The Lady Penitent

XVIII. Vade

Holland had fought many people over the course of her long life. She knew how to watch people, how to anticipate moves, and how to immediately get a sense for what damage someone could both give and take. But more than that, she knew how important every movement was and how a fraction of an inch could make or break someone. She had flirted with disaster and kissed death more than once. Maybe that was what made her admire what the orc was doing so much—Khagra was a pleasure to watch in action.

The axe split the air where Khagra's head had been a fraction of a second ago, the orc rolling out of the hit in one smooth movement that brought her spearbutt cracking into the dwarf's helm. For all the brutish reputation of orcs, the dragon-rider had excellent balance and distance sense. She was not a creature who rushed into the thick of combat. She circled like a wolf and probed her enemy's defenses with a definite cunning calculation to every attack. She was maneuvering the armored dwarf for something amongst the shouts of his people, weaving patterns in the air with the tip of her spear. There was a certain serpentine grace to the orc. She moved like an adder, coiled and fluid as she prepared her strike.

Granted, she was a little less graceful with that wound to her side, but the orc had taken it like a champion. The axe hadn't bit deep enough to kill, from what Holland could see. From the way Ardashir had grimaced, the penitent might have thought he was the one who'd been hit. Now, Khagra was ignoring the blood staining her armor and the lightheadedness that had to be plaguing her, focused precision still ruling her every action as Olon swung at her again and again. She wasn't exactly losing ground, as she always went in angles from the strike rather than straight backwards. Constantly moving off line made her harder to counterattack at.

Vladan was, fortunately, keeping his peace. He seemed to know better than to distract the orc with stakes like this.

Holland watched Khagra watch Olon, reading the future in the lines of the orc's face. The penitent was relatively certain that her friend had a plan. Khagra seemed oddly calm, considering the racket the dwarves were making as they watched and the bellows Olon was letting out.

Step, swing. Step, step, swing. Swing, step. Swing step, step. The rhythm was forming. Then, it happened. Just as Olon made his swing, Khagra abruptly broke the tempo. She lunged inside of his reach rather than recoiling back. The haft of the axe slammed into her side, but the head mercifully missed—if Holland had to guess, she would have said that the orc had been trying to judge the distance since the fight started, with pitch perfect accuracy. A painful blow, but far from a lethal one. Khagra drove her spear not through his shoulder, where he had been expecting it and had turned to take the blow, but through his knee. The dwarven tip punched through the poleyn that protected the joint, breaking bone and severing vessels as it passed through. Olon let out a cry and fell.

Khagra ripped the spear out and bashed his helmet with the butt of her spear for good measure, then kicked his weapon aside.

"Finish him!" Vladan bellowed with enthusiasm.

The orc definitely seemed to be considering it, watching the dwarf on the ground bleed with that same calm severity.

"Khagra, the wound is avenged," Ardashir called to her. "Honor is satisfied. You won. Taafr Thir is Forge-Tender. There is no need to kill him."

Holland saw her friend glance up at the hooded knight and mutter something under her breath, probably in Orcish. The penitent was tense now, just like the dwarves watching. Whatever Khagra decided to do, it would set the tone.

Khagra stabbed down, breaking the rest of the poleyn off of his armor. Then she tossed her spear to the side and crouched, reaching into the wound. The dwarf cried out and struggled as she did...something. "Shut up, vok," she snapped irritably. "I'm healing your miserable carcass. Ardashir, bag!"