8th trial, Ashan, 720
Storm's Edge
9th break
Storm's Edge
9th break
Continued from here
There was no hope of sleeping in, not that morning. Not with the constant clang echoing about the courtyard. There was a rhythm to it, if one had but the ears to find the timing, but few did. Instead it seemed utterly random. Sometimes clusters of furious, clattering, cacophony. Then long pauses... long trills... a strike, loud and singular, then a chattering, grinding whine of steel on iron and then... something else.
"Getting tired, old man?"
"Yer... one t'talk-"
The Etzori broke the bind by pushing back hard against Fredrik's longsword. The old knight knew what he was looking for: an opening, a sliver of opportunity, the merest gap for that ax of his to come swinging around-
CRACK
-only for it to slam into his shield, instead. Metal met iron-ribbed oak and the bearded ax head went curving off. Was that a growl the Knight heard, under the ding and clang of weapons? He peered over his shield briefly as he settled back into a defense... and saw onyl a rough smile on that weathered old face.
Bloody madman's loving this.
Which was the truth. Kasoria hadn't landed a solid hit yet; barely even dented the knight's defense. But this... challenge, was something he'd needed for a long time. Fighting wild animals and bandits and unholy monsters and sellswords... well, it paid the rent and kept his belly full, but it was hardly a stretch of his abilities. The Knights, however? Oh, how he enjoyed their sparring sessions. Even without armor, save for his bracers and the chainmail under his tunic, bearing a weapon in each hand rather than a shield, he felt invigorated.
Mayhap it was the mirror they were to him, in just this one regard. The fierce joy shining on their faces as they came at him or backed away. They were, after all, men who lived and died by combat. Whether it be war or quests or the drudgery of duty, Vri could come for them at any time, and generally not peacefully. Kasoria chuckled at the notion and started circling again. Moving to Sir Fredrik's right, his sword-side. The old stoat wouldn't let him get around far enough ti flank him, but maybe...
"Whenever y'wanna take a break, lemme know."
"Oh, I wouldn't want to trouble you."
Kasoria grinned and flourished the gladius in his right hand, then the ax in his left. Tendons of muscle pulsed and strained beautifully under his tunic. Them, his boots, and his breeches were all he wore, and he was already sweating. Fredrik was laboring under mail, greaves, gauntlets, breastplate, and carrying that shield and a heavier sword. He could see the ruddy red face under his helmet, and could only imagine the sweat pool in his boots.
Don't just assume the old sod will keel over. Not yet.
"Sure yeh would'nae want some ice water? Cool, clear, water?"
"Get ye behind m-"
Fast as fear, straight as sunlight, Kasoria dashed in close. A weird, loping, zigzagging run that bounced him from side to side and his ax hacked out to smash against the shield-
-as his gladius came up to block the counter blow from the longsword, but already his ax is backhanded towards the shield again. Dividing his focus is difficult: half a mind on the gladius, half on the ax, with his body following orders split down the middle. But he manages it. He has to. Fredrik has been practicing with shield and sword since he was working out how to tug his cock. Every movement is smooth, economical, precise, belying his age and exhaustion-
-like when he breaks the block and thrusts for Kasoria's stomach-
-just as Kasoria's backhand knocks his shield to the side, exposing his torso, only now he has to back up, escaping from that thrust-
Only he doesn't. You make an opening, you have to risk getting bloody yourself. So instead of backing up Kasoria twists and spins the gladius in front of him, a half-moon sweep that knocks the longsword off-target, giving Kasoria a blink of a window. Shield to the left, sword to the right, leaving-
THUNK
"Ooof!"
The little man's boot lashed out and nailed the knight in the chest. Not the stomach; the chest. Little sod was limber enough to get up that high, too. Usually Fredrik would have just staggered a few steps before recovering. In battle, with the heady, coppery-acid taste of death-or-victory rushing through him, he probably could have done the same. But the Etzori had been draining him for half a break, now. Sapping his energy, working his defense, finding his weaknesses. Now his legs were wobbly and his balance shot. The sellsword didn't want to knock the wind out of him with a belly shot. He wanted to knock him over, ruin his already-shoddy balance, put him on his back like a shiny turtle. And, as expected, the Knight went tottering and his armor pulled him the rest of the way-
CLANG
The Knight went onto his back like an anvil falling. The impact was enough to rattle half the bones in his body. Kasoria was on him like a hungry dog, not even letting him settle before his ax lashed out again, knocking the longsword from his hand and before he could bring up his shield-
-that black-metal gladius was leveled at his throat. Above it, Kasoria was grinning like a drunk, like a powder-monkey, like a man who'd either been killing or fucking for an hour. Yet there was still control behind those all-black eyes. An artist's grace and a workman's appreciation. The gladius lowered after a few trills. He didn't need to ask for the older man to yield; they both knew how it would have gone in battle. Instead, he sheathed the sword and extended his hand. Seemed to struggle to get the Knight to his feet.
"Again?"
"Bugger that," Sirk Fredrik growled without rancor. "Grab a couple of the squires, you bloody animal."
