On Discord Isle by Jonathon Burgess

Fengel threw up his hands to grab her wrists, succeeding only in being hit with her whole weight in a full-body tackle. They went rolling off the net and onto the sand of the beach, sending her bandana flying free and his monocle to dangle from its chain. Coming to a stop, Fengel found himself on his back, Natasha astride him. She yanked one wrist free, balled up her hand, and lashed out. The blow connected across his cheekbone, jarring and painful. He swept his free hand out and slapped her, not a stinging tap, but a full open-handed blow. Natasha grunted and rolled with it, climbing off of him.
    Fengel looked for a weapon. Something, anything that he could use to get the upper hand. The crate was too large and mostly still in one piece. His eyes alighted on the packet of hardtack, shaped like a brick wrapped in cheap paper. He grabbed it up in both hands, shifting back just in time to see Natasha with a sheaf of dried beef jerky held like a dagger. She lashed out and caught him just under the eye. The thinly sliced meat was as hard and sharp as a wooden blade. Fengel felt pain, and then something hot and wet as he threw himself back out of her reach.
    He staggered quickly to his feet, the packet held out before him like a shield. Natasha did as well, weaving the beef back and forth like the experienced knife fighter she was. She leapt out in a feint, but Fengel spied the trick and pulled aside. He thrust out a leg as she overextended. Natasha tripped and rolled down the beach. Fengel made to follow.
    Natasha came to a stop at the shoreline and leapt back up to one leg. She looked for him, just in time for the packet to come crashing down on her forehead. The bundle of hardtack split, exploding out in rock-hard crumbles that splashed down into the ocean spray. Natasha groaned, her eyes crossed, and she collapsed backwards. As she went, some instinct, some trained killer skill made her lash out at him. The jerky jabbed deeply into his thigh. Fengel gave a cry and fell to the damp sand.
    Accursed witch! He looked down at his leg, at the hunk of beef sticking out at a right angle from his trousers. Fengel pulled it free and tossed it away, blood staining the tip. The wound and the salt from the meat worked together, turning a dull ache into sharp agony.
    Her shadow gave him half a moment’s warning. He wheeled on the sand as Natasha fell at him, fists clasped together in a blow that missed and sent sand spraying. Fengel reacted, grabbing at her throat and wrapping his hands around it. She corrected, grabbed his.
    They struggled, rolling back down into the waves. His vision blurred, from lack of air and from the chop of the water. The tide sucked at him and tried to pull him out to sea, but the weight of his wife kept him pinned against damp sand and tidal water. All he could see was her face, beautiful even now, grimacing and wide-eyed with her own efforts.
    Black spots sprung out through his vision. His strength failed him. In moments it was gone, his hands now like that of a puppet without its strings. They slacked and fell with a splash onto the sand and foamy water swirling around him. Amazingly, Natasha slackened her grip as well. She fell away to one side. Breath returned, painfully. Fengel reflexively sucked in a great chestful of air, not caring how much it hurt. Dimly he heard Natasha do the same.
    He recovered slowly, too weak to do her further harm, but knowing that she was spent as well. As soon as he could, Fengel flopped over and crawled up from the surf, then unsteadily up onto his knees. Fengel glanced back to where Natasha was feebly laying, glaring hatefully up at him.
    His anger was dulled. He stared down at his wife and grimaced. “I’ll show you,” he said, “and I’ll show them too.” In his ears his own voice was small and tinny.
    Natasha raised one hand, made a fist, and extended a single finger.
    Fengel staggered away and up the beach. The provisions that his crew had left were ruined, stamped