Orson owned a lot of weapons.

But it had been years since he’d taken so many with him, at once. It had been years since he’d carried the entire lethal set into battle and prepared himself to unleash deadly, primeval havoc on living people.

Orson was prepared. When he saw the hundreds of vehicles, heard the chanting, heard the singing – the immense cacophony of it all, he was ready to do whatever he had to do to keep Littlefield safe.

He drew his sword and took quick stock of the local geography. Soon, his entire focus would be on his own battle and only his own.

Orson stood one hundred yards eastward of the turnoff toward Littlefield. The small town lay only miles from that turnoff, well within the absurd range of the railgun, and probably within striking distance of the smaller artillery.

Orson had done his best to level the playing field, preparing his entire arsenal and exhausting his full complement of energy cores. The dozen spare solar power cells, the entire stock he’d taken when his crew had set out from Pops’s Heartland-6 Complex, all were committed for the battle. It still wasn’t enough. The collection of defensive devices Littlefield had stockpiled, over the years, exhausted both Orson’s and their own stores of energy.

And all of that only offered them a slim chance. The numbers were still impossibly skewed, but Orson hadn’t changed his mind. The best way, the best shot at victory was to fight Nine-flails. Win. Then unleash havoc on the rest, until the War Force artillery was destroyed, and the Liberty Corps lines were broken.

His plan depended on Nine-flails, and he assumed this character was a Shaper. Logically, that meant he fought with nine flails, literal name. Orson couldn’t even imagine how that would work.

Orson also found no mention of a Nine-flails in his own records or the Hierarchia data the Corwins still maintained, but he’d had no time for a thorough search. He’d had no time to do the research and planning he attempted before almost every major fight.

He had to rely on his years of battle trickery, his adaptive nature, and his HUD. Even if it made him sick, he wore a computer on his face, a device capable of complex modeling. He preferred fighting with his own strategy, winning through his own skill and cunning, but he carried a potential game-changing edge. His preferences, ego, and sportsmanship meant nothing compared with the fate of Littlefield.

Orson waited to speak until the War Force came to a stop, within a hundred feet of him. He triggered the invisible, speed-sensitive energy field that stretched across the roadway. He didn’t think the Liberty Corps would actually try to run him over or gun him down, but he’d prepared for it and used one of his solar cells in the process.

He watched three oblong flying objects float above the War Force, forming an arc in the air, forty feet above him – the airships.

“You can’t go any farther.” Orson turned on his microphone at the lowest input and output settings. He hoped his voice would be recognizably his. “The road is closed.”

“Roadkill! Roadkill! Roadkill!” A chant erupted from the assembled troops, first scattered voices, at the front of the pack, and then spreading across the War Force, growing to a roar. Orson didn’t react. He made no change to his posture. The chanting was no surprise.

“Roadkill! Roadkill!”

The chant actually reassured Orson. This wasn’t a legion of IHSA-level troops, the kind of fighting force that could conquer the world, the caliber of soldier he’d surprised and bested in Trolley Town.

This looked like the same poorly-trained mob he’d fought in Nimauk. Their equipment was better. There was an obscene number of them, and they had no reason not to commit murder. But if the shields held, it wouldn’t matter.

Orson carried two weapons that could destroy anything. With the proper skill – and an assortment of other tools he’d packed in his coat – the fire he wielded could lay waste to true armies. This wasn’t a true army.

One of the two front tanks raised its roof hatch. A head rose into view, followed by the neat white armor of a Liberty Corps officer, loaded in medals and colored badges. The man wore no helmet, but instead a wide-brimmed hat. This could only be Governor Sloan.

“Orson Gregory!” Sloan spoke through a bullhorn. “I’m the governor of this territory you’ve been terrorizing. I thought we’d be dragging you out of bed, this morning, but you saved us the trouble of finding you. Submit to my judgment for your crimes, and I’ll let the people of Littlefield surrender to the Liberty Corps without bloodshed.” He spoke in a phony grandiose voice, like he’d watched old movies about the Middle Ages to practice the tone of speech.

Orson laughed. “And while I’m at it, I’ll confess to all my sins as a lifelong troublemaker and bow to your greatness. All hail Lord Lardy McDespot. Oh please! Please! Spare poor Littlefield! Lord Lardy! Governor McDespot, I beg you! I beg you!” He laughed again, and it was a genuine laugh. Nothing humored him more than mind games with the self-serious.

Shouts erupted from the crowd. Too many voices clashed to make out many individual words. The ‘roadkill’ chant began again.

“Nicknames again?” Eloise spoke in Orson’s earpiece, her voice transmitted directly from the Aesir’s hidden location. Through the open channel, Orson could hear Jaleel cackling. He did not respond. “Be careful you don’t egg him into an all out attack on you. That’s not what we want.”

“I’m going to enjoy watching Sir Adrian kill you.” Sloan raised his left hand. Two of the airships broke from formation and landed on the dusty ground, on either side of the road. Exit ramps lowered from each of them, but only one person emerged.

The man wore bizarre armor, covered in spiked, shining balls, like diseased berries. Each of the balls was the size of a person’s head and covered in spikes of varying sizes. The Knight wore a helmet of the same shining metal, his face unseen. The helmet’s slit of a visor fixed on Orson.

“Wow,” Orson said. “What’s your deal, buddy? Are you, like, the mascot or something? Do you sing a song before the battle? I’m out of the loop here.”

“Yeah.” Jaleel spoke into his ear. “Get a load out of Fruit of the Loom.”

“Kneel,” the Knight said. “And I, Sir Adrian Nine-flails, Knight of the Liberty Corps Western Barony, will grant you a quick death.”

“I heard you wanted some one-on-one fight with me,” Orson said. “If I let you attack me, and I win, does that mean the rest of them get out of here? I’m down for a duel, but not if I’m just the warm-up act for a longer battle.”

“There is no deal!” Sloan said. “You will die as an example for your fellow outlaws. Surrender and die or fight and die. That’s your choice.”

“But it is one-on-one?” Orson asked. “Or am I going to have to think about the rest of you?”

“One-on-one.” Nine-flails inclined his helmeted head. “You’re mine. You die first. Then the town is raised.”

“But when I win, though,” Orson said. “What do I get?”

“You won’t win,” Nine-flails laughed. “I’ll paint the road with your blood.”

“Eh.” Orson shrugged. “I’ve been hearing this shit for years, but I guess I accept. If you force me to lop you to pieces, I bet that’ll scare everyone else. Do we count to ten now?”

“If you fight, then Littlefield dies,” Sloan said. “Your surrender is the only way I’ll let the people of Littlefield leave here in peace. If you fight, they all get to die with you, as outlaws. Choose the law or choose death for Littlefield.”

“Roadkill! Roadkill!” The chant began again.

“That’s a lie,” Orson said. In his visor, he saw a small increase in the temperature of the Knight’s armor. He made sure his repulsor was ready, just in case. “You’re planning to kill everybody, regardless of what I do. And I tell you what, after Sir Pointy-berry is through, you will all be destroyed, if you stay here. You all…”

One of the spiked balls flew from the Knight’s breastplate. It blasted out like a cannonball, headed straight for Orson’s face.

Orson saw the sudden burst of heat in the armor, but he didn’t bother moving or raising his sword.

He watched the flail slam into the energy shield, letting out a sound like a hollow drum. The flail head bounced away, falling toward the ground, several of its spikes broken from contact with the shield.

Before the crowd could respond to the energy wall, Orson took a step through the shield. He swung the sword at the fallen flail’s chain before its master could call it back.

The head fell from the flail and rolled across the roadway.

“Unsportsmanlike conduct!” Orson stepped fully through the field. “That’s a one flail penalty.” He pointed to the spiked, iron ball and to the chain that snaked back toward the Knight. “I guess you can’t be Nine-flails anymore, can you? You’re gonna need all new business cards.”

Orson wanted to pay attention to the crowd, to Sloan. How they responded to the destroyed flail could let him know how prepared they were for the coming ambush.

He didn’t get the chance. All eight flails propelled out of the Knight’s armor. Nine-flails ran at Orson, weapons spinning with such speed, it looked like a solid wall had suddenly appeared in their place.

Orson let the HUD reach full functionality. The targeting computer and complex intelligent analytic systems looked at the flails. A nauseating kaleidoscope of information blossomed at the corners of his vision. The photoreceptors in the goggles and sensors across the visor observed the way the flails moved before striking, observed the way the chains were segmented, allowing a range of motion.

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Orson raised the sword to defend his face. Nine-flails was apparently too wary to try another direct strike. That gave the HUD more time to watch the Knight’s flails move, and assess the relationship between the Shaper’s mind and the unique weapons he wielded. The more data the better.

Orson had little time to dance with Nine-flails, to learn his tricks, to outmaneuver him. He had to end the fight, fast. The shields and mirage fields would be powered for only so long.

And he had to win before the flashing lights from the HUD birthed the inevitable migraine.

Twinges began in his forehead and temples. He was already running out of time.

Four of the Knight’s flails spun, forming a tight wall of high-speed motion to protect the Shaper’s face and torso. The other four blasted from the Knight’s armor.

Two flails flew wide. The Knight was trying to flank him or crush him. Orson hoped the visor’s band and rear sensors were sophisticated enough to follow the flails’ complex motion.

Two more flails launched, two metal vipers, one low, one high. There was nowhere to run.

Orson triggered his repulsor. He blasted out and above the flails, still letting his visor collect data about their motion, searching for any pattern to the strikes.

The flails gave chase. Orson had waited too long. He powered the repulsor to full, but the outstretched flails reoriented immediately.

The flails to his left and right missed him by inches. The heads of the weapons slammed together. He’d almost been caught. The metal rang where they connected.

Nine-flails ran forward, keeping Orson in range. He swung both pairs of flails, more crushing moves. The initial strike had been probing, wary from the loss of the first flail.

The flails slammed together. Orson flew higher, but the flails stretched longer. His HUD tracked the length, but he couldn’t spare the glance at that information, the red ticker at the bottom right corner of his vision.

The further he flew, the higher the flails ascended. Nine-flails alternated the strikes, never giving Orson a moment, the next pair of flails ready to crush him as soon as the last attack had failed.

Orson rocketed upward, far away from Nine-flails, far above the ground, his senses and visor still watching and studying the Shaper. He hoped his evasiveness didn’t win him a direct attack from the legion of other Liberty Corps forces.

It didn’t, but their chant began again, alternating between “Roadkill!” and “Coward!” The Knight shouted at him. The chanting almost drowned out his words.

“I hope you enjoyed the preview of how you’ll die!” Nine-flails called. “You can’t stay up there forever!” He retracted his weapons, slowly returning them to his breastplate.

“Wow, I thought I could,” Orson yelled back. “I’ll be down in a minute!”

“Keep it up, boss!” Jaleel said. “You’re so good at dodging. I feel like I’m playing Dark Souls.”

“Don’t distract him with your references, Jaleel,” Eloise said. “Keep it up, Orson!”

“I’ll be after him again in a second,” he said. “I have almost all the data I need.”

Orson kept his eyes on Nine-flails and retrieved a small object from his coat’s pocket, like a remote control. He fit the object onto the cross-guard of his sword, only millimeters from the flame extending from the hilt.

Orson hoped the action wasn’t too obvious. He wanted a surprise, if he could manage it. It was time he learned what happened to the flails if they met the fire sword, while in motion.

Orson flew down, at an angle he wouldn’t have attempted before all of his recent flight practice. The HUD warned him the flails were about to launch. A dozen alerts appeared in his vision, analytics describing the visor’s observations. Orson tried to ignore them, but the sudden lights began a true headache in his forehead.

As the flails burst from the Knight’s armor, Orson triggered the field-disruptor on his sword’s hilt. He pressed it three times. Three should be enough. He couldn’t risk more than three, if he could help it. He felt an odd thrum race up his arms from the sword. The blade’s sound increased from a crackle to a roar.

The sword extended, its containment field expanding. The sword’s blade was almost triple its former length, possible to wield only because of the near weightlessness of the fire blade.

When the flails tried to crush him, tried to squish him into meaty pulp, Orson swung the extended sword. He brought it around in a wide circle, cutting the flail heads and chains, sending dripping metal pieces flying. Orson dodged the molten iron.

The other pair of flails came together. They curved wide around him, one coming up from beneath his feet, the other slamming down at his head.

Orson flew to the side, trying to track the flails in his visor, trying to strike the weapons with his sword. The blue fire met one of the flails. Its severed head fell away.

Orson brought the sword around. The other flail swung down at his head. The fire cut the spiked ball in two, but the other half was still attached to the chain.

Orson dodged – not fast enough. The half-flail took him in the side, shredding the coat fabric.

The armor redirected the worst of the blow. The spikes on the flail shattered against the metal, but the force of the attack threw Orson sideways. He tumbled, struggling to get his leg and repulsor beneath him. He hit the field-disruptor’s shutoff, returning the sword to its normal size.

By the time he reached the ground, the War Force had erupted in cheers. Orson had no time to watch the crowd.

Nine-flails sent two flails rearing up above Orson’s head. They and the partial-flail bore down on him, from above.

Orson blasted backward, almost brushing the road as he flew. The flails slammed into the roadway.

He remembered his own energy shield, the same wall that had protected him against the first strike from Nine-flails. He got his repulsor under him and skidded to a stop. He had nowhere to run.

Nine-flails charged at him. His flails reared up, blasting up above Orson’s head. The Knight was trying the same maneuver a second time. Keep Orson close. Keep him from flying.

But Orson had seen this before. He’d seen how slow the flails were to regroup after completing a strike. This was a pattern, something he’d observed, something he’d already fought.

‘Patterns are predictable. Predictability is weakness. Even the most complex patterns can be discovered and exploited.’

Orson remembered those words and the day he’d heard them, a decade before, in some of his earliest lessons with the sword. Master Ophion’s teachings still came to him, powerful reminders and truths, even after ten years.

Orson waited until the flails rose to the top of their arc, building inertia to strike and crush him. He waited until the HUD started throwing proximity warnings at the edges of his vision, intensifying his growing headache.

He fired the repulsor and flew inside the flails’ arc, beneath the chains.

Just as the flails committed to the strike, Orson severed all three with his sword. The severed balls fell into the shield, sending three echoing drumbeats from the energy field.

Orson flew toward Nine-flails, now with only two weapons left. The Knight turned and ran. Good, if Orson could destroy the man’s flails and cut apart the breastplate, he wouldn’t have to kill him. He’d have a prisoner. He’d detain the Knight right there in the road, if the man wanted to live.

Orson saw a new proximity warning in his HUD. It wasn’t from Nine-flails. He reflexively threw himself to the side, as three iron walls slid toward him. They scraped horribly across the road and formed a barrier between him and the Knight.

A whole procession of new combatants were running from the airships. Blocks of iron followed them, loaded onto hovering platforms.

The iron blocks tore apart in sheets, forming more walls, crafted by the Shapers’ minds. The new segments moved to join the others. Heat rose from the walls and the Shapers.

This gave Nine-flails an opening to flee. The Knight sprinted across the road, flails spinning defensively behind him. He ran back toward his airship.

For an absurd moment, Orson thought Nine-flails was actually running away, but the Knight was met outside the ship. The new arrival pushed a square metal case, also on a floating platform. The other Shapers raised their hands, palms outward.

The wall quickly grew too long for Orson to see Nine-flails or his pit crew. Orson ran along the wall, slicing it in two. He aimed a repulsor-aided kick at the cut metal, sending the top half of the wall falling onto the roadway, clearing his view of the airship and its crew. The group of Shapers stood in combat stances, palms still raised, legs spread. They stood in an arc around the flail-repair operation.

“I’ve never been in a duel with an intermission.” Orson saw the new arrival had opened his case, revealing replacement flails. He saw the heat rise in the cold morning. Nine-flails and his assistant Shaped the new flail-heads into place. “Who is that guy? Is he like your golf caddy or something? This is your last warning. If you come back to fight me again, I’m not giving you another chance to retreat.”

“Your coward’s tricks won’t have the best of our man, Sir Adrian,” Sloan yelled. “Your outlaw ways are nothing compared to the prowess of a true warrior and the army that supports him. No match!”

The “Roadkill! Roadkill!” chant began again, but weaker. The crowd’s rumble was still a constant presence, but it was a dull thing, like a busy city street, no organization. Orson wondered how many of the Liberty Corps troops could even see the battle.

“How does this work?” Orson called to the Shapers. “Do I fight you guys now? You’re not part of the duel. This is cheating. The lead had a wardrobe malfunction, so now he’s got the chorus line pulling bodyguard duty. I guess you might as well take a shot at me. If you won’t leave, you’re going to have to fight me eventually. But let’s pick up the pace. I don’t have all day while Adrian over there fixes his outfit. Anyone who wants to live, just lay down your arms and run away. You don’t get to take your vehicles, though. Those have to stay here. But you can leave.”

“Leave?” Sloan bellowed. “We’ll leave here when you’re dead, and all the outlaws are corpses, and my new base is under construction.”

None of the other Shapers spoke. They stayed in their formations, helmets turned toward Orson. He waited and stuck to his plan. Fight Nine-flails first. Win. Then chaos. That was the best way.

“What was that big sword move?” Jaleel asked, in his ear. “Why don’t you do that all the time? That is so cool.” Orson chuckled to himself. He paced back and forth along the sliced iron wall.

“You know.” Orson called toward Nine-flails. “I always thought flails were only debatably historical, like the experts don’t agree if they were used in Medieval combat. Is that true?” Nine-flails did not respond. “The least you can do is give some information about your fighting style. In some cultures, that’d be expected. Instead of having the chorus line practicing their mime routine, they could be explaining this, so I don’t go to sleep. Or is that your plan? Bore me into submission.”

The only responses were scattered shouting from the War Force.

“Shut up!” Someone yelled. Other voices joined in, screaming and howling threats and profanity that Orson couldn’t possibly hear.

“Quiet!” Sloan yelled through his bullhorn. “Discipline! Don’t let this anarchist get in your heads. He’s playing games with us. Let Sir Adrian work. The outlaw dies soon.”

“I’m not an anarchist,” Orson said. “Who the hell told you that? I just hate conquerors and empires and despots. I’ve been meaning to ask you, did someone vote for you, Sloan? Or did you appoint yourself? Are you the lone moron responsible, or did a bunch of dumb-shits actually vote your ass into office?”

The shouts erupted again, no chants, just a wall of screaming. They were loud enough that Orson feared they might bring the artillery against him. The screams trigged an arc of throbbing pain in Orson’s forehead.

Nine-flails raised his hand and the crowd quieted. He stepped through his helpers, his armor now restored. He moved slower. His posture was stiffer, but he began a new intricate pattern with his unique multi-weapon form, more complex than before.

Orson flew away. He hovered just within the range of the flails, just close enough to tempt the Knight. He waited until a flail was sent at him, then another, then another.

The movement of the flails was wilder now. Five flails shot out, each independent. One flew at Orson’s unarmored leg, another at his face. A third tried to flank him. Two others spun in the air at his sides.

Orson felt the heat rising from the armored man and his weapons. He couldn’t imagine the sweltering conditions inside the armor. The mental strain had to be enormous. This man was splitting his mind in at least five tasks, all independent.

But his pattern remained. Four flails always stayed behind to guard the Knight. The others struck outward to crush Orson.

When the flails converged, Orson blasted away. All five slammed together. Two hit each other, mid-swing, tangling their chains. Orson allowed himself a small smile.

This was getting to be too much for Nine-flails. He could only manage simple defense and overwhelming offense.

Nine-flails fought with speed and ferocity in a strange style that had advantages of ranged and melee weaponry. He was deadly to people slower than him and almost unstoppable against people who couldn’t damage the flails. Orson was neither.

Patterns are predictable. Predictability is weakness.

When the flails rose again, Orson flew down into the swarm of writhing weapons.