"Fill me with henchmen, Achu! Delay our meeting as long as you can! Sooner or later it will be your turn to compare your worth with me, if you have any worth!" He roars for every head to hear his declaration of conquest.
Terror built on fear is like a vase from an ancient Chinese dynasty, exquisite to the one who has it, but fragile to the first long-toothed mischief-maker. Chester has very long teeth... Will the warlord risk being portrayed as a weakling and a pissy buttocks? Chester gambles that he won't. Achu had the option of ordering the slavers with rifles, to open fire. In such a situation, the nobleman relied on the speed of his legs to get out of firing range (He still lacked sufficient fencing mastery to cut the bullets). So far his plan is going well.
With a smile inviting conflict, the Lancasterian turns to his opponents, finding himself instead beaten and gutted stiffs.
"What the fuck?"
Surprise gives way to alertness. A man is left standing in the garden of corpses. From the wide neck of the inquisitor hangs a chain with a gold cross and another with a plaque of the Virgin Mary, sliding over a succession of muscles swollen by a training that would kill most men. Above those trunk-like legs, those bloodthirsty hands, and beyond the dark veil dwell small eyes, devoid of malice. Chester laughs.
"Of all the possible adversaries, you touched me. Are you encouraged? I'm encouraged!"
The inquisitor steps forward and pounces like a train. Chester must have been surprised that something so big was this fast, but he gained experience dealing with the predators of the wilderness, which mix speed with great size.
Chester waits until the inquisitor is three paces away, slashes from his waist to its neck. He seeks a quick, painless decapitation. Ricote catches the blade between his thick fingers, pressing the barren ones against the flat of it and stopping it in its tracks.
"What-?!" The exclamation stalls as a punch sinks his Adam's apple.
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Chester squawks, choked by his own throat, and with the whites of his eyes reddening, he sees another blow coming, knocking his head to one side and blowing off his visor. A knee to his solar plexus curls him up and knocks several strands of saliva out of him.
The Lanacaster recoils with one hand on his torso and the other keeping a shaky grip on his sword. He regulates his breath, raises his face, and an iron-hard palm lunges at his nose. He tastes metal in his mouth and notices something hot rushing from his nostrils. The world spins around. His back scrapes against the warm sand.
It takes him a while to open his eyes. He sees the blue sky, and he also hears a cheer. But even the shout of a thousand euphoric slavers is muffled by the drum that is his heart in those moments of danger.
...
Achú smiles, leans his body on the back of the throne, and crosses his legs. At first, for reasons beyond his immediate understanding, he was worried. But now at the sight of the loudmouth being beaten, confidence returned to his body.
He turns his face to Shura assuming she is just as pleased, but instead finds her still in shock, crestfallen, hands balled into trembling fists on her thighs. Did the Lancaster's bravado affect her that much? Achú does not understand.
The slave chief returns his attention to the battlefield. His heart cries out: (Destroy him, hooded one! Earn your freedom, and free me from my sister!)
...
Erika thinks: (Looks bad)
Chester is still lying there, stunned by the series of blows from the inquisitor. There was no doubt, that man with a body turned into a Christ is a servant of the New Vatican. Tough guys, without fear or tragic conscience, because beyond the pulse in their blood, they were warriors who they said had earned heaven.
(Chester is a great warrior, but that man is undoubtedly better. No surprise or disparagement, it's logical knowing that the idiot is a pilot.... Without his armor, just like me, it's like he's missing an arm or a leg)
Having the enemy down as Ricote has him, she would have taken the opportunity to jump and smash Chester's head right there in the sand. But the inquisitor waits taciturnly for the Lancasterian to rejoin.
(A man of honor... It would even be poetic if he ended up killing Chester. Better him, than me, or that traumatized Achu)
She spies the princess and finds her eyes twitching, pale, trembling. It is the look of a woman who sees her beloved being hurt. Nadjela, in her evident despair, clenches her necklace with both hands and closes her eyes to pray.
(Darling, if you only knew.... Chester has God against him. But you go on... Pray perhaps it will give you the strength to endure this blood's circus)