Battle on the Mud - The Central Conflict
Northern Middenland
Battle Duration: 4 hours
—
Solin ducked, heard the whistle of air parting before the keen edge of the glaive as it sailed overhead. Planted one hand in the thick mud, pushed, used that hand as a pivot point to swing a leg around until his heel slammed into the ghoulish samurai's face with a loud crack.
The samurai staggered back, grunting in what sounded to be a mix of pain and disgruntlement. Wasn't enough to keep him distracted for long, even before Solin had straightened himself back to his feet—hand absently shaking off the mud before returning to the hilt of his blade—the samurai had already regained his wits and hopped back, twirling his polearm with dexterity borne of mastery.
Solin hissed softly, hopped back a few steps himself, widened the gap between them for a brief moment and allowed his eyes to drift—never so far as to have the samurai gone from his vision, but enough to get a sense of their surroundings. Blood stained the mud, bodies littered the ground—mostly Chaos. But Solin couldn't ignore the sight of his own dead. Red coats, muted by the sodden mire, the wool heavy with water and streaked with filth.
No time to mourn, just don't let their deaths be a waste.
He ducked and weaved through the flurry of strikes, each swing of the glaive cutting the air where his neck had been moments before. Stepping back, he felt the disturbed breeze of another near-miss. He twisted, avoiding a thrust aimed to skewer him, then bent low, ducking beneath a horizontal swipe.
His blade flashed up, parrying with a clang, though not fast enough to avoid the sting of a shallow slice across his forearm. Blood welled, but he felt no pain—just another nick among many. Swung in a counter-strike that was in turn avoided. Leapt back, twisted his body around, rolling in the air, putting distance between them while also evading the attempt to sweep at his ankles. Landed lightly, looked no more ruffled for the abrupt somersault than if he had simply skipped jovially.
Solin tightened his grip, not by much, but enough so for the leather wrapped around the hilt to groan in protest. Exhaled, adjusted his stance, lowering his left hand while raising his right, guiding the greatsword until it was held parallel to the ground. Eyes locked onto the samurai, watched as the ghoulish champion adjusted his own stance in answer. Assessed, considered.
The proper thing to do would have been to re-adjust, shift his feet and alter the blade's position. But Solin chose not to. Deliberately kept his stance in one that was apparently weak to that of the samurai. Mind raced, considered. Tensed.
The samurai, seemingly recognising that Solin wasn't about to shift his stance—had decided to keep this posture—flew forward, bladed polearm swinging.
Again, the proper thing to do, would have been to parry, riposte and counter. But their fight had gone long enough that Solin already knew how that sequence of events would pan out. History was rife with the mistakes of the past being repeated time and time again. Sometimes, the proper thing to do was not the right thing to do. Sometimes, a chance needed to be taken. A momentary break from the established rules.
If he parried, history would just repeat.
So Solin would not repeat himself pointlessly.
Ducked, used the slick mud to fall to one knee while twisting his body around. Released his right hand's grip on his weapon, and snatched at the haft of the glaive. Fingers coiled around the weapon, chilling cold spreading from that physical contact, unnatural and numbing.
Couldn't hold for long, not when the corruption of Malice was so pervasive from so simple a touch. Didn't need long. Pulled, didn't expect to upend the samurai's balance, even if the Chaos champion was taken by surprise, his discipline and experience would most likely already be compensating, body reacting to the apparent threat before the mind could catch up.
Except pulling over the samurai wasn't the goal. He let the mud work for him, pulled, and allowed his body to be pulled forward, feet sliding back under him and then he was upright again. Didn't stop the momentum, didn't even try.
Forehead met forehead.
Solin might not have been gifted with the typical bone crown of the standard saurus spawning, but never let it be said he didn't have a hard head. The crack when they made contact echoed loudly, almost like another gunshot. The samurai flinched back, lidless eyes momentarily clouded from startled pain.
Swung his zweihänder, tried to take advantage of the opening afforded to him. The samurai reacted even before his eyes cleared—a testament to his skill as a warrior, able to react to threats even when dazed—tried to dodge aside. The samurai wasn't fast enough, the armour affixed to his shoulder—the sode, if Solin had his Nipponese terminology correct—failed to hold back the Gromril blade, was cleaved into, a thick gauge carved into the rectangular plate.
At the instant Solin's blade bit into flesh, the samurai let out a startled cry—and then his body darkened. A loud, ominous buzzing filled the air. Resistance vanished, sending Solin's sword lurching forward, nearly throwing him off-balance.
The samurai's body continued to darken, turned into a shadow, which split apart into a mass of droning shapes. It took a blink of the eyes before it registered that the squirming mass were hornets, each formed of the same black shadow. Solin swallowed back a startled oath, fought down the instinctual panic at hornets being so close to his person.
The swarm of insects floated in the same space previously occupied by the samurai, then flew, still together in a thick swarm until they took up a space a rute away. They swirled in that space for two seconds before condensing together, and the buzzing of their wings was silenced. In their place was once again the samurai, clutching at the shoulder that Solin had managed to injure, breathing heavily, almost panting.
What was that? Solin wondered privately, racing through what he knew of magic. Some form of Steed of Shadows? Or does Malice have a variation of Skitterleap?
'Kisama,' the samurai called out. Solin reckoned that the samurai would have been gritting his teeth, if his rictus grin hadn't already forced that permanently upon his features.
Solin didn't understand the word that the samurai had used, but the tone was clue enough that it wasn't complimentary. Some things just transcended the language barrier. He chose not to answer verbally, instead lifted his zweihänder into a mocking salute while he assessed and considered his next options.
The samurai growled, then grimaced when he moved his injured shoulder. Solin couldn't help but tilt his head in curiosity at the way that the samurai's attention shot to the injured shoulder with the closest approximation of surprise that could be managed with his ghoulish face.
Curious. What's got him so shocked? Or is he only just registering the pain?
While the distance between them existed, Solin took the moment to just watch, resting his blade against his shoulder, one eye affixed to the samurai while he turned his head this way and that, kept the other eye open for any of the lesser Chaos warriors who might suddenly think themselves capable of getting involved.
Fortunately, it seemed that the warriors of Malice had largely learnt to keep their distance. Cut enough of them down without them even counting as an afterthought, that was a lesson they were quick to take in. It was a little regrettable, it would have been better if they had constantly come at Solin with the belief that they were capable of fighting him—the more who tried to involve themselves with Solin and this samurai's duel, the less pushing against Solin's subordinates.
It wasn't normally an issue, but this samurai was just as prone to cutting down anything that got too close, friend or foe. So the lesson had been taught, Solin plus champion in a duel equalled death to anybody close.
The samurai finally seemed to get over the injury to his shoulder after he tested his mobility and found that he could still use the shoulder through the apparent pain. The samurai twirled his glaive and shifted into a ready stance. Solin waited for a moment, eyes locked onto the champion, before widening his stance and tensing. But he remained still, waited for the Malice champion to make the first move.
A gunshot from somewhere in the background echoed through the grove.
The samurai moved—lunged forward with a new furious energy.
#
Mex ducked under the swing of a wicked-looking halberd, the black metal of the weapon stark against the gleaming white armour of its wielder. The saurus hissed softly, twisting his body as he drove his spear forward. The blade pierced through the uncanny white plate and buried itself deep in the chest of the Chaos thrall.
A wet, gagging cough escaped the warrior—a grotesque signal of death unacknowledged by the body. Mex kicked the thrall away, wrenching his spear free with a sickening sound. He spun on his heel, scanning for the next threat.
Exhaled softly, twirled his spear to a more comfortable position and back-stepped, fell in-line with another trio of saurus, formed an improvised phalanx with them even as they continued to steadily retreat. They were near the edge of the grove, the only natural obstacle left being the pond that marked the fallback point.
A narrow bridge spanned the pond's centre—the only practical crossing without circling around the grove's edge, which would leave anyone exposed, or wading through the water. Mex doubted the Chaos warriors would take to swimming, not while clad in their hellforged plate armour.
That bridge was the grove's only true chokepoint, and their final chance to hold this patch of contested ground. With the constant stream of Chaos warriors in their gleaming white armour, swarming forward with numbers and reckless abandon? That small chokepoint was their last chance to keep the grove as contested territory, to hold back the warriors and deny them the cover of the trees to get close to the central hill where the Legion was stationed.
Mex felt the weight of the pistol tucked away inside his coat; it seemed to grow heavier the longer the fighting carried on, the closer that the warriors of Malice got to reaching that proverbial line upon which it had to be acknowledged that the Legion couldn't hold the grove.
Thrust his spear as another warrior charged forward, joined by his brothers-in-arms. They linked up with more saurus, all of whom had been pulling back. Skinks ran past, took up positions behind the wall that the saurus formed.
'Are there any more coming?' he asked, raising his voice to be heard despite the constant roar of violence filling the air with noise, while he glanced at the latest saurus to appear.
Fighting retreats were slow, and with their forces within the trees scattered and out of sight, it got difficult to tell who had fallen, and who was still yet to arrive because they were moving slowly.
There was a volley of gunfire from the skinks. As the sound of thunder faded, the saurus Mex had spoken to looked toward him, eyes narrowed in consideration.
'I saw a few more saurus and skinks a way behind us,' the saurus rumbled at last.
Mex considered that for a moment, frowning in thought.
'Skinks, form firing lines on the other side of the pond. Saurus, form a phalanx on the bridge, but leave a gap one side so any of our kin still out there can get through,' he ordered in a sharp tone.
For a brief moment, his mind recalled that the colonel was among those fighting among the trees. It had been a while since that particular storm of violence had been sighted. Considering they weren't being attacked by the Nipponese warrior? It was clear that Solin hadn't fallen.
Or if he has, he took down the champion with him, a traitorous corner of his mind whispered.
A sharp shake of the head and a hiss of self-reproach dispelled such thoughts. Not the time for doubt. He has survived centuries of conflict, this won't be the moment he dies.
Ground his teeth and hurried to join the formation of saurus on the bridge. He took his place in the centre of the front rank, shoulder-to-shoulder with the saurus standard-bearer. As the highest ranking saurus among them. this was his place—at the front, where the risk was greatest. It was both his duty and his honour, no matter the danger.
#
Kordak wasn't like many of the followers of Malice, who had only come to serve the Lord of Anarchy after coming to realise the shortcomings of the Gods they had previously served. Kordak had served Malice all his life, had come from one of few hearths that worshipped Malice exclusively.
Didn't begrudge the other warriors. They had at least made the right choice eventually, learnt that the other gods were lesser and had survived whatever ordeal had caused that revelation. They were now fighting for the true god of Chaos.
Growled lowly, wrenching his axe free from the lizard's back, the red coat it wore darkening to a near black as the wool was stained by blood. Turned and swung his axe at another lizard, forcing aside billhook that was aimed at him, then swung again, cleaving through flesh and bone, shortened its height by a head. Shouted, bellowed out a challenging cry, an invitation to any other lizards to come and try their luck, he was waiting for a challenge. He was ready for them.
Except the lizards apparently were cowed by him, more and more as the fight in this grove had continued, they had been pulling back. Less willing to engage in straight combat, even less willing to be underhanded and try stabbing him in the back, which Kordak was of mixed opinions about. It was a valid tactic, he wasn't some honour-bound lout who would be looking down his nose at such methods, but on the other hand, the absence of such attempts was a relief. Having to constantly look over one's shoulder got tiring.
'Cowards!' he eventually bellowed in a fury. 'Stop fleeing and face me!'
He didn't flinch at the crack of a gunshot, merely raising an unseen eyebrow as a comrade staggered and fell, a hole punched clean through his helmet. Kordak let out an irritated breath, grabbed a discarded spear—no, wait, this was one of the lizards' billhooks—and after a moment of testing the weight, hurled the polearm. The small lizard who had fired the handgun dropped the weapon and gargled, blood pooling from its mouth. The thrown weapon had punctured through its body and pinned it to the tree it had been standing beside, leaving it to let out its death rattle.
Kordak let out a huff of satisfaction and surveyed the scene, before feeling his satisfaction shift, morphing instead into irritation.
'Come on," Kordak growled, waving his axe toward the retreating lizards. "They're pulling back—this way.'
He led the warriors, his forehead aching from the force of the frown that was painted across his features, not that such was visible behind his horned helmet. Surely if they want to keep us from passing this grove, they wouldn't be retreating to the edge that we want to be reaching. Or are the lizards just that badly on the backfoot?
Even as that question reached his mind, he shuddered, absently turning his head to the direction that Lord Soulshriver had last been seen fighting that lizard champion. Had to be a champion to be capable of matching ghoulish samurai. Too many warriors had been cut down for trying to get involved in that duel. If Soulshriver hadn't been leading this push into the grove, hadn't been there to distract that particular lizard, how bloodied would the warriors of Malice be? How many deaths just to fight one single lizard?
If the lizards had been depending on that champion as the key focus of their defence, then it was no wonder they were on the back foot. But yet, something about that comment didn't ring true to Kordak.
Kordak would never make claims to being intelligent. Even in combat, he wasn't a strategist, he had only the barest grasp on proper tactics. He was a fighter, he was aware of that, proud of it even. He knew his role, and that was to be the hammer smashing down the enemy.
But even with that lack of intelligence, he didn't feel himself stupid. He knew when something was wrong. The lizards' retreat was not a panicked withdrawal. It was calculated. He could see that, he just couldn't fathom why. Why pull back and allow the warriors of Malice to come deeper into the territory they were trying to take? Maybe if one of the more knowledgeable or one with a grasp of strategy were nearby he could ask. Unfortunately, those gifted with that kind of a mind were either relegated to the back of the formation, to protect that precious resource, or they were champions and warlords, and none of those were nearby, excepting Lord Soulshriver, and Kordak was not feeling any real desire to die a pointless death trying to get close to that.
Pushed through the overgrown vegetation, and paused a moment, taking in the sight. It was a large pond, or a small lake. The specifics weren't important, what was important was that it was blocking any more forward movement without either swimming across, circling around—which could very well mean leaving the grove at the sides—or crossing that stone bridge in the middle, where the larger variety of the lizards had formed up into tightly packed overlapping lines, their billhooks held at the ready.
Once again, Kordak wasn't stupid. He might not have the intellectual grasp of strategy, but even he could see just how that position, how their overlapping lines of billhooks had just made that bridge a very dangerous chokepoint to attack head-on.
Even if Kordak wanted to command the warriors of Malice to circle the large body of water, the smaller lizards, the ones with the handguns, had lined themselves on the opposite shore—does it count as a shore when it's a pond?—and would no doubt be shooting at any warriors who was foolish enough to not stand with the larger lizards blocking their line of sight.
'Bastards.' He spat out the insult.
His eyes drifted to the water, tried to puzzle out how deep the murky waters truly were. There was no chance that any of the warriors of Malice would be swimming across, not while wearing armour. But if was shallow enough, it would be uncomfortable, but they could wade across.
No way to tell how deep the water was though.
Let out a frustrated breath and glared at the lizards, who seemed quite happy to just stand there, staying still on the bridge in their formation, polearms held ready. Never before had Kordak felt such disgust. Such a craven method of fighting, to stand there in a position of power and just wait.
But as much as Kordak wanted to prove that he and his fellow warriors were the superior fighting force, he was not stupid enough to charge headfirst into such a position. Not when they had such an advantage. Couldn't even take proper advantage of the fact that the lizards weren't carrying any shields; the warriors of Malice weren't exactly carrying a surplus of javelins or spare axes to throw.
'Somebody run back and find either Lord Fatesaw or Lord Skaros,' Kordak snarled eventually, after swallowing his pride. 'We need a sorcerer.'
He hated the idea. Hated the very thought that he was in a position where being a mighty warrior of Malice was not enough, that he had to rely on the arcane prowess of a sorcerer to tip the balance of a battle in their favour. It felt like admitting weakness.
Somebody broke away and retreated the way the warriors had come, to do as Kordak had demanded be done. Even though it was what he had ordered, it still left a taste of bile lingering in the back of Kordak's throat. That none of the other warriors had argued and suggested other ideas meant that they had come to similar conclusions. There was no way that they would be forcing their way across this bridge without some aid.
Well, unless Lord Soulshriver makes an appearance.
Fortune smiled in one regard, the smaller lizards with their handguns weren't just raining gunfire on the warriors, even those who foolishly moved to a more exposed position. Maybe they were concerned about their ammo reserves? Kordak didn't know, didn't care.
Regretfully, even if a warrior stood at the very edge of the water, few would be able to throw any javelins or axes far enough to actually hit any of those smaller lizards. And those who managed would no doubt be shot quickly to remove that particular threat to their safety. A pity, as maybe killing the smaller ones could have angered the larger ones into reacting and coming off that bridge.
Kordak moved to the shoreline of the pond, staring at the smaller lizards disdainfully. They aimed their weapons at him, but the lack of any threatening motions on his part meant that as he reasoned out, they weren't shooting.
'Cowards and fools. Stand and watch all you want.'
They couldn't hear him, he wasn't shouting, more talking to himself than anything else. Like a silent vow, though voiced aloud as if it was more impactful that he actually heard his voice making the declaration.
Nearby, the water shifted. Kordak's attention briefly turned to the murky water. Again he wondered how deep it was. Could he have everybody wade across? Was the bridge just so that the weaklings of the Empire didn't have to get their frilly little socks wet if they decided to pass through this grove?
A ripple danced across the surface. Then another. Kordak's eyes narrowed.
The water erupted.
The beast's jaws were impossibly wide, clamping down with ferocious strength on his shoulder and chest. Armour buckled like tin, and Kordak roared as pain shot through his body. His axe slipped from his hand, the strength draining from his arm. He slammed his fist into the creature's snout, but it didn't flinch.
The lizard twisted sharply, rolling in place, its iron jaws locked onto Kordak. His armour buckled under the pressure, and the sickening sound of cracking bones filled the air. It was not to his benefit that he managed to retain his consciousness the whole time. If he'd allowed himself to blackout, or to simply die from the number of hits his head took during the lizard's furious rolling, he wouldn't have had to suffer the moment that the lizard—jaw still clamped with an ungodly strength—dragged his body into the water. If he'd been unconscious, he would have been blissfully unaware of his death by drowning.
Instead, his last moments were pain as he struggled to draw breath beneath the murky waters which swiftly turned crimson over the space where he vanished.
#
That first kroxigor's appearance was like a signal, all across the edge of the pond, kroxigors lunged from the water, either clamping powerful jaws on warriors who were standing apart from their comrades, or swinging their weapons, if near a group of the warriors clustered together.
The warriors of Chaos were taken by surprise, their focus fixed on either the saurus phalanx or the skink musketeers on the opposite side of the pond. They had clearly not anticipated any threats within the waters. That was their folly.
Mex kept his satisfaction hidden—not that the Chaos warriors would recognise it in his reptilian features. The trap had worked perfectly, but there was no time to dwell on victory. Distraction meant death. If anything aggravated the warriors into a suicide charge against the phalanx, their angered reaction to seeing comrades mutilated by kroxigor death-roll would certainly be it.
Especially when the Chaos thralls learnt that killing the kroxigors wouldn't be a simple task. After the initial strike at the armoured warriors, the kroxigors then pulled back into the water. It left the warriors unable to retaliate, unable to take out their frustrations on the crocodilians. That frustration would inevitably lead to anger—anger that clouded judgment. A suicide charge against the phalanx was the only outcome of such anger.
If that was what the Chaos thralls chose, then Mex would be only too happy to assist them in their desire for death.
True to his prediction, after a few moments where the thralls of Chaos shook their fists in impotent rage, or throwing javelins and axes at the water as if they could hope to actually harm the kroxigors hidden in the murky depths, they then fixed their sights on the saurus. Common sense dictated that charging a phalanx in a chokepoint was suicide, but rage had stripped the Chaos warriors of reason. They charged anyway.
Mex braced himself, felt more than saw the way those at his sides did the same, and they received the initial rush of armoured warriors. Spears punctured through plate armour, a combination of the natural strength of the saurus paired with the momentum of the warriors' charge. The charge was thusly halted as the thralls met an unmovable wall of scale and spear.
Crowded as the warriors of Malice were, they left themselves open to the skinks on the opposite bank. Gunfire cracked in volleys, and armoured warriors were felled as bullets punched through their exposed sides. And that was saying nothing of the kroxigors still lurking beneath the water, perfectly capable and willing to lunge out and pull their prey deep into the murky depths. The kroxigors swung their heavy weapons at nearby foes, casting them into the water alongside their captured prey. The murky depths quickly claimed them.
Despite the position of strength upon the bridge, it wasn't going to last forever. It couldn't. Numbers were against them, and any more Chaos thralls that came wouldn't be provoked into throwing their weapons at shadows in the water. That left the phalanx as the only target of opportunity.
It wasn't often that Mex bemoaned the way that shields had stopped becoming a mainstay of saurus arms. The Legion's saurus rarely fought like this anymore, standing firm in a defensive formation, pretending to be an unbreakable wall. It wasn't their way. Not like Mort's saurus. His warriors, his guardians, they would have turned this bridge into a fortress and held it until the last star burned from the heavens. Even Zak's regiment would have held longer.
The problem had always been the shift in tactics. The original plan was to use the woodland terrain to their advantage: strike and fade, hit and run. Tactics where Mex's saurus and skinks excelled far beyond Mort's or Zak's commands. The bridge was never meant to be anything more than a fallback point. If not for the sheer scale of this battle, Zak would have been stationed here, his troops ready to hold the line when the time came.
No use dwelling on would could have been. Focus on the now.
The reminder to focus came in time for Mex to register the latest Chaos warrior charging toward him. A thrust of the spear punctured the neck, caused a spray of blood to stain Mex's scaled hands. Without a moment of hesitation, he wrenched the weapon free, then twisted it so that the hook caught another warrior's armour. With a hard yank, the armoured thrall stumbled forward, weapon lowered as he fought to regain his balance.
He was never given the chance.
The saurus to Mex's left lunged, driving his spear through the warrior's breastplate. Hellforged metal buckled under the force, and the blade punched through to the flesh beneath. The Chaos thrall crumpled, his body toppling onto the growing mound of carcasses that already littered the bridge. The pile rose higher with each kill, the slick, blood-soaked remains turning steady footing into a challenge for their enemies.
No time to savour the kill. No time to bask in satisfaction at how well the line was being held.
An axe hurtled through the air, spinning end over end, hurled by a warrior at the back of the mob. Mex hissed softly at the sight. He swung his spear up in a sharp arc, the blade striking the weapon mid-flight. The axe veered off course and fell into the water with a soft splash.
Ducking might have been safer for him, but it could have meant the axe buried itself in the saurus behind him. Unacceptable. Mex refused to let his line falter because of one stray weapon.
'How long are we to hold?' A saurus behind Mex asked with a low hiss.
'As long as we can,' Mex answered, thrusting his spear forward, the blade finding flesh with a sickening crunch.
Again he was reminded of the weight of the pistol tucked in his coat. The absolute last defiance that they would enact were they to be pushed away from the bridge. There was no more falling back and still being able to defend the grove. Fall back from this position, the Chaos thralls could exit the other side of the grove, close enough to the hill that Ingwel was commanding from that there would be no artillery support to soften their charge.
But while the colonel was still somewhere in the grove, Mex wasn't eager to enact that final middle finger to the worshippers of Malice. He would do it. He was still a saurus. As much as the Legion played up their emotions for the benefit of the warmbloods, the cold reptilian logic still reigned in their minds—even for those who had embraced the display of emotion.
War was calculation, a ruthless and unflinching arithmetic that left no room for sentiment. Even the life of the colonel could be weighed and measured, his death evaluated as a net positive if it tipped the scales against Malice's thralls.
Logic offered no comfort. But it was irrefutable. Objective. It made the impossible choices bearable. Mex might not like it, but if it needed to be done, he would do it.
That didn't mean he wouldn't delay as long as he could, buying the colonel every precious moment. Whether to win his duel against the champion or to break away and retreat, time was all Mex could give. And time, for now, was enough.
It wasn't sentiment. It wasn't an emotional choice. Solin's life might be weighed as an acceptable casualty, but that didn't make it an ideal outcome. If Mex could delay long enough to ensure the colonel's survival, there was no logical reason not to. It could flavoured it as an emotional choice, and might even be done so if he had to recount the moment to a warmblood.
But it was still cold, reptilian logic at the core of it.
#
Shoulder burned with a fiery pain. Beneath the sode he could feel blood pooling out and staining, causing fabric to stick to flesh and chafe. Ignored it. The bruise on his forehead throbbed—a lingering gift from that brutish blow. He gritted his teeth, forcing down the surge of anger that threatened to override his focus.
Had to maintain his discipline and focus. Could not let mindless rage take over, much as he wanted to embrace that feeling.
The lizard parried another blow, then moved back, used the slick mud to its advantage.
Soulshriver growled lowly, planted his feet and felt his grip on his naginata tighten. Any satisfaction he was getting from fighting an apparent equal in martial prowess had long since faded. Now he wanted nothing more than to skin this reptile alive, to flay the flesh from it while it could still feel every agonising moment.
Control. Focus.
Breathed in. Exhaled. Adjusted his stance. Didn't wait for the lizard to adjust in answer, leapt forward, naginata swinging. It was blocked. And again. And then a third time.
Didn't let up though. Refused to give the lizard a moment to counter-attack. The naginata lashed out—again. And again. And again.
Aimed a strike for the hand. Didn't hit, the lizard angled the oversized sword so that the naginata's blade hit the crossguard. Kicked at the lizard's knee—maybe not the most elegant move, but if the foul reptile wanted to fight like a dishonourable cur, then that was just invitation for others to do the same in turn.
His foot met the lizard's knee with some force, but there was no satisfying crack of bone. The lizard's leg seemed to slide out from under it, but it wasn't an uncontrolled stumble.
Soulshriver would give the lizard that much credit—it had mastered the terrain. The slick mud became an extension of its movements, allowing it to twist, shift, and flow around attacks. That strange, dancer's grace had nearly won the fight more than once. Even the headbutt that had given it the opening it needed to cut his shoulder had been born of its mastery of movement.
Soulshriver would admit to underestimating the creature. Had seen that sword, and even with the initial show of speed and grace, had still mentally catalogued it as a fighter dependent on brute force and reach. It was a mistake he wasn't about to make again.
Blocked the lizard's upward strike, felt his shoulder ache, the deep gouge carved into it protesting the strain, the fiery heat reminding him constantly that he has been injured.
That burning sensation was concerning though. He had been injured in the past, he knew what pain felt like, even before his time at the Serpent's tender mercies. But something about this wound was different. Whatever it was, it was making it harder than it should be to ignore the pain, something he usually had no difficulty doing.
Every blocked strike—his and the reptile's both—sent vibrations to his shoulder, and that fire in the open injury seemed to flare up and any progress he had made on shunting the pain to the back of his mind was undone by that renewed sensation that was just as vivid as the moment he had first been given the injury.
It made him eye the lizard's blade with a new sense of wary caution. It had to be the blade. The faint azure glow it carried marked it as something significant. The dark metal was clearly Gromril; had it been forged by a dwarven runesmith? Was it marked with runes? And if so, what power had they bestowed upon the blade? Unnatural sharpness?
The longer he examined the blade, the more Soulshriver felt a sense of unease. He shook his head and dismissed all thoughts of the blade from his mind, refocused on the muddied and bloodied lizard.
Couldn't ignore the state of his shoulder though. As the fight carried on, it was getting worse.
Pained as he was to admit it, even in his own mind, that one strike had lost him this duel. Unless he found some way to turn the tide in the next clash, he was going to have to withdraw. His dominant arm was weakening. Each block or parry he made was becoming less structured for it.
He swung high, felt his arm vibrate as the strike was blocked. Backstepped, then swung low. It too was blocked. Made to swing again, but the lizard was faster, that greatsword came up and was thrust at Soulshriver. Parried, but the lizard turned the redirection of its blade into a circular swing.
Planted the haft of his naginata upon the ground and pulled himself toward it, used it to vault over the swing of the lizard, and slammed his heels into the lizard's chest. Remembered that moment months ago he had used the same trick and how the lizard had used its tail to keep itself upright. Planned around that.
As expected, the lizard slammed its tail to the ground, absorbing the impact of the flying kick with barely a step backward, its claws sliding slightly in the mud. But this time, Soulshriver was prepared and swung one foot upward while he still had momentum. His foot caught the lizard on the underside of its jaw, then continued upward, gave enough movement to allow Soulshriver to somersault back, landed on hit feet with the slightest of wobbles, not used to that particular level of acrobatics. The kick caused the lizard's head to snap upward and its balance was upended, eyes crossed, tail suddenly slack, whether from startlement or pain, Soulshriver didn't know, didn't care.
Soulshriver twisted the naginata, reversing his grip as the lizard fell, its guard momentarily open. He lunged. But the creature recovered fast—faster than he expected. Its massive sword swept around, deflecting the naginata's strike and sending the blade plunging harmlessly into the mud. The lizard snapped its knees to its chest, muscles coiling like a wound spring. Soulshriver cursed—he saw it coming, knew exactly what was about to happen. But knowing wasn't the same as stopping it. He was too slow. The lizard kicked out, legs firing skyward with explosive force. It launched from the ground and landed upright in a single, fluid motion—greatsword already in motion.
The greatsword crashed down. The haft of the naginata shrieked in protest—then splintered. Steel cracked, wood shattered. The weapon snapped in twain.
Soulshriver swore softly in his native tongue, backstepped and dropped the lower half of his naginata's haft from his hand, moved his right to his hip and grabbed at one of the two blades, didn't take the time to check which. Grabbed the hilt and hurriedly pulled the weapon free.
Thankfully, instinct guided his hand—he drew the right blade. His katana flashed from its sheath, the edge biting through the air in a lethal arc. The lizard recoiled, forced to backstep or feel steel carve through its belly. As soon as he bought himself space, Soulshriver reset his stance—both hands on the hilt, blade angled defensively.
The lizard's gaze widened—briefly—at the shift in stance. But then its crimson eyes flicked to his wounded shoulder, and a knowing glint sparked within them. In an instant, it pressed the attack, its blade a relentless blur.
Soulshriver was a talented fighter. But the katana was not his weapon—it was his fallback, his last resort. He had mastered the naginata, wielded it like an extension of his own will. This blade? It was a badge of status, not a weapon of war. If he was using it, it meant he had already lost.
It did not help that against that oversized sword, the katana was at a disadvantage. Even his katana, master-crafted and enchanted as it was. Couldn't rely on parries, even if his shoulder wasn't injured. And avoidance was getting tiring.
He knew it now—he had lost this duel. His wounded arm slowed him, his favoured weapon lay in ruins. But if he was to fall, he'd make damn sure the lizard paid the price.
The greatsword came for his neck—a killing stroke. But it met only smoke and buzzing shadows.
Soulshriver dissolved, his form unravelling into a swarm of hornets that scattered, hanging in the air before surging together again a few paces away. He reformed, breath steadying, eyes fixed on the reptilian kensai once more. The lizard stared back, knees bent, clearly ready to pursue, to try and finish the fight with Soulshriver's death.
Let him try.
He stared back at the lizard in silent challenge, then deliberately looked in the direction from which the background chorus of gunfire could be heard. There was a low hiss from the lizard, and then it stalked toward Soulshriver with a very clear intent to stop him from moving that way. Soulshriver hummed, tightened his grip on his weapons, but took a step backwards, further from the fight.
Come then, beast. How badly do you want me dead?
The lizard paused a moment, eyes narrowed, searching, considering.
No, no you don't.
It was difficult to smirk without lips, trapped in a perpetual rictus grin. But there were other ways of taunting, other ways to convey mockery without words. A slow twirl of the katana, the lazy and contemptuous flourish of one who saw no threats.
The lizard didn't appear to take the bait. Tilted its head, ever so slightly, but continued to stay back, staring.
Maybe that was too obvious, or else it doesn't understand the mockery.
He flicked a glance toward where the other lizards had gone. A calculated move—just to see. And that, at least, got a reaction. The kensai tensed, muscles coiling, weight shifting forward as if preparing to intercept him the moment he tried to follow.
Soulshriver exhaled, steady and measured, then took another step back. Not turning, not running—just moving. Just watching.
The lizard mirrored him, shifting its weight, tracking his every movement with those unblinking crimson eyes. It was wary now, more cautious than before, yet not so hesitant as to let him simply leave.
Good.
He didn't need to go far. Didn't need to force the fight now. But he needed to keep this one isolated. Away from the lesser lizards. He had lost the duel, but he would be damned if he let the lizard win.
Another step back. The lizard tensed, ever so slightly.
He let the barest flicker of amusement glint in his eyes. Let it follow. Let it chase. Let it think it was in control.
Then, with a final glance, he turned—just enough to invite pursuit—and disappeared into the overgrowth.