Chapter Fifty-One: Wounds

Honeyfield didn’t grin or gloat. He didn’t grimace or snarl. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a month, and wanted to go to bed. He simply stood, looking half asleep, mostly facing Val, waiting for them to make their move.

Val obliged him. Tom felt mana surge in her at the same time that she thrust her sword, quick as a snake. A green lash snapped out at their opponent as well.

Honeyfield’s two daggers appeared in hand again, sleek and black, and he moved to parry. Val denied him the opportunity, feinting, then changing the angle of her attack to thrust at his chest.

Tom took his opportunity while they were engaged, and stabbed his spear into Honeyfield’s leg. Sesame moved forward too, blocking Honeyfield from escaping in his direction, but unable to attack him without potentially injuring Val or Tom. Sometimes, the big bear’s size worked against him.

Tom sent him rapid commands, asking that he stay back, and wait for an opportunity to use his roar, similar to Scorn’s tactics. He doubted the bear’s tough fur and hide would stand up to Honeyfield’s blades.

Val’s sword pierced Honeyfield’s chest just as Tom’s spear took him in the back of his left thigh. He tried to swipe his other dagger at Val’s stomach again, but she was quicker, expecting it this time, and dodged backwards to avoid it by a hair. Tom withdrew slightly as well, wary of his extreme speed and deadly blades.

Honeyfield did laugh then, a quiet wheezing, and he whispered to them with lungs filling with blood.

“I love a good wound, don’t you?”

Then he attacked.

He became a whirlwind, striking at Val almost too fast to see. Val managed to stave off the assault, if only barely. The staccato pinging of metal meeting metal echoed all around.

Tom was slightly stupefied. This was two high-tier Idealists going all out. The sheer speed, the dexterity, the cognition, the strength! going into every blow and counter was incredible.

But Val was losing. Tom could see it. She was passing average with her sword, and had the body tempering that came with her high tier Ideals, and still, she was losing. Slowly, granted, but sooner or later, she would slip.

Honeyfield was faster. He was stronger. He was more agile. He had an entire extra Ideal on Val. Tom wouldn’t be surprised if getting wounded gave him some kind of buff, from the looks of things too. Most importantly, he was better with the sword.

Tom could see Val lagging, see her trying furiously to come up with some way to buy herself space, to actually create an opening to damage him - anything. And she was coming up short.

All this from a few furious seconds of clashing. And then something changed.

Val’s eyes went wide, and Honeyfield grinned wider.

He dropped his daggers. Drop may have been the wrong word. He certainly let go of them. But they didn’t fall.

They hung in the air, right where he left them, and then began to circle Val. His greatsword materialised in his hands again.

Val clenched her jaw, and her eyes went stony. Something in Tom’s gut felt like it had been tipped over a long drop. He knew what that look meant. He had to help.

He moved forward, and stabbed, and found his thrust fouled by one of the flying daggers. It turned on him threateningly, feinting attacks at him. He snapped his spear around in a flourish, striking it on the flat of its blade, and sent it hurtling away into the woods.

The momentary distraction was all Honeyfield needed.

He advanced on Val again, again a tempest. His greatsword was far too heavy to be properly parried by Val’s own needle-like sword, and now she had to dodge, losing even more ground.

It ended suddenly. She moved to avoid a sweeping cut and his remaining dagger punched forward, into her back. Triumphant, he brought his greatsword high for the execution.

Val roared, and threw herself at him, feral, all poise and precision abandoned. Tom felt mana flare in her again and again, as she gave him everything she had. Surprise flickered in Honeyfield’s eyes, but he recovered quickly. He accepted Val’s sword through his chest, took a couple of solid punches to his ribs, and then it was done.

Just like that, it was over.

Val jerked. Honeyfield pushed her off him, and she slumped to the ground, a puppet with her strings cut. A double handful of small blades, the same he’d been using to throw, were nestled in her stomach. Smitten howled and rushed to her side.

He turned, and Tom immediately jabbed his spear into his face. Honeyfield casually poked it off course with a small knife. One arm hung limp at his side. He reached up to the hilt of Val’s sword, and drew it from himself. He shuddered, but as though in ecstasy, not pain. He absently tossed Val’s sword to the ground.

A great yowl ripped apart the silence, and green beams lanced at Honeyfield from the canopy. Several pierced him through, but he withstood them, and flicked the knife in his hand back along their trajectory. No more came.

“You can run, if you wan-” Honeyfield began, but Tom wasn’t interested in listening. He couldn’t, in fact. He was completely, utterly, overcome with rage.

He launched himself at Honeyfield, putting everything he knew, all his skill, all his training, all his torture, into his attack. His spear was a silver cyclone, spinning, whirling, thrusting. He pushed him back, overwhelming him with sheer, unbridled ferocity.

He had made several full paces of ground when he realised Honeyfield was toying with him. As soon as he had the thought, the evil looking man brought out his greatsword again, knocking Tom’s spear to the side, perpendicular to his body, and brought it down in a mighty chop.

Tom was expecting retaliation, and flowed smoothly backwards. He also knew what would come next, and brought his spear up to block with both hands instead of bringing it around to attack.

Again, Honeyfield’s blade extended, and where it would have cleaved Tom in half, it clashed against his spear. There was a frightening moment, a loud pinging, a jolting in his hands and arms, and then Honeyfield’s great, wicked blade, cut his spear in two.

The momentary friction of blade sundering enchanted metal saved him. It gave him an extra half second to continue backwards. The blade sliced downwards, and Tom felt a hot, red line open down the left side of his chest, the top of his abs, and on his left thigh, just above his knee.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Metal ringlets from his hauberk tinkled to the ground. A phantom sword struck back at his attacker, but he didn’t react in the slightest. To him, he guessed, it was probably not much worse than a bad scratch. The man seemed to get off on wounds, besides.

“Now, that wasn’t very polite. I was going to say, it would have been fun hunting you. It certainly would have been more fun than fighting you. You’re not very good, you know?”

Tom spat blood, felt hot liquid running in rampant rivulets down his body. Something fetched against his foot.

“Oh well,” said Honeyfield, raising his giant sword. He felt mana gather in his chest for some evil skill. No doubt it would obliterate Tom utterly.

Tom breathed deep, feeling the pain in his body. He absently noted a few whisper tags trailing from Honeyfield’s arm, almost invisible.

A moment passed. Then three things happened at once. The first:

Skill activated: Sweet Suffering (Passive).

Wasting Wine Poison - negated: Major buff to toughness. Major buff to coordination. Major buff to perception. Duration: Long.

Universal Entropy (Skill) - negated: Minor buff to health, stamina and mana regeneration. Minor buff to health, stamina, and mana. Minor buff to strength, toughness, speed, agility, intelligence, wisdom, charisma, and resilience. Duration: Long.

Necrotising Wounds (Skill) - negated: Extreme buff to health regeneration. Extreme buff to mana regeneration. Duration: Moderate.

Wither (Skill) - negated: Extreme buff to skill cooldown times. Extreme buff to strength. Extreme buff to toughness. Extreme buff to speed. Duration: Moderate.

Corrupting Cascade (Skill) - negated: Buffs are refreshed for as long as Corrupting Cascade buff remains active. Other buffs gain minor enhancement while Corrupting Cascade buff is active. Further applications of Corrupting Cascade stack cumulatively. Duration: Moderate.

Secondly, Tom cast Hush on Honeyfield. He felt the mana gathering in the man’s chest gutter and ebb.

Thirdly, he kicked Val’s sword up into his hand.

Then, with a manic grin he hoped Val would have been proud of, he attacked.

Honeyfield drew his greatsword down, trying to complete his mighty overhand swing. Even without whatever skill he had been about to use, it would slice Tom in half.

Except that Tom was faster now. Much faster.

He felt like a million volts were running through his system. He felt like he’d just drunk a gallon of Thought-Painting frog poison, and had twenty good night’s sleep. It felt as if a team of Healers was working on him. He felt clear, he felt calm, he felt true.

He slid around Honeyfield’s cut, and flicked his sword forwards, point leading, poise perfect. It sunk into Honeyfield’s shoulder. He cast Agony.

Honeyfield brought his sword around for a great horizontal sweep, and Tom ducked under it, bent double like a dancer, and thrust into Honeyfield’s calf. He withdrew, slashing a contemptuous line along Honeyfield’s arm. He cast Agony.

The evil eyes across from him narrowed in concentration, beginning to take him seriously, and he unleashed a barrage of attacks. They were a stampede, each blow heavy and precise, measured, and on tempo.

Tom eluded every one. He was a wind, a breeze, flowing and twirling with the rhythm of the fight, living and prevailing by the tiniest of margins. He punished every swing of Honeyfield’s sword with a bright, thin line of red on his body. Again, he cast Agony.

His opponent paused for a moment, and for the first time, Tom saw real emotion in his eyes. They were disbelieving, wild, angry. He shuffled his grip on the long handle of his enormous blade, assessing. And once more, he attacked.

It was a thrust, perfect as any textbook. It would have made any Combat Instructor at the Academy write home about it to their parents. It would have given any Guard who saw it tales for the beer hall for a decade.

Tom shifted, swung his back foot out smooth, pivoted his weight, and drew his front foot along the earth. Leaves were disturbed, but only barely. The broad blade whistled, just slightly, as it cut past him. He poked the point of the sword into Honeyfield’s leading wrist. He twisted, delicately, and removed it, gentle as a fat, pretentious noble dabbing their lips after soup.

Honeyfield stumbled on the follow through. Just slightly, but it was there. He turned, and Tom saw, he knew, that Honeyfield was struggling to support the weight of the sword. He looked at Tom, with those sleep-ringed, sunken eyes, for a long, languid moment. The sword disappeared. His two wicked black daggers replaced it. And he came on again.

He lunged at Tom, trying for his earlier impression of an unrelenting, savage storm, but came up all blow and bluster. If his earlier assault on Val had produced staccato pinging, then the sound of their rapid strikes and parries and blocks could now have passed for Forge Street before a market festival.

Tom began to grin. He looked into Honeyfield’s eyes, willing him to see it. And he did. And his anger got the better of him, spurring him to attack even harder, even faster. It did him no good. It was sad, really.

Tom was faster now, much faster than before. With all the buffs Honeyfield had unknowingly given him, he was the fastest he’d ever been. But he was still not actually any faster than Honeyfield.

No, he was just better.

He had trained with the sword since he was old enough to walk. Had it beaten into him every, single, day from then on until he couldn’t walk any longer. He had strived and strained for the sword with every single iota of his being.

He had not manifested it. He didn’t even like them. But he was still leagues better than Honeyfield, all other things being equal.

Honeyfield was a blitz. And Tom grew bored of him.

Now, he thought, and took a half step back, off tempo, throwing off Honeyfield’s rhythm completely.

A group of tiny sparrows flitted inwards, flapping and fluttering directly in Honeyfield’s face. Every line of his body spoke rigid surprise.

Okay, he thought again, and thrust.

The sparrows dispersed. Honeyfield stared dumbly at Tom, swaying on his feet, Val’s sword planted directly through the bridge of his nose, just below and between his ordinary eyebrows.

Sesame roared, and his body juddered, shot through with obsidian. A few whisper tags exploded quietly on his arms. He fell over backwards like a board, dead. Tom felt his life force leave him like a cloud had passed over a summer’s sun.

He stared at him grimly, for a moment. The last of the wound he had caused him knit itself seamlessly back together under his massive regeneration. He sighed, suddenly feeling very exhausted.

A high whining brought him back to reality.

Smitten? Smitten!

He rushed to where the dog was cradled up against Val’s body. Scorn was sitting beside her head, looking agitated in the extreme. Smitten was gently licking at the wounds on Val’s stomach. One hand of her hands grasped her long grey fur. It seemed so tiny and weak and horribly grey.

Then it twitched.

Tom gasped, and dropped to his knees. He felt clumsily at her throat. He waited.

Alive! He thought, triumphant, as he felt her faint pulse flutter under his fingers. She’s still alive!

Smitten had some sort of healing. He had no idea how it worked though. It must have been enough to keep her from death, but he didn’t know if it would stay that way.

He racked his brains for a solution. He had no potions that would do her any good. They had no more mice between them. He was lost.

He sat, Smitten’s whines piercing his heart. He wouldn’t accept this. He had to do something!

He sent rapid orders to Sesame, and the bear snapped several young trees and dragged them over. Tom pulled a sheet of canvas from his inventory. He would build a travois.

Within minutes, he was done. He gently picked Val up and placed her in the travois, fixed to Sesa’s broad, dependable shoulders. Then he set out for Wayrest, as fast as he dared. Two weeks, unburdened.

He would just have to hope Smitten could keep her alive.