A Duel for the "Fair Maiden's" heart...
Brand realized that despite Cil's gusto, she had a hell of a fight ahead of her.
One, somewhat disconcerted by the girl’s dynamic energy, stood nonplussed for a moment, sizing her up. Then prideful wrath overtook him once again, and he roared, "Why, I shall put you in your place, you ungrateful hussy! Feed you for weeks with no thanks, will I? Slave over a hot fire for you—gifts of silk and—weapons it is! For me... and the lads!"
All three advanced on her with their serrated knives, grinning like evil little children.
"Alas, One, you intended her as your wife. I'm sure you had no intention of sharing."
"What? No sharing?" cried out Two in plaintive tones. "I was told at least once a month."
"Ey, what?!" cried out Berengar, for the first time taken aback. "Why, you naughty gnomes! It is to be one-on-one, and that's final! No more of this 'Ator Periconias' deviltry! And where is Cil's weapon?"
One had now worked himself into a sort of quiet rage. His lips were grim and downturned in a gremlin's frown. His eyes flickered with the light of insanity—an insanity perhaps birthed in those dark tunnels five years before. He motioned silently to the far wall without taking his eyes off Cil.
Cil grinned wickedly and jumped into the air, skipping lightly over the crates to Brand's right. Alighting once more on the ground, she picked up a dark steel rod about a yard long. She held it with arms apart, one hand gripped close to each end, and her body turned sideways to make a smaller striking target. She then began advancing with the footwork of a trained fighter, pushing off the rear foot and never crossing her legs. Brand still could not condone the affair, but he had to admit that she at least looked like she knew what she was doing. Without realizing it, he was gaping. Never before had he seen such a girl.
Berengar, observing Brand's gaze, laughed. "What? Never met an Outlander girl? Why, Brand, I believe you to be smitten."
Brand glowered but said nothing. The fight had his attention.
One hunched his shoulders and stalked toward Cil with knees bent—a tense ball of springy thews, his deadly knife wavering back and forth in distracting patterns.
Brand realized that despite Cil's gusto, she had a hell of a fight ahead of her. Looking back to Berengar, Brand could see that the giant knew it too—but he had faith in the girl. And, refusing to break the Law of Guest and Host, he had likely seen no other way.
Brand was more practical. If the rogue began harming the girl, he would jump in without a second thought. He caught himself—why was he thinking such thoughts? Where was his suave, level-headed self?
Berengar held up a hand, signaling for the fight to begin.
One circled swiftly to Cil's left, aiming to move away from her power arm. However, she flicked a quick blow toward his head from her left. He ducked and slashed at her exposed thigh. She raised her leg high above the cut with an athletic suppleness that was a joy to behold. Then, turning in mid-air before her left foot returned to the ground, her right leg swung high in a vicious roundhouse kick aimed at One's left temple. He grinned wickedly, leaned back, and reversed his knife to slash across her incoming foot—but instead of the rending of leather and flesh, the dazzling clash of steel on steel rang out. Sparks flew, and a rending clang reverberated through the chamber. One was momentarily taken aback. The toes of her shoes were steel-capped!
Taking advantage of his surprise, Cil followed through on the kick, allowing herself to spin a full turn. Then, letting the rod slide into a batting grip, she delivered a devastating two-handed blow to One's head. Crack! The sound of steel on bone rang out.
It should have knocked him clean unconscious—and would have—had he not leaned inward, going with the blow and letting it slide off the top of his sweaty scalp. He roared in pain and anger. He dashed in close, feinted low, then froze, and made to throw the dagger at her chest. Cil fell for the feint, leaned back to avoid the toss, and at the same time raised her rod to guard her midsection. One instead turned the throw into a backhanded slash, aiming for Cil's right thigh. She realized her mistake and attempted to launch herself backward—too late. The slash caught her across the thigh. A deadly blow. She gasped and went pale as she staggered to regain her balance.
This was bad—a terrible mistake. She would be losing blood now, and with it, her strength. Soon the muscles in her thigh would begin to seize up, leaving her flat-footed and vulnerable. She would need to end it quickly. She dashed in, feinting with a wild low swing toward One's left knee. He bridged awkwardly, unprepared for the blinding speed of the attack, and leaned forward, throwing his legs backward—a terrible move. She took full advantage of it, turning the feint into a thrust, launching the rod toward his chin like a bullet.
She would have had him there. However, by a stroke of fate, he tripped and stumbled to his right. The deadly thrust slid harmlessly past his cheek. He grinned and slashed out at her unprotected forearm. She was ready. She leaned back with the speed of a leopard, reversed the short rod in a rapid, spring-like movement, and smashed the knife from his hand with its opposite end. He grunted in pain as the knife flew from his punished hand.
But instead of pausing or glancing after his lost knife as Cil expected, he instantly stepped in close and grabbed onto her rod with two strong hands, pulling her in and aiming a brutal head-butt at her. She ducked it, but he took advantage of her awkward footing at that moment to wrench violently on the rod. She clung on tight and was lifted off the ground. He swung her around and slammed her against the wall behind him. Then, he pinned her with her own rod, preventing any more fancy footwork or steel-toed kicks. She was a skilled fighter, but he was stronger. His steely, wild muscles had been honed by five years in the desert, fighting for survival among hostile sub-men.
Cil had gone pale from loss of blood, and her right leg was stiff and locked up. One himself seemed worse for wear and tottered drunkenly, using only his blind strength to keep her pinned, as unsteady fighters often do. Perhaps that blow to his head had been worse than it looked. Whatever the case, concussion or no, One had the advantage. He now began pressing Cil down, crushing her into the corner where wall meets floor, giving her no room to move, her own weapon being used against her.
Brand stood on the edge of the imaginary ring, hands clenched, face pale, and gnawing his lower lip in frustration. One now mounted Cil and sat on top of her belly, pinning her down with the rod across her neck, choking her. With his free hand, he began raining down blow after blow upon her face and torso. One! Two! Three!
Brand couldn't take it anymore and hoisted a crate to dash across One's back. But Berengar raised his sword, blocking him off, and shook his head solemnly. His serious, steel-blue eyes spoke volumes: No, we mustn't interfere, they said.
Whack! Another blow. Cil was now dazed, bruised, and bloody—and put well in her place as far as One was concerned.
Brand was done with codes and rules. He was about to backstab this treacherous woman-beater.
One paused for a moment, taking his eyes off Cil to say something to Two... Cil's hand reached out and closed upon a steel ingot, which had fallen from the nearby workbench. Her hand flashed toward One in a wild arc. One turned back to Cil, and met the wild blow. Crunch! One was completely turned about. His eyes looked wide and perplexed as he toppled from Cil, like those of a dead fish, the light of awareness blown into the wind.
Three ran over to One, sobbing, and Two looked of a mind to commit murder on Cil. He advanced toward the panting girl with knife held high, for he believed she had just killed his brother.
But before Two could get close, Three exclaimed, "By Mackmellah, he's alive! Still, never have I seen such a knockout—would you look at that! His eyes are wide open!"
Hearing that his brother lived, Two put away his knife and helped Three position One in such a way as to avoid further damage or suffocation.
"It is true, that was a fell blow!" Boomed Berengar. "Brand, don't stand there like a great eel—help out the lass!"
Cil chuckled weakly. "Gotcha," she said. Then continued to mutter in a quiet, disjointed fashion, as Brand and Berengar carried her into the main room. They laid her gently on Brand's rug bed, and Berengar dressed her wounds with a piece of stoic cloth, while Two and Three saw to One's needs.
Shortly thereafter, she propped herself up and looked around the room with quiet interest. "So this is what the rest of this place looks like?" She said, speaking distractedly to the world at large. "I passed out in the canyons to the north three weeks ago, only to wake a day later in that hole. And I've been in there ever since."
Her whole demeanor had changed; gone was the vicious spitfire. Regaining her freedom and being left alone, she had become peaceful and unassuming, simply enjoying her own space for the time. "Well, at least it's cooler in this room..." she went on.
"You're welcome," said Brand.
Cil paid him no more attention than a slight curling of her lip. Besides, she was busy looking at the hamsters above. "Such cute, hardworking things," she said, her green eyes bright…
***
Read the next post to continue your adventure through the wacky world of Old Earth!
This novel is currently in production as an unabridged audiobook, narrated and produced by Grammy Award–winning narrator and producer Stefan Rudnicki. If you’d like to support the launch, consider becoming a paid subscriber or Book Donor to receive early access or a discounted (or possibly free) copy of the audiobook. (Final details are pending confirmation with Skyboat Media and Blackstone Publishing, but I will organize some form of benefit!)
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Here is the desciption and link to purchase:
A creepy folklore story set against the moonlit gardens and rivers of rural Japan, Yōsei-tachi no Kyōen (A Banquet of the Fairies) is a chilling stand-alone story woven from the darkest strands of myth and memory.
A Japanese horror short story Inspired by, and heavily reminiscent of classic Japanese animated fantasy...
