Chapter 119 - A Dirty Fight

'Now it's fifty-fifty.'

Encrid hadn't been confident he could beat Mitch Hurrier with both hands intact. He had awakened to talent and advanced by retracing with his left hand the path his right had taken. Did all that mean he could use his left hand as well as his right? No. Then could he withstand the full force of Mitch Hurrier's two-handed swordsmanship with only one hand on his sword? 'Not a chance.'

He had already experienced that several times. What was more, whatever the bastard had been doing, he had no bad habits in his movements. Encrid wanted to read his patterns, but couldn't easily do it. Adaptations flowed smoothly from him every time. His foundation still seemed to be Righteous Sword and Flowing Sword. Encrid's was the Heavy Sword Technique. He was still at a disadvantage, wielding a Heavy Sword with one hand. Even with his thumb ruined, Mitch could still grip his sword with both hands. If things went badly, he could bear the pain and swing it a few times. 'Can't be helped, I suppose.'

He wanted to cut the man's throat cleanly with his sword. But if that wasn't possible, he would have to show him the dirty fighting of the Valen Mercenary Sword Technique. "I feel a little bad about this."

"What nonsense are you spouting?" Encrid meant it. He did feel a little sorry. Mitch considered him an obstacle to overcome in his progress, a rival and a worthy opponent. He had said only a few words, but they conveyed enough. He even remembered Encrid's name. He had been happy to see him, as though he had been waiting. What Encrid sensed in him was a fighting spirit that wanted to test everything he had built through the sword. And so... 'I really am sorry.'

Encrid had already seen it all: Mitch's skill, everything he had built, and his fighting spirit. That was why he had realized his chance of winning lay in a dirty fight. Would it be right to repeat the day again until he could defeat his opponent with left-handed swordsmanship? Spending who knew how many more todays? No, that couldn't be right. Encrid felt there was no point in lingering in this today. His left hand needed a new catalyst to progress further. Mitch Hurrier was a good opponent, but... 'I think I've milked him for everything he's worth.'

He couldn't read his patterns, but he had memorized a few habits. For instance... "Still a strange bastard."

When Mitch's left eyebrow moved as it did now, an attack immediately followed. No sooner were the words out than he kicked off the ground and charged. Encrid had expected it. No, he had been certain his opponent would charge like that. The instant Mitch finished speaking, Encrid kicked the ground with his toe. A pebble caught on it and flew toward Mitch's face. CLANG! Mitch deflected the pebble with the flat of his sword, faltering slightly as a result. Still, he kept coming. His reactions were as good as ever. Encrid planted his sword in the ground, flicked his left hand against his waist, and thrust it forward. FWEEEE! A whistle dagger. "Pathetic!"

Mitch angrily twisted his sword several times. His eye was frighteningly keen.

CLANG-CLANG!

The whistle dagger did no good either. Before Encrid knew it, they were within sword's reach. Encrid pulled his sword back out and thrust. Mitch turned sideways and swung. His diagonal cut was so fast the blade seemed to bend. Taking in its trajectory, Encrid drew his sword to the side. CLAAANG! SCRRRAAPE! The instant they clashed, Encrid felt his lack of strength. He slid his blade down at an angle, aiming for his opponent's hand. Mitch Hurrier was swinging with both hands on his sword; Encrid had only one. The moment he was pushed back, he tried to deflect the attack with the Flowing Sword Technique. Sensing it, Mitch pressed harder. Encrid let go of his sword again. He tried to exploit the opening and close in once more, but with a patter of feet against the ground, Mitch's body blurred and vanished backward. He wasn't the sort to fall for the same trick twice. Encrid hadn't expected him to. As Mitch slashed down again from his retreat, Encrid kicked the sword he had dropped. It was a calculated movement. TAP! The grip caught on the top of his foot, sending the blade straight toward Mitch's neck. Ordinarily, one was taught never to let go of one's sword. That was a fundamental rule. Sometimes practitioners of illusion swordsmanship would release their weapons and fight this way, but kicking it? An unorthodox attack called for an unorthodox answer. "Hah!"

With a shout, Mitch shifted his descending sword into a one-handed grip and continued straight down in a cut to the crown. With the gauntlet on his other hand, he blocked the tip of Encrid's kicked blade. THWACK! As he blocked, he turned the sword's tip and deflected it sideways. That was Mitch Hurrier for you. The back of his gauntlet was gouged, but far from piercing his hand, the blow didn't even seem to have jarred it much. Encrid wasn't surprised. He had already pictured the entire sequence. His real aim was what came next: the opening created as the cut to his crown lost strength and speed. A two-handed cut had become a one-handed one, after all. The instant he kicked the sword, Encrid charged forward again. He had dropped it, immediately kicked it, and charged in one continuous sequence. Facing him, Mitch had stepped back, swung a cut to the crown, and blocked the flying sword with the back of his hand. THUD! Mitch's sword struck the top of Encrid's right shoulder. He would give up some flesh. At the same time, he thrust out his left hand. His grip was stronger. As he reached to seize Mitch's throat, Mitch threw his head back. No, he arched back at the waist as well, opening a gap. Encrid silently thanked Torres. There had been no better training for developing his left hand's sensitivity, and it had given him this move to use against his opponent. He twisted his wrist, flexing the muscles below it. A dagger popped out from beneath his wrist and landed in his hand. At that instant, Encrid saw Mitch's eyes. His pupils had visibly dilated, his gaze wavering. Encrid slashed his dagger at that eyeball. SHICK!

Steel scraped through flesh. "Ghh!"

A groan burst out as Mitch swallowed the pain. "Mm."

A small groan escaped Encrid too. With good reason. The dagger in Encrid's hand had cut through Mitch Hurrier's eyeball. More precisely, it had carved from his cheek up past his eyebrow to his forehead. Even as he lost his eye, Mitch kicked Encrid in the stomach and pulled his sword inward. The sword, which had struck and caught on Encrid's shoulder, sliced through the leather armor beneath his clothes and left a cut in his shoulder. Burning, yet cold. That was how steel cutting through his shoulder felt. His right wrist was already a wreck, and now his shoulder was cut too. 'This isn't good.'

As he thought it, Encrid hurled the dagger. WHIZZ! This was a man who had counterattacked even while losing an eye. Mitch swung his sword to knock the dagger aside. Instead, it buried itself in his forearm. With one eye gone, his depth perception would be fucked for a while. Which meant this was an opportunity. The Valen Mercenary Sword Technique's dirty fighting meant closing in at all costs and fighting to win, even if you had to tear your opponent apart with your teeth. Using everything you had, however filthy the method. That was what Encrid did. Once again, he threw a blade and charged headlong. The kick to his stomach had hurt, and his shoulder was cut, but his heart pounded, pumping blood through his body. This was a time for boldness, not composure. And so he charged boldly forward. "Graaah!"

Mitch swung his sword with a sound somewhere between a scream and a battle cry. 'I can see it.'

Then he could dodge it. It was just like when he had saved Leona, when he had dodged the flying dagger. He activated Concentrate on a Single Point, instinctively predicted the blade's path, and slipped inside. THUD! His calculation proved correct. The fist holding the sword hit his face instead of the blade. But he had tucked his chin tight and tipped his forehead forward, so the impact was slight. ["If you're going to get hit, take it properly. Take a blow well, and the next opportunity is yours."]

Those were Audin's words. His lessons in taking a hit were always useful. The instant the distance between them closed, Mitch shouted, "Yes, come at me. Just what I wanted!"

He too let go of his sword and seized Encrid's shoulder. The wound opened, sending pain flooding through him, but it was far better than dying. More importantly, the wound was shallower than Encrid had thought. The leather armor beneath his clothes had done its job even as it was cut. Their hands tangled. The two men began rolling over the gravel, panting. As they did, Mitch spoke, apparently overcome with anger. "You filthy bastard. Did you think you could win at wrestling?" 'Yeah.'

He had thought he could win. A few exchanges had told him as much. He had realized it while sparring with Pin's Ail Karaz-style martial arts after learning Balaf-style martial arts. Talent mattered in this discipline, but it also demanded a staggering investment of time. These were techniques you had to drill into your body until they appeared in your dreams. Encrid was confident. As long as he got close, the odds were in his favor. That was why he hadn't shied away from a dirty fight. CRUNCH! Encrid tried to wrench Mitch's arm, then bit into his ear.

"Aaargh!"

Mitch screamed. Encrid immediately grabbed his ankle. He pulled Mitch's foot under his arm, pressed down on its top, and wound both legs around one of Mitch's like a twist of rope. Then he bent the foot back under his hand. It took longer to describe than to do. CRACK. SNAP! A horrible sound. The pain must have been terrible too. Only someone who had experienced it would know, but it was an excruciating place to hurt even without a break. Encrid had pinned the foot against his ribs and pressed down with his hand, breaking the back of the ankle. He moved straight to the other leg. In a swift motion, he wrapped both legs around it, cradled the foot against his chest again, clasped his hands together, and twisted his body like a whirlwind. CRRRACK! This time, the knee joint twisted backward and broke. "AAAAARGH!"

A horrible, harrowing scream tore out of him. Drool streamed from Mitch's mouth, his eye bloodshot. At some point he had drawn a dagger, and now he drove its pointed blade at Encrid's neck. Encrid twisted aside. The dagger plunged into his forearm, then came out. He released Mitch's leg and rolled backward. That was the end of it. His opponent could no longer fight. "Whew."

Encrid let out a deep breath. He was far from unscathed himself. Forcing joint locks strained one's own body too. On top of that, his arm had been stabbed, and the draw cut across his shoulder was no small wound. Half his clothes were already soaked. It would all be his own blood. Of course, even so, Encrid was in far better shape than Mitch. "Krais, my sword."

Noncombatant or not, Krais apparently hadn't been able to simply run away. He had stayed nearby, and now he quickly brought Encrid his sword. When Encrid gripped it in his left hand, blood gushed from his forearm. That wound was deeper than he had thought. "Shit, I thought you were going to die, Captain."

Encrid didn't even have the strength to answer Krais. Sword in hand, he approached Mitch. His arm and shoulder were hurt, but his legs were fine. "Platoon Commander!"

Several of the raiders reacted, charging when they saw Mitch Hurrier down. But they were far, far too late. None of the enemy soldiers had imagined their platoon commander, Mitch Hurrier, would lose. He was a genius, a man born with talent. The genius who never tried. That had once been his nickname, but something had happened to him on the battlefield. Ever since his return, he had swung his sword day and night. He wasn't someone who should die like this. He was a star that had only just begun to shine. Yet instead of a clash of swords, there had been a thrown dagger, and now both his legs were shattered. What was this? This wasn't the fight their commander wanted. Pick up a sword and fight. Settle it fairly, sword against sword, in a duel! That was how most of his men felt. "This... This isn't what I wanted."

Mitch felt the same. His eye met Encrid's as the latter held his sword perpendicular to the ground, point down. Mitch spoke again. "You, you."

"This is a battlefield."

Encrid spoke and plunged his sword down. THUNK! The blade pierced the back of Mitch's neck and emerged through his throat, splitting several pebbles with a grating sound. Eyes wide, Mitch choked up blood and fell face-first to the ground, the blade lodged in his neck like an ornament. Soon his head lolled to one side. "... Kill him!"

Several enraged enemy soldiers charged Encrid. "Fucking idiots."

Encrid cursed them. He had thought about this through all those repetitions of today. Their own commander wasn't a moron. Could he really have failed to anticipate a raid of this scale? No. He had been waiting for it. Of course, the enemy might have come knowing all that. A battlefield was a place to devour or be devoured, after all. Weren't tactics the art of deceiving through lies and misdirection? In short, all Encrid had to do was buy time. CLANG-CLANG-CLANG! There was no one else among the enemy soldiers with Mitch's skill. Encrid pulled his sword smoothly from Mitch's neck with his left hand. It soon fluttered like a butterfly, knocking aside and blocking the enemy's spearhead. There was finesse in that swordsmanship, a curious blend of the Heavy Sword Technique, the Flowing Sword Technique, and even Swift Sword. "We're joining the fight! Wipe them out!"

Vengeance must have survived too. His shout came from behind. The enemy were elite soldiers, but that didn't mean they could overcome superior numbers. Above all, once archers joined in, well, there was no answer to that. "Fire."

Clearly a platoon-sized force, forty crossbowmen began turning the remaining enemy soldiers into porcupines. Someone had rallied the archers and brought them over. With that, the fight was as good as over. Encrid knew from being on the receiving end himself: you couldn't deflect and dodge every arrow loosed by massed archers. Having seen that much, Encrid sank to the ground. He truly felt as though his body was being torn to pieces. 'That was fucking hard.'

Still, he had gained something. His left hand. The sheer pride of it made him smile. He was also the one who had survived that dirty fight. Surviving, making it past today, and advancing toward a new path. It felt as though someone had clumsily stitched his torn, faded dream back together. That was what Encrid felt, in the middle of a camp turned battlefield, with the spring breeze blowing through.