Chapter 8
Sara reached up to her forehead; the Witchblade was giving her a brutal headache. She had intended to rip it from her head, but the 'Blade practically leapt from her brow to her wrist. Once there it changed immediately to the armored gauntlet that was it's alternate form. The Witchblade was eager to go on the offensive. For the first time in a long time, wielder and weapon were in complete accord.
They did not have to go far. The Gauntlet's insistent pull led Sara to the left of the church. The girl was crouched behind a dumpster two blocks away. Her blonde hair gleamed, even in the shadows. The child was incoherent, shivering with fear and cold, but otherwise unhurt. Sara pulled off her coat and swathed the small figure in leather. "You're going to be ok sweetie. I'm going to take you to the church over there, ok?"
The child had big blue eyes, whose unblinking gaze gave Sara no clue as to whether or not she was being heard. With a shrug, she picked the girl up, settling her against her hip. Sara was careful to keep the Gauntlet free. It had been too easy. This whole thing smelled like a set up.
Pezzini scanned the area around her as she retreated to the church. She was not surprised when a shadow separated from a building at the end of the block, effectively cutting her off from the direction she wanted to go in. Sara set the child down on the curb, her eyes never leaving the waiting silhouette.
As soon as Sara straightened, the shadowy figure stepped out into the light. Her adversary was dressed in robes that would not have been out of place in one of the big budget religious movies filmed by Cecil B DeMille in the twenties and thirties. Somehow it didn't feel like a costume though.
Pezzini studied her opponent's face as he drew closer. The coarse, slightly curly hair, olive complexion, and dark eyes marked him as some flavor of Mediterranean. Their eyes locked and he spat something in that same language from the vision.
Sara didn't understand a word, but the tone translated just fine. She raised her gauntleted arm, the blade springing forth like an exaggerated middle finger. "Oh yeah? Screw you too buddy."
In response to the Gauntlet, he unsheathed the curved short sword at his waist. The metal had the strangest golden sheen in the light cast by the streetlamp. He did not waste any more words, closing with Sara in a rush of bright metal and flapping white robes.
The two clashed in the center of the dimly lit street, the ringing echo of metal striking metal seeming unnaturally loud in the otherwise silent night. Lighting arced from each contact as the two exchanged a flurry of blows.
Sara was just as relentless with the Witchblade as she was in a boxing arena. 'Bob and weave and hack and slash,' Pezzini thought to herself with a grin. The footwork wasn't any different. The Blade was an extra weapon, one that lengthened her reach. The fact that she had never trained to fight with anything but her hands didn't hamper her at all, as her opponent was rapidly coming to realize. Sara got past his defense, the Witchblade laying open his bicep. She had been trying to disable him, but the loose robes fooled the eye and tangled the blade. He wasn't nearly as injured as she had intended.
Jamin reeled back from her strike, his right arm cold and unresponsive from its contact with the accursed moonmetal. The servant of the enemy was well versed in physical combat. He would not, much as it galled him to admit it, triumph in a trial of arms. But the sunsword was capable of more than one form of attack. "Nivaêdhayemi hañkârayemi ushtavaityå gâthayå ashaonyå ashahe rathwô, nivaêdhayemi hañkârayemi gairinãm ashahvâthranãm pouru-hvâthranãm mazdadhâtanãm ashaonãm ashahe rathwãm, nivaêdhayemi hañkârayemi speñtâ-manyêush gâthayå ashaonyå ashahe rathwô, nivaêdhayemi hañkârayemi verethrakhnahe ahuradhâtahe vanaiñtyåsca uparatâtô ashaonô ashahe rathwô."
The sunsword began to glow, its length more brilliant than white phosphorus. It was like looking at the noonday sun. The light continued to intensify, until even behind closed lids it seemed to burn into the eye. Sara turned her face away with a curse. It was damn hard to fight what you couldn't see. The Witchblade responded by manifesting the entire suit of armor, complete with helm. The slitted visor helped cut the glare somewhat, but Sara still could not see anything.
On the other side of the burning light Jamin smiled, unaffected by this manifestation of divine assistance. It was as he had hoped. The wicked creature had neglected the spiritual in favor of the physical. He swung at her armored neck, knowing that it would not be proof against the celestial flame singing through his scimitar.
Sara reached up to her forehead; the Witchblade was giving her a brutal headache. She had intended to rip it from her head, but the 'Blade practically leapt from her brow to her wrist. Once there it changed immediately to the armored gauntlet that was it's alternate form. The Witchblade was eager to go on the offensive. For the first time in a long time, wielder and weapon were in complete accord.
They did not have to go far. The Gauntlet's insistent pull led Sara to the left of the church. The girl was crouched behind a dumpster two blocks away. Her blonde hair gleamed, even in the shadows. The child was incoherent, shivering with fear and cold, but otherwise unhurt. Sara pulled off her coat and swathed the small figure in leather. "You're going to be ok sweetie. I'm going to take you to the church over there, ok?"
The child had big blue eyes, whose unblinking gaze gave Sara no clue as to whether or not she was being heard. With a shrug, she picked the girl up, settling her against her hip. Sara was careful to keep the Gauntlet free. It had been too easy. This whole thing smelled like a set up.
Pezzini scanned the area around her as she retreated to the church. She was not surprised when a shadow separated from a building at the end of the block, effectively cutting her off from the direction she wanted to go in. Sara set the child down on the curb, her eyes never leaving the waiting silhouette.
As soon as Sara straightened, the shadowy figure stepped out into the light. Her adversary was dressed in robes that would not have been out of place in one of the big budget religious movies filmed by Cecil B DeMille in the twenties and thirties. Somehow it didn't feel like a costume though.
Pezzini studied her opponent's face as he drew closer. The coarse, slightly curly hair, olive complexion, and dark eyes marked him as some flavor of Mediterranean. Their eyes locked and he spat something in that same language from the vision.
Sara didn't understand a word, but the tone translated just fine. She raised her gauntleted arm, the blade springing forth like an exaggerated middle finger. "Oh yeah? Screw you too buddy."
In response to the Gauntlet, he unsheathed the curved short sword at his waist. The metal had the strangest golden sheen in the light cast by the streetlamp. He did not waste any more words, closing with Sara in a rush of bright metal and flapping white robes.
The two clashed in the center of the dimly lit street, the ringing echo of metal striking metal seeming unnaturally loud in the otherwise silent night. Lighting arced from each contact as the two exchanged a flurry of blows.
Sara was just as relentless with the Witchblade as she was in a boxing arena. 'Bob and weave and hack and slash,' Pezzini thought to herself with a grin. The footwork wasn't any different. The Blade was an extra weapon, one that lengthened her reach. The fact that she had never trained to fight with anything but her hands didn't hamper her at all, as her opponent was rapidly coming to realize. Sara got past his defense, the Witchblade laying open his bicep. She had been trying to disable him, but the loose robes fooled the eye and tangled the blade. He wasn't nearly as injured as she had intended.
Jamin reeled back from her strike, his right arm cold and unresponsive from its contact with the accursed moonmetal. The servant of the enemy was well versed in physical combat. He would not, much as it galled him to admit it, triumph in a trial of arms. But the sunsword was capable of more than one form of attack. "Nivaêdhayemi hañkârayemi ushtavaityå gâthayå ashaonyå ashahe rathwô, nivaêdhayemi hañkârayemi gairinãm ashahvâthranãm pouru-hvâthranãm mazdadhâtanãm ashaonãm ashahe rathwãm, nivaêdhayemi hañkârayemi speñtâ-manyêush gâthayå ashaonyå ashahe rathwô, nivaêdhayemi hañkârayemi verethrakhnahe ahuradhâtahe vanaiñtyåsca uparatâtô ashaonô ashahe rathwô."
The sunsword began to glow, its length more brilliant than white phosphorus. It was like looking at the noonday sun. The light continued to intensify, until even behind closed lids it seemed to burn into the eye. Sara turned her face away with a curse. It was damn hard to fight what you couldn't see. The Witchblade responded by manifesting the entire suit of armor, complete with helm. The slitted visor helped cut the glare somewhat, but Sara still could not see anything.
On the other side of the burning light Jamin smiled, unaffected by this manifestation of divine assistance. It was as he had hoped. The wicked creature had neglected the spiritual in favor of the physical. He swung at her armored neck, knowing that it would not be proof against the celestial flame singing through his scimitar.