Most fans of the fantasy-historical view of the Middle Ages and Renaissance have one problem in common: they don't realize that violence was a constant of life at that time. For a nobleman (and not only), death from an overabundance of iron in the body was an occupational hazard that began with the first steps and continued right up to the funeral service (often in the absence of the body). It was so natural that it was not even thought about and certainly not lamented. Barons and counts (as well as churchmen of all kinds from abbots to cardinals) moved at least accompanied by a dozen or two armed servants, not out of noble pride, but out of a banal desire to live. After all, a blow could be struck suddenly and from any direction. The number of meetings, negotiations, as well as simply road crossings that ended with the removal of bodies, can not be counted. Calm times differed from turbulent times only in the total number of incidents and the reaction of the central authorities to them.

Kirill Kopylov

All the characters were on complicated faces, had harsh fates (or rather, fate had them), difficult pasts and dangerous futures

Ivan Koshkin

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Prologue

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"They're scum, but they're not stupid."

With those words, Ranjan put his hands on Elena's waist. The gesture looked intimate, almost like a prelude to a kiss, but the Brether only "settled" the belt lower on her hips.

"Nothing should be dangling," Ranjan admonished and continued his interrupted thought. "They don't believe a woman can challenge them and win, but if it happens they will be careful. And they'll put the weakest first. If he kills you, no one's honor will be damaged. If the opposite happens, his example will serve the rest of the group well."

"Is that good?" Elena asked.

"It's not good or bad. These are happenings, they just are. On the one hand, it's good to increase your efforts, to go from weak to strong. On the other hand, the battles will wear you down, you'll approach the strongest opponent tired. Probably wounded."

"You have faith in me," the woman remarked softly and answered the Brether's mute question. "You have confidence that I will cross swords with all of them."

Ranjan remained silent. He took Elena's blade, the woman raised an eyebrow in puzzlement, and the Brether placed a large bundle of sturdy cloth wrapped with a strong cord on the table. The bundle seemed heavy, and the metal rattled against the boards, dark with time and dampness.

"A gift," Ranjan reported, setting aside Elena's krigmesser. "From ..."

He didn't finish, and it was clear who was being generous. The woman quickly untangled the cords. The light-colored cloth held a straight, double-edged sword and a dagger with a powerful, well-developed hilt and a shell-shaped side cup—valuable things of good workmanship, a fortune, life, and death forged in steel.

Meanwhile, the herald behind the thick grille was blasting away, describing the essence of the conflict in a highly artistic form. The noise of the crowd penetrated through the stone and wood, echoing in my bones and nerves. It filled the soul with anticipation. Judging by the murmur, like the sound of the surf in a storm, there was a goodly number of people. Somebody whistled shrilly, and vendors of sweet cane and honey grains shrieked, hurrying to sell their goods before the action began. Trumpets and flutes accompanied the herald's words, emphasizing important points. Through the background of the music there were individual "dishonorable person of dubious qualities...", "despising the law..." and other circumstances of the case. Elena didn't listen, concentrating on the gift.

"Good steel, properly balanced," Ranjan approved, raising the sword on the edge of his palm. "Still, check to see if it's a good idea to change weapons before a fight."

Elena took the blade, waved it a couple of times, and answered:

"It's just right."

"You know best," Brether frowned, but didn't argue. A fighter knows best what he's more comfortable with in a fight to the death.

Elena tried on the dagger as it would be on her belt from behind, under her left arm. It was uncomfortable, the cup was in the way. Then the woman slipped it into her left boot, but it was even worse, the heavy garde wobbled from side to side, despite the tight shank. She had to go back to the first option, and Ranjan helped tighten the straps, hooking the scabbard to the wide belt. Elena hung a small trapezoidal targu shield on the left side by a special hook. The second dagger, smaller and simpler, fit into her right boot as if it had been fitted.

"Just a moment... I almost forgot," the woman stuck a long, polished silver barrette into her hair. A dubious, borderline contemptuous concession to public opinion, which condemned the uncovered head.

Ranjan lifted and wanted to lace up the high-creased collar of her shirt.

"Leave it," the woman shook her head.

"Can protect your throat from being cut," Ranjan reminded her.

"To hell with it," the swordswoman laconically cut off.

"Whatever you say," Ranjan shrugged.

Elena glared at him, thinking that some true values in the world were timeless. No matter what happened, the Brether would always be stylish and sinister, long-haired, dressed in black, and generally looking like a decadent vampire or a tragic musketeer.

Ranjan, nicknamed the Plague, the greatest Brether of his generation, is helping her get ready for the fight like his own daughter. He seems genuinely worried, though who knows what he's really feeling beneath the mask of a dapperly trimmed mustache and wedge beard.

"The dagger," said the Brether. "Save it for last."

"What?"

"Barbaza is good, very good," the man explained patiently. "He's not a Brether, but he learned from Brethers. If you get into a fight with him, it won't be easy."

Thanks for the if. the woman wanted to say caustically but held back.

"He's used to fighting against sword or sword and shield, large and small. But your new style... Unusual. Unexpected. From the outside, it will look like you're exhausted, no longer able to hold your shield and grasping at straws. Use it."

"Thank you."

Elena looked into Brether's black impenetrable eyes that looked like polished obsidian

"Do you think he's in there?" she suddenly asked. "Is he looking at... his science?"

"Maybe. He doesn't need to sit on the podium to know," Ranjan replied very seriously.

"Yes, indeed," the woman sighed. "I hope Artigo doesn't see it."

"The crowned bastard will bring the boy to the podium," Brether rumbled, glancing around to see if anyone was listening. Elena regretted stepping on a sore thumb.

Trumpets howled behind the bars, indicating that the time had come. Elena swallowed and placed her hand on the shield, feeling the familiar heaviness and sharp angle of the bronze edging. The sword in her right hand seemed huge and weighty, like a two-handed poleaxe axe. Fighting and possibly - very possibly! - she didn't want to die. To the point of trembling in her arms and legs.

When you leave, leave, she remembered her grandfather's words and took a decisive step toward the bars. The watchman rattled his keys on the other side, preparing to open the way for the duelist.

"Stop," Ranjan placed a broad gloved palm on her shoulder, as heavy and hard as the hand of a copper statue.

"Don't take your little finger off the hilt," Brether reminded me. "You do tend to lose the two-finger turn on the blade. You have to grip the handle tightly."

"Yes, I'll remember," Elena promised.

They froze for a moment, standing side by side.

"Don't think, don't wait, don't be afraid," Brether said, looking away. "Just go and kill them. Kill them all."

Elena nodded silently and took a step, stepping out from under the vaults of the stone podium, into the rays of the setting sun.

Normally arenas were round, generously filled with fine sand, but this one was rectangular, rather square, and paved with smooth stone. Apparently, it was more often used for theatrical performances than fighting on ringing steel. Elena would estimate the length of the sides at fifteen meters, which was good enough for maneuvers. The tribunes rose in three tiers, just like in the circus, the first floor was stone, then wood, under awnings to protect from the sun. Now the awnings were removed, so as not to disturb the public with shadows.

Traditionally, the duels of the god's judgment happened in the evening, at sunset, when the sun had already touched the horizon and the moon was just rising into the silver sky. Elena turned on her toes, assessing whether the rays of the heavenly lights were hitting her eyes. No, they didn't, which was good; she didn't have to make adjustments in her maneuvers to see who was going to turn around to face the sun.

The trumpet howled again. Time dragged on never-ending, like honey by the spoonful. Focused on her impending death, Elena perceived the world around her in fragments, like reflections in shards of a mirror. Here is the royal box under the standard of the Sunset South and yes, of course, young Artigo Gotdua sits at the right hand of the Tetrarch King. The boy is well groomed, combed, dressed in a dapper caftan with exquisite gold embroidery and, it seems, even smeared with some cosmetics, but in his eyes, there is still horror, which, apparently, cannot be melted by any love. Because of the wide white collar, it seemed to Elena for a moment that the boy's head had been cut off and was lying on a platter. The woman shuddered.

The faces, the vile faces of the Southern nobility. Luxury, jewelry, and clothes whose value is measured only in gold. Powder, wigs, net caps with pearl threads, high hats embroidered with the symbols of the Southwestern Court - a white ring on a red background. The third tier was given to the lower classes, and on the sides and ornamental towers sat the "shouters" who described in great detail what was happening to the crowd outside the arena. Just like sports commentators. Elena had heard somewhere that a good "shouter" was valued almost more than a minstrel because everyone could sing a song, but to recount in real time a production of a visiting theater or a wrestling match, so that the listener could see it for himself, required skill.

Her gaze stumbled over a familiar face, and Helena missed a heartbeat. What she hadn't expected to see here was the high-born lovari Dessol ausf Lekueye-Argreff. She wonder who allowed a pregnant noblewoman to see a bloody spectacle...? Baroness Argreff resembled Liv Tyler from the time of "Lord of the Rings", only her face was a little wider and swollen due to heavy pregnancy, however, the noble features were hidden under a layer of powder. Her long, heavy hair was tucked into an elaborate style, pierced by dozens of silver hairpins, the same as Elena's only jewelry. Dessol seemed a concentration of cold, arrogant detachment. Only her lace-gloved hands clenched the fan like a spear shaft, betraying the storm of emotion behind the powdered facade. With a great effort of will Elena refused the hooligan desire to wink at the baroness in the good style of dirty cabaret jokes, like, wait for the midnight hour...

The nobility contemplated in silence, the simpler folk made noise and moderately threw apple slices. A trumpet blew. Now Elena finally looked at her opponents, nicknamed the Four-Headed B. Barbaza, the ringleader. Barbro, the second face of the company. Barca, the main "fists". And Battesti, the youngest - dumb and handsome. They all look like brothers - swarthy, hair cut with a knightly ponce and glossy with oil. They are dressed expensively and tastelessly, like mercenaries who want to pass for gendarmes, partly even succeeding, but still, not according to their income. They are not bandits in their purest form, not brethren, not soldiers of fortune, not ruthiers or assassins, but all at once, according to circumstances and profit, under cover of the thin, but still the coat of arms of the beggarly aristocracy. The four were gathered around a small table, seemingly taken from some decent hall, and their weapons gleamed picturesquely and dimly on the tabletop.

The matter had been stated by the Herald. But everyone knew what the Four-Headed One and a strange-looking maiden or woman had disagreed about. The summons and the reason for it became the event of the week, and it was discussed all over the county, far beyond the walls of Pite Sockhailhay, the "Wonderful City," from peasant houses to mirror palaces.

Elena took a few steps, feeling Ranjan's gaze behind her back. She wondered what the Brether would do if his companion's body lay in a bloody puddle on the gray stone of the arena. Рe would do something, for sure, but she wouldn't care anymore. Mercy is not supposed to be practiced in a God's fight, moreover, it is directly condemned, because the superiority of one fighter over another is the revealed will of the Lord, and it is foolish and dangerous to go against it.

The steward suggested that the parties should come to their senses, reconcile, and not anger the Pantocrator, for where two people argue, at least one is wrong. And the sin in which they persist under the gaze of our Lord is weighted three times as much as usual.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

The Four-headed One reacted in a peculiar way, according to its predilections and position in the gang. Battesti made a lewd gesture and promised to fuck the whore right in the ass for the public's amusement. The screamers dutifully retold the promise to all sides of the world, causing a stir outside the walls. Barca promised to stab the fool without pain, God's way. Barbro spat savagely and silently, curving his rather handsome, thoroughbred face. He resembled Ranjan in some ways, apparently from the same region, only Brether was lighter-skinned.

Barbaza, when his turn came, showed himself, as befits the leader of a cunning and successful gang, which makes money from blood, but successfully maneuvers between the laws, avoiding the executioner's axe. He made a short but heartfelt speech in which he advised the foolish woman to come to her senses, not to anger God, and to do something more appropriate to her gender. The Southern bandit's speech was good, without slang, almost like a lawyer's or a reciter's. Now not only were the masses shouting approvingly, but also the relatively respectable third tier, where the shop masters, merchants, and other cream of society without noble chains sat.

Elena turned her head to the right, then to the left, stretching her neck and trapezius muscles. The woman had, of course, carefully stretched every ligament before the fight, but the adrenaline boiling in her blood demanded action. Out of the corner of her eye, Elena caught sight of the Baroness again. Dessol's face was so pale that it seemed to show through the plaster layer of powder.

The crowd's attention focused on the duelist, coming her way to say a word before the fight or to cancel it. Elena raised her head and listened to the silence. Everyone was waiting for what the woman who had lost her mind would say, or rather in what expressions she would be humorously dodging in her unwillingness to die under the swords. Elena turned to the podium under the red-and-white standard, and intercepted the hilt correctly, two fingers over the crosshairs. The sword lay perfectly in her hand, a worthy product of a good blacksmith, light, double-edged, with protective rings and a guard in the form of a slightly curved S. Elena clearly, as in practice, performed a salute towards the royal box, indicated a bow, turned to the Four-Headed One and paused. Everyone was quiet now, the tension seemed to vibrate, making the air waver as if in a fierce heat.

Elena smiled slightly, showing a superiority she didn't really feel. She imagined what she looked like from the outside: a young woman, tall, very fit - the result of a healthy lifestyle, moderate diet, and daily workouts. Black tight pants without a codpiece, similar to riding breeches. Knee-high boots with soft soles and low heels. White - though, given the specifics of local washing, it would be correct to call it light gray - shirt with loose sleeves without slits, with normal buttons instead of laces and other nonsense. Black elbow gloves of thick leather with extra padding. And red hair cut just below the ears. Nice, flashy, provocative. Well, if you're going to spit in the public's collective face, you'd better do it spectacularly.

"You have violated the laws of God and man," she said, noting the excellent acoustics of the arena. The screamers echoed her words with minimal delay, spreading them around the neighborhood.

"I will kill you. And unfortunately, I can only do it once."

The lot had been cast, and the bridges burned. Now, even if the woman wanted to retreat, it was impossible; the challenge had become a test of God's judgment, in which at least one dead man must end up.

"Let there be silence!" proclaimed the Tetrarch. "This is not fun. It's not a young man's game! This is the judgment of God! Whoever desecrates it with his voice will be hanged without delay!"

And there was silence. Not at once, slowly, besides, the screamers enjoyed the long-standing privilege of describing what was happening, it was considered as if they were outside the field. Elena listened to nothing, however, focusing on her opponent. Battesti was already rushing towards her, swinging a heavy cleaver. He obviously expected to finish the fight as quickly as possible, sweeping away the lighter and skinnier opponent. The guy was understandable, going up against a woman in front of the cream of society was humiliating, to put it bluntly.

Elena stepped toward him with a perfectly upright body, putting her left arm behind her back, elbow pressed to her side with her right, armed one. Behind his younger colleague, Barca yelled and spat, but the older twosome conversely remained silent, squinting intently. Just as Ranjan had predicted, their self-assurance was not turning into stupidity. A woman throwing down a challenge to an experienced gang of seasoned scoundrels? Funny. Ridiculous. But also curious, a reason to be cautious.

Battesti struck with all his might, and the duelist took a light step away from the enemy's blade and immediately swung back, closer to her opponent. She entered her opponent's Circle of Death, gliding on her strong legs like a water viper on water, easily, with graceful grace. Elena marked a jab to the face, Battesti closed rather quickly and skillfully with the messer, putting the blade upright, The woman took another step and firmly grabbed her opponent's right arm. She saw very close the eyes of her opponent, dilated, incomprehensible, full of boundless astonishment, first of all from the sensation that instead of soft, weak female fingers on his wrist there were steel handcuffs.

Fools and fairground wrestlers grab at the clothes. You can understand them, it's easier that way. But for us, wrestling is not an amusement or a tavern brawl, but a prelude to murder. That's why any grab is always aimed only at the meat. Grab the enemy as if your fingers were pincers and you want to tear a piece of his flesh with them. Then, even if you can't make a throw or a grapple, you will at least punish the enemy with pain.

Battesti lost a moment trying to free his arm, and that was enough. Elena jabbed sideways and placidly, between the ribs, and instantly bounced out of range of the enemy messer, keeping the rest of the B's out of sight.

At first, few realized what had happened, and those who did kept their feelings to themselves. Battesti recoiled, crossing the air with his curved blade, desperately wheezing curses. Barbaza leaned forward, a wry smile immediately leaving his swarthy face. Elena took a few steps left and right, moving along an imaginary arc beyond the messer's point.

There was a loud slamming of leather against leather. Elena knew without even turning around that Ranjan was applauding sparingly, keeping his gloves on, staying in the shadows, next to the ajar door. Battesti looked back at the black brether perplexedly, opened his mouth to say something else, and then felt fully aware that he was clearly not all right. The young assassin threw a glance in the direction of his comrades, moving his lips with an expression of growing bewilderment on his cheekbone face. Then he touched the small slit in his lace shirt, rubbing his red-stained fingers together in bewilderment.

"Oh," he said with a sort of childish surprise, feeling the hilt of the messer getting heavier in his unruly hand.

Elena attacked again like a ghost, staring unblinking, like a snake on the lunge. A blow, a chop, and then a swift thrust of the blade, slicing Battesti's face aslant. It wasn't very sensible, and Ranjan had warned that such tricks were bad for the blade - the teeth were too hard. But Elena wanted the creature to suffer, if only briefly.

And shuttle back again, because even a dying hand can kill.

"Avava-baa..." Battesti whispered, moving his blue lips, crossed by a deep cut. It was as if he still hadn't realized what was happening. And then the kriegmesser fell, clanking audibly against the rocks. The mortally wounded fighter screamed and flailed his arms as if he couldn't decide whether to clamp the wound between his ribs or cover his face. The howl of hopeless despair did not end until Elena had cut Battesti's throat down to the spine.

She took a practiced breath and walked, swinging her blade as if it were a reed, feeling light as a bird in flight. So much so she had to repeat to herself several times that nothing was over yet, that this was only the very beginning of the most difficult fight. Killing a young degenerate by taking advantage of his self-confidence is no feat, no merit. It is just a murder, and to leave the arena, there are three more to be committed, one more difficult than the other.

In the movies, people with their throats slit die quickly and beautifully, except for a slight groan. Buttesti's death was real, that is, long and gruesome. The air whistled out of his cut-throat, and his large body convulsed, rolling from side to side, unable to turn over. And there was so much blood as if a pig had been slaughtered, slaughtered according to all the rules, hung on a hook to drain the liquid without residue for sausage and "roast". Elena noted that now it was a slippery place and she should be careful.

The third person she had killed in her life. And the first one Hel had put down like a true swordsman, with a sharp blade, one on one.

The tribunes were silent. The steward looked back at the royal box, shrugged his shoulders in confusion, and exchanged glances with the exarch. According to tradition, "The Pantocrator has seen" should have been proclaimed, and the minister of the church should have replied, "The Judge of all judges is measured!" and then the duel was officially over. But for the first time, it was so that one challenged several, and the trial developed as a chain of duels. Baroness Argreff did break the fan, the click of the thin slats cracking deafeningly in the silence that engulfed the stands. The shouters screamed, describing what had happened, the descriptions rolled through the crowd outside the fence, growing in detail, and now the red-haired girl had already torn the young man's head off with her unarmed hands, sucking blood greedily from the stump.

When it became clear that there was no miracle, and Battesti was irrevocably dead, Barca stepped to the center of the arena, ducking, stretching out his arms. Elena scrutinized her second opponent's armament - a fist shield and a narrow, faceted blade on a saber hilt with a broad "mustache" of a guard. Such weapons were often used by knights, who, due to poverty, could not afford a real "puncher" with a hilt in one and a half hands. And assassins acting in a group. It is very convenient against chain mail and lightweight "city" brigandines.

This was another matter, the duelist's mannerisms and choice of ammunition indicated a man of understanding and experience. You can't expect an easy victory here.

The woman walked to the edge of the crimson puddle left by the dead man. She removed the targa from her belt, slipping her palm into the loop of thick, hard leather, her thumb resting on the "tab" of the stop. Barca stopped at the other end of the puddle, looking intently into the redhead's eyes. The fighter looked like a bear, short, perhaps a couple of heads shorter than his opponent, but stocky and broad. He was slow to run, but light on his swift rushes. He held his sword and buckler with skill and ease. His blade was always in motion as if cutting off an invisible fringe from a round shield.

Elena raised the targa higher, looking at her opponent over the wavy edge, and pressed the elbow of her right hand to her side again, saving her strength. She wasn't going to start, offering her opponent the chance to prove himself, to make the first move and, preferably, the first blunder. Barca accepted the challenge and made the move, nearly killing the woman with the first blow.

He stepped into the bloody puddle, the metal horseshoes of his boots clattering against the wet stone, and then struck from above, "from the wrist," his blade clinking against the bronze rim of the targa. And then immediately continued forward, translating the blow into a jab, aiming for the woman's face. Such a trick wouldn't have worked with a round shield, but the targa almost killed the mistress - the curve of the upper edge worked as a guide, preventing the blade from being thrown aside. Elena saved herself only by jumping backwards, but too slowly, getting the very end of the faceted point in her left cheekbone.

The woman ran unashamedly breaking the distance. Barca tried to catch up, but the woman was "shuttling", making quick lunges, changing direction. "B" number two was exhausted and went further by step, trying to corner the opponent. Elena licked the blood running down her cheek into the corner of her mouth. It hurt a lot, and the calculations of germs that had gathered on the tip of the armor-piercing awl rushed into her head. It would leave a scar, even if it wasn't the same as the witcher's. But most of all, she resented her own crookedness because the swordswoman was well aware of the targa's peculiar profile.

//That brute is so fast...

Barca was on the offensive, clearly trying to take full advantage of the bonus of a successful opening. The duelist struck again, and struck very well, with a complex, lightning-fast combination. First, a stabbing blow to the stomach, which Elena stopped with a targa, then an immediate jab from the top down over the shield to the forehead. And as Elena raised the targa higher, the jab turned into a zigzag motion, passing under the shield. Again, the woman was saved only by her speed coupled with her well-practiced culture of movement, the proverbial Steps, the science of Draftsman. Elena bent in an unthinkable way and let the deadly lunge pass by, turned the bend into a fall, saving herself from the buckler's blow, rolled over her shoulder, almost breaking her lower back with the dagger's hilt sticking out. Again she ran closer to the center of the arena. Barca stomped behind her, hissing curses and noisily gulping air with his wet mouth.

The broad dwarf had to be finished quickly. Before he wore her down. And even if he did, he was only the second of four, and the skill of his opponents increased with each round. Elena jumped over the puddle and dropped to a knee, resting like a boxer being counted off by the referee. Barca caught up with her and sprinted like a boar. Elena clenched her teeth and counterattacked, "spinning" the movement in accordance with the late Draftsman's precepts, from the bones outward.

A light double-edged sword fell diagonally from right to left, striking the inside of the duelist's thigh. The blow was classic, written in all the fencing manuals of Ecumene, as detailed as the defense against it. Elena had counted on this, that is, on the pattern learned by thousands of repetitions. Enraged by the first successes and the first blood, feeling the weakness of the opponent Barca did not recognize the ruse and reacted like a good swordsman, diligently studying the science of combat. That is to say, he parried it, bringing the blade of his semi-koncerz down low in a clash of clashing metal. Then, according to the canon, followed a retaliatory blow to the shin or knee of the duelist, very convenient from such a position, even with an armor-piercing sword without a well-defined blade. And add a buckler to the head. Then there is only a technical finishing of the opponent, who has at least a strong contusion of the leg, most likely a broken joint, as well as a fracture of facial bones with knocked-out teeth.

Barca moved like a well-oiled machine in which all the wheels were carefully fitted together. The motion of one best matches the rotation of the others. But the pattern of the perfect combination broke because Elena threw forward both hands at one step with a split-second pause first her sword, then her shield. Barca stopped the duelist's sword and at the moment when he should have converted the parry into a counterstrike, Elena blocked his armed arm with a targa precisely catching his forearm with the undulating curve of the shield. The swordswoman spat into the bearded face, winning another heartbeat from her opponent, who hadn't expected the vulgar street brawl technique from a common broad. The woman then took a quick step backward, simultaneously raising her sword and drawing the end of the double-edged blade across her opponent's groin. Barca bent down with a shrill cry, instinctively closing in, and Elena, continuing to gain momentum, finished the swift exchange with a powerful jab to the knee. She was aiming for the kneecap, but it seemed to hit the center of the rounded knuckle, but it was good enough.

Run away again, steadying her breathing, waiting for the heart-pounding behind her ribs to calm down a little. Sweat dripped down her face, mingling with the blood, and burning the wound under her eye, which was already sore. Barca finally lost his temper, yelling and cursing, refusing to realize that he was already dead, though he was still moving. He shrieked, pounding his sword against the buckler and urging the nasty broad to fight as he should. But his movements had slowed, lost their deadly precision, and his stockings were rapidly and the fighter could not walk at all, only hopping on his healthy leg, tucking the injured one. Elena grinned like a hyena as she circled beyond Barca's reach, the silver light of the rising moon reflected deadly in the red-haired woman's dark eyes. Barbaza and Barbro glanced over, heads bowed, discussing something. It was as if they'd forgotten about their comrade-in-arms, Barca was already dead and written off, and the living needed advice on how to drive the mad wench to the grave.

Elena glanced at the remaining half of the Four-Headed. Two more, for God's sake, and they were fighters of a different level, and she was already exhausted and wounded, even if lightly. And twice - in different ways - the trump card technique of blocking the opponent's armed arm had been used she'd have to find something new.

The woman swallowed, feeling the drying thirst, and gripped the belt loop of her shield tighter.

"You will not die easily," she promised Barka quietly, knowing the words would be lost in the noise, and would not even reach the front rows, remaining the exclusive domain of only two.

The dwarf howled frantically, dropping wisps of foam between his teeth. He hopped on one leg again, trying to jump to the swordswoman.

"I'll pierce your bladder," the woman said softly, easily keeping her distance, waiting for her opponent to tire out her healthy leg, completely losing mobility.

Barca howled, rapidly turning pale from blood loss, the screamers broadcast, realizing that their finest hour had come. The storytellers didn't even have to work up a sweat. Stiff aristocrats, noble ladies, the third class - all those who filled the stands, silently stared at the square arena, like a single thousand-eyed creature. The fight went on in an incredible, almost sepulchral silence.

That's four dead on the count, or rather three and a half.

"I'll kill you all," Elena said, sneaking up on Barca, shield out. The tip of the sword jerked like a wasp sting, aiming for the dwarf's stomach.

"All."

* * *