warning. When he brought his elbows back from their extended position, I judged he was about to thrust, so I deliberately half-stumbled to my left and lowered the tip of Exalter. The Saxon’s thrust came on cue, I dropped beneath it, my left hand reaching for the turf, Exalter’s tip rising under the axe, and she slid under the leather breastplate, biting deep into his right side. He staggered backwards, I pushed off the turf and followed, still attached to him by the steel of my sword.
He was a strong man and the wound was not fatal. I wrenched Exalter free and circled him, as he shifted the axe to his left hand and clutched at his side, where blood was running freely down his trews. “Now you’ll die painfully, you bastard,” he hissed at me. He tugged his short sword free of his belt and circled cautiously, a weapon in each hand.
I held Exalter out in front of me, two handed, her point following his face. Boartooth was more guarded now, he’d been stung, and I saw sweat trickling from under his leather helmet. That would be in his eyes soon, I considered. I kept circling, waiting for the maddened rush that I judged he would bring at me, the usual berserk charge induced by the mushrooms.
A glance spared to look at his short sword confirmed what I’d thought: it was an iron sword. Exalter would shatter it. The axe was another matter. A lucky or well-aimed blow could take Exalter out of my hands, maybe even break the blade. He was leading with the sword, a weapon much shorter than Exalter. I judged he would try to swipe me with the axe while I focused on the sword, so I flicked Exalter at his eyes, distracting him for an eyeblink, then backswung her, two-handed and hard, at the probing iron blade. The collision ran up my arms, the loud clang sounded like a smith’s hammer on an anvil and the Saxon’s flawed sword snapped near the hilt. I let myself be carried in a semi-circle away from the whirling axe blow that came on the instant and I heard the whistle as the bitt went by, but it missed me.
Now the odds were stacked against the big Saxon. He was wounded, he had lost his secondary weapon, he must be panicking. A puncturing stab wound can kill quickly, but even the deepest slicing cut from a blade’s edge can allow the victim several more hours of life before he bleeds out. My thrust into his right side had hit nothing vital, and although the blood loss would eventually weaken the man, he was still dangerous, and it was likely that the mind-changing mushrooms would numb him to the pain.
He paused, gasping, his eyes filled with hate for me. I moved back a half-step. His name was accurate. He reminded me of a wounded boar, gathering himself for a rush at his tormentors. Behind me, I became aware of encouraging cries from my cavalrymen. The Saxons stood mute, they had seen the blood flow on their champion, and soldiers are superstitious creatures. If he were to die as they watched, it would be an evil omen for their chances in a conflict, however few our forces.
I began to goad the Saxon. I wanted him to keep moving, not to rest. I called on his ancestry among the pigs who would feed on him, I taunted his inability to even scratch me, I spat at his face. And always, I kept circling, so he had to keep moving to face me.
He switched his axe to his right hand and I knew the attack was seconds away. Up came the bright axehead, circling in the air to draw my gaze to my left. His left hand – he WAS left-handed – flashed to the underside of his right forearm. Time ticked by slowly, as it does for me in times of danger and I watched almost laconically as he drew the double-edged punching knife from its concealed sheath.
Exalter seemed to move of her own accord and knocked aside the swinging axe handle, diverting the heavy bitt harmlessly groundwards, then she looped around and across the Saxon’s front and crashed into the bronze wristbands at his left hand where he was lunging the pugio’s blade at me. The knife
He was a strong man and the wound was not fatal. I wrenched Exalter free and circled him, as he shifted the axe to his left hand and clutched at his side, where blood was running freely down his trews. “Now you’ll die painfully, you bastard,” he hissed at me. He tugged his short sword free of his belt and circled cautiously, a weapon in each hand.
I held Exalter out in front of me, two handed, her point following his face. Boartooth was more guarded now, he’d been stung, and I saw sweat trickling from under his leather helmet. That would be in his eyes soon, I considered. I kept circling, waiting for the maddened rush that I judged he would bring at me, the usual berserk charge induced by the mushrooms.
A glance spared to look at his short sword confirmed what I’d thought: it was an iron sword. Exalter would shatter it. The axe was another matter. A lucky or well-aimed blow could take Exalter out of my hands, maybe even break the blade. He was leading with the sword, a weapon much shorter than Exalter. I judged he would try to swipe me with the axe while I focused on the sword, so I flicked Exalter at his eyes, distracting him for an eyeblink, then backswung her, two-handed and hard, at the probing iron blade. The collision ran up my arms, the loud clang sounded like a smith’s hammer on an anvil and the Saxon’s flawed sword snapped near the hilt. I let myself be carried in a semi-circle away from the whirling axe blow that came on the instant and I heard the whistle as the bitt went by, but it missed me.
Now the odds were stacked against the big Saxon. He was wounded, he had lost his secondary weapon, he must be panicking. A puncturing stab wound can kill quickly, but even the deepest slicing cut from a blade’s edge can allow the victim several more hours of life before he bleeds out. My thrust into his right side had hit nothing vital, and although the blood loss would eventually weaken the man, he was still dangerous, and it was likely that the mind-changing mushrooms would numb him to the pain.
He paused, gasping, his eyes filled with hate for me. I moved back a half-step. His name was accurate. He reminded me of a wounded boar, gathering himself for a rush at his tormentors. Behind me, I became aware of encouraging cries from my cavalrymen. The Saxons stood mute, they had seen the blood flow on their champion, and soldiers are superstitious creatures. If he were to die as they watched, it would be an evil omen for their chances in a conflict, however few our forces.
I began to goad the Saxon. I wanted him to keep moving, not to rest. I called on his ancestry among the pigs who would feed on him, I taunted his inability to even scratch me, I spat at his face. And always, I kept circling, so he had to keep moving to face me.
He switched his axe to his right hand and I knew the attack was seconds away. Up came the bright axehead, circling in the air to draw my gaze to my left. His left hand – he WAS left-handed – flashed to the underside of his right forearm. Time ticked by slowly, as it does for me in times of danger and I watched almost laconically as he drew the double-edged punching knife from its concealed sheath.
Exalter seemed to move of her own accord and knocked aside the swinging axe handle, diverting the heavy bitt harmlessly groundwards, then she looped around and across the Saxon’s front and crashed into the bronze wristbands at his left hand where he was lunging the pugio’s blade at me. The knife
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