"You have a simple choice: submit or die," Lord Larkon said, pale eyes gleaming with bloodlust.
Harlan said nothing. He waved his sword as he had been taught as a child in the danja school. Like a cobra, Master Wirt had said. Steady, seductive. At the cusp of battle, enemy will not know whether you'll strike or sleep. Harlan smiled despite himself -- Master Wirt's lessons made as little sense now as they did then.
"You smile. You are a fool. You know you don't have the power."
Harlan's smile grew. Your enemy will boast to mask his weakness. He will insult to hide his ignorance. His rage will be your strength. He waved his sword, back and forth.
The sky crackled with eldritch energies and Larkon, towering over Harlan and flush with power, drew back his spiked mace.
"I'll make your head my standard and crush your body to dust!"
When he shouts, he'll strike, Master Wirt had warned. Like the cobra, you'll dance.
The mace came crashing down and Harlan danced nimbly backward, and with one fluid motion brought his sword down on Larkon's arm, its keen edge cutting through the chain mail and drawing the evil one's black blood. His eyes widened, lightning lit the sky. Larkon clutched his arm and hissed. Harlan backed away.
Strike once, and you'll live to bite again. Stay, and the mongoose gets stronger, more clever.
"Master Wirt sends his regards," Harlan said, saluted, then turned and ran, laughing.
# # #
1 comment:
This was a lovely bloog post
Post a Comment