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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Lazybones" data-source="post: 4761647" data-attributes="member: 143">Chapter 25With two potential allies bleeding out their lives at her feet, surrounded by deadly foes, Mara found herself in a truly grim situation.  When surrounded by multiple foes, came her uncle’s voice, rising unbidden to her thoughts, Don’t wait for them to coordinate their attack.  Take the fight to them!The words were like a command, and she surged forward, toward the nearer of the two bandits.  The man, caught by surprise, tried to fall back, but Mara’s longer sword batted away his mace, while the shorter tore through the light armor he wore as though it was old cloth.  The bandit sagged like a punctured wineskin, and fell back, clutching at his side where a plume of crimson spread.Mara pivoted and brought her sword up just in time to deflect another thrust from that deadly spear.  The spearhead jerked out and came in again, so quick that it was only instinct that brought her short sword up in time to slide it away.  The second bandit came in to deliver another blow to her flank while she was thus engaged, but even as she tensed to absorb the hit, the man jerked aside, stumbling over the limp form of the dragonborn warlord, an arrow protruding from his back.  He too tried to win free, but even as he untangled his feet from Vhael’s sprawled limbs, another arrow buried itself to the fletchings in his neck, and he collapsed.  The warchief came on in earnest, now, his spearhead dancing a dance as beautiful and deadly as the twin arcs of Mara’s swords.  He was incredibly strong, and precise, and she took another hit as she knocked the spear aside again; as the warchief drew his weapon back he twisted it and slide the blade up along the underside of her arm, tearing the leather there and snapping one of the straps holding her greave in place.  She felt a hot lancing stab of pain as the steel edge sliced into muscle, but thankfully it hadn’t cut deep enough to cripple the limb.  The hobgoblin, however, smiled.  “You will be a great pleasure to break,” he said, teasing her with another thrust that she knocked aside with her smaller sword.  As of yet, she hadn’t been able to so much as scratch him in return.  But she was aware that there was a larger battle raging around her.  The Halfmoons, while not fighters, were no pushovers, not in a place like the Labyrinth, where even running an inn was not without its dangers.  Her new companions were all Rendil’s cousins;  Dwallin with his herbs and poultices, the twins Tarra and Torrin, all of them knew their business.  They had a score to settle with the Bloodreavers, and had agreed to sneak out here with her to even the tally.  They knew how to use those slings that they carried, so easily underestimated, and she had spent enough time with the halflings to know that even a small lead pellet could take down a much bigger opponent.  She’d spotted Jaron when she had first rushed into the room, and while there was no sign of Beetle, she had no doubt that he was creeping around somewhere, likely getting into position for a devastating sneak attack.  The Halfmoons were keeping the enemy archers busy, and had helped her whittle down the odds against her.  Even as she battled the hobgoblin chief she sensed the warcaster shift his attention away for a moment, snarling as he plucked an arrow from his sleeve.  “Just you and me,” she said under her breath, dancing the dance with the hobgoblin chief.  Now it was almost like the sparring matches she had fought with her uncle, often for hours, until both of them could barely lift a wooden sparring sword.  He’d tested her on different weapons, clubs big and small, nasty spinning poleaxes, chains and knives.  And spears. The hobgoblin did not let up, and Mara’s swords flashed up, down, left, right, and everywhere in between, keeping that gleaming tip, already slick with her blood, from touching her.  She tried to counterattack, if nothing else to keep the hobgoblin on his guard, but each time she almost got within his reach, the spearhead danced back, forcing her back on the defensive.  Everything around her faded into the background, although a part of her remained attuned to the rest of the battle, in case another threat emerged from around the edges.  But that was distant, vague; within that bubble that surrounded her and the chief, everything was sharp, fast, alive.  She felt her swords like they were extensions of her arms; even the pain that throbbed in her side and arm were something she was aware of only insofar as it slowed her responses.  For the moment, she was a living weapon, moving faster than she ever had, even during those practice sessions, when wooden swords had clacked and spun in a blur. The hobgoblin was her equal, maybe even her better.  He was strong, and fast, and well-protected with armor even heavier than the custom suit of metal scales that she wore.  The spearhead moved as if it was alive, darting in and out like the tongue of a serpent.  She parried it, deflected it, even felt its touch sliding along her armor when she couldn’t fully evade its touch.  The hobgoblin kept attacking, giving her no opening to do anything but defend.  She could have fallen back, used space to allow her to reset her stance and adjust the dynamic, but with the dead and dying scattered upon the floor all around her, she knew that a single false step would mean a quick end. Then, suddenly, everything seemed to slow around her, and in that heightened state of perception that often came to her in moments of intense effort, she saw the hobgoblin shift his hands slightly on the haft of his spear, and knew what was coming.  She almost saw her uncle’s features superimposed on the hobgoblin’s, as he feinted an attack and then drove in a thrust straight for the center of her torso, a blow too strong to parry or deflect.  But she was already moving, stepping into the attack, pivoting her body.  She was barely aware of a faint gust trickling at her chin as the spearhead shot past her, the steel edge scraping on the scales protecting her chest.  And then it was behind her, and she lunged, thrusting her short sword straight forward at the hobgoblin’s heart.  The impact kicked up her arm hard enough to shake her teeth.  The blow dented the chief’s breastplate, but failed to penetrate.  She started to follow up with her longer blade, sweeping it up in an arc that would cut into the hobgoblin’s leading arm, hopefully with enough strength to force him to drop the spear. But the blow never landed.  Instead of trying to recover his weapon, the hobgoblin slammed down the haft with one hand, spinning the spear with the other.  It was just so damned fast… Mara abandoned her attack and tried to dodge, but the butt end of the spear caught her on the side of her head, clipping her helmet just below her left ear.  The helm kept her skull from cracking, but she still found herself falling, landing awkwardly on her side, her short sword clattering out of her grip as she fell on that arm.  She managed to look up in time to see the hobgoblin spin the spear back into a ready grip, holding it there above his head for just an instant before he stabbed the deadly head back down to finish her.</blockquote>

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