The fight was a furious one for the man was no novice. More than once Baloroy felt his breath catch in his throat, terrified he would have to report the death of the princess to higher powers such as Malabranca or Hoel, to say nothing of the implacable Prince of Wands. The swordplay between them was so fast, so frenetic, it was hard to make out their moves. It was more a scintillating cloud of stabbing, slashing, and swooshing steel, ringing with blocks, repostes, and parries. It did not take long for Tristanué to deduce the man’s style: he was all steel. Never punching or kicking himself, he never expected them from his young opponent. She was happy to wreck his assumption, frequently sending him back with kicks to the body or elbows to his temple.
In battle, Tristanué always came on strong, overwhelming her opponents with one of Jocasta Valan’s furious, spinning blitzes. However, when confronted with someone equal in skill to herself, she switched to counter-attacks, confident she could discover weaknesses in any opponent’s style in the early part of a duel. So, for the first two interminable minutes of their fight, Tristanué constantly retreated, narrowly escaping swings that would have swept her head from her neck. But it was just about then, just one-hundred-and-twenty seconds past their last words, that the man began to repeat himself. Yes, he had come to the end of his training. His style was folding back on itself.
In the next second, her footwork was slightly different and her short swords poised at new angles in new places. Judaco misinterpreted these variations as exhaustion, but no sooner had he done so than a great spray of blood erupted between them—
The fight was over.
The Sablers gasped then cheered.
Tristanué delivered the killing thrust then circled out, almost skipping, catching her breath. It was an act of supreme confidence—or showmanship—turning her back to the raider but she knew the match was over. Judaco stood there, pierced front to back by the Sinister Minister. His strength vanished as his blood jetted out of him. Weakening, he dropped his half-swords.
Circling back to the raider, she put her hand on her blade.
“Sorceress! You struck without pity!” he moaned faintly. “Hear now my last words—”
“Save them for devils,” she replied indifferently. Pulling her sword out of his heart, Judaco squealed, dropped to his knees, gasped for breath then fell over on this side. “You listened to them your entire life, now they can return the favor.”
Excerpt from Savage Errands – Vol. II – The Tharn of Maraqor
Amazon: Savage Errands – Vol. I – The Sixth Kuinkazner
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