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Authors: Gareth K Pengelly
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being weaved by his adversary. A cut appeared on his left shoulder, shallow but painful, then another on his right cheek, the blood welling with gelatinous lack of pace in his heightened state of speed. Such was the skill of his foe that he knew he couldn’t escape; his every ounce of might channelled into dodging the blades, never a moment free to turn and run. The back of his mind burned with the effort of stretching out these long moments.
His opponent roared with frustration, the sound deep and echoing in this state, his face a picture of rage as he redoubled his efforts to kill his prey. As his eyes followed the swords, weaving about him in a lethal ring of death, bright sparks of realisation erupted within Stone’s mind, a flash of epiphany as he somehow saw a pattern in their motion. A weakness he could exploit.
Just as the swords described a spinning arc away from each other in order to come back round with a decapitating double-stroke, there was a gap where no sharp bronze defended the attacker’s mid-section. With a snarl, Stone powered his right arm through the gap, the resistance of the air at such speed making it seem as though he were punching through deep water. His open palm impacted on his opponent’s chest and he knew that the blow would grant him a couple of seconds to rest.
He let go of the moment.
***
Raga flew backwards, stunned by the force of the blow to his chest, landing hard on his back on the frozen ground, swords knocked from his grip. His mind struggled to comprehend what had happened in the last five seconds; he had attacked his prey with the Five Circles of Noon, a technique that took years to master, providing the perfect blend of attack and defence and that had proven the bane of many of Raga’s opponents in duels past. Yet this scruffy, emaciated-looking Wildman had just dodged virtually every successive strike with mind-boggling speed, then proceeded to attack through the one, sole opening in the defence, as though he himself were a master of the technique.
The intruder was standing still, staggering and blinking rapidly as though trying to clear away the last vestiges of a bad migraine. Finally, he seemed to focus and come back to reality, his eyes widening as he saw Raga springing back to his feet.
The Wildman turned to run, but this time Raga was the faster, grabbing a bola from the stockpile of weapons by the fire, throwing it expertly in a looping motion to entangle around his fleeing foe’s ankles, sending him tumbling to the ground.
At that instant, the guards came flying into the camp, confused, embarrassed and eager to set upon the stricken man who struggled to untangle himself on the floor, but Raga kept them at bay with a mere hand gesture.
“He’s mine…”
Raga leapt over to the struggling thief and kicked him hard in the side of the head, stunning him, to the cheers of the on-looking guards.
“Not so fast on the ground, are you?”
He walked over to the rabbits on the spit, pulling his throwing knife free, before returning to his dazed opponent, kneeling down and pulling him onto his back to face him. He brought the knife up, blade held downwards to strike.
“I don’t know who or what you are, but today is not your day” he spat, one hand around the other man’s throat. “To sell you at market, I only need to make sure you have all your limbs. It won’t hurt your value if I leave a few marks. You will learn a valuable lesson; that I am not a man to be messed with.”
He licked his lips, eyes shining with a feral glee, even as his fallen victim began to recover his senses, a look of horror on his face at the prospect of the pain to come.
“These scars will forever remind
His opponent roared with frustration, the sound deep and echoing in this state, his face a picture of rage as he redoubled his efforts to kill his prey. As his eyes followed the swords, weaving about him in a lethal ring of death, bright sparks of realisation erupted within Stone’s mind, a flash of epiphany as he somehow saw a pattern in their motion. A weakness he could exploit.
Just as the swords described a spinning arc away from each other in order to come back round with a decapitating double-stroke, there was a gap where no sharp bronze defended the attacker’s mid-section. With a snarl, Stone powered his right arm through the gap, the resistance of the air at such speed making it seem as though he were punching through deep water. His open palm impacted on his opponent’s chest and he knew that the blow would grant him a couple of seconds to rest.
He let go of the moment.
***
Raga flew backwards, stunned by the force of the blow to his chest, landing hard on his back on the frozen ground, swords knocked from his grip. His mind struggled to comprehend what had happened in the last five seconds; he had attacked his prey with the Five Circles of Noon, a technique that took years to master, providing the perfect blend of attack and defence and that had proven the bane of many of Raga’s opponents in duels past. Yet this scruffy, emaciated-looking Wildman had just dodged virtually every successive strike with mind-boggling speed, then proceeded to attack through the one, sole opening in the defence, as though he himself were a master of the technique.
The intruder was standing still, staggering and blinking rapidly as though trying to clear away the last vestiges of a bad migraine. Finally, he seemed to focus and come back to reality, his eyes widening as he saw Raga springing back to his feet.
The Wildman turned to run, but this time Raga was the faster, grabbing a bola from the stockpile of weapons by the fire, throwing it expertly in a looping motion to entangle around his fleeing foe’s ankles, sending him tumbling to the ground.
At that instant, the guards came flying into the camp, confused, embarrassed and eager to set upon the stricken man who struggled to untangle himself on the floor, but Raga kept them at bay with a mere hand gesture.
“He’s mine…”
Raga leapt over to the struggling thief and kicked him hard in the side of the head, stunning him, to the cheers of the on-looking guards.
“Not so fast on the ground, are you?”
He walked over to the rabbits on the spit, pulling his throwing knife free, before returning to his dazed opponent, kneeling down and pulling him onto his back to face him. He brought the knife up, blade held downwards to strike.
“I don’t know who or what you are, but today is not your day” he spat, one hand around the other man’s throat. “To sell you at market, I only need to make sure you have all your limbs. It won’t hurt your value if I leave a few marks. You will learn a valuable lesson; that I am not a man to be messed with.”
He licked his lips, eyes shining with a feral glee, even as his fallen victim began to recover his senses, a look of horror on his face at the prospect of the pain to come.
“These scars will forever remind
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