in his hand and made a couple of swings.

- “Mi tink mi wi keep ih fah now.  As ah keepsah.”