5: Fight in the Dungeon

Somon withdrew his sword from the man’s throat and watched as his life drained away with his blood.

Serves him right, he said to himself. Shouldn’t have got in my way.

He moved through the corridors at a pace that made his calves hurt. He had to get out of these tunnels, and there were bound to be more guards in his way. He was sure this sword wasn’t supposed to be getting heavier.

He stopped and looked at the blade in his hand. It was heavier. When he had first received it, it had been long and slender, like a rapier, and with a swept hilt. But now he was sure it was half a finger width wider than it had been, and the grip was slightly longer.

He figured that he was probably wrong, and resumed his hurried walk. He turned the next corner. At the end of the corridor were four stout yeomen, wearing armour and carrying halberds. They were led by an officer with a sword.

“Out of my way,” Somon told them without breaking stride.

“Can’t do that,” replied the officer.

“Sorry to hear that,” said Somon, breaking into a jog.

Halberds were a bad choice of weapon in a narrow corridor, he thought as time slowed down around him. They were long and heavy, and awkward to use in cramped quarters. Their axe heads could not be brought to bear, so they effectively became spears – very front-heavy spears. Calmly Somon placed the back of his hand against the blade of the halberd in the middle of the row, and gently pushed it aside as he stepped towards the yeomen.

The man on his right tried to spear him as he entered their line, but he was too slow. They were all too slow.

He swung his sword across his body and caught the man on his left below his ear, opening a bloody gash. The man tried to cry out, but his jaw had been shattered by the force of the blow.

Somon reversed the direction of his swing and buried his sword in the neck of the man on his left, breaking his collarbone and opening a deep wound. Blood spurted as he jerked it free. The remaining two yeomen were no threat right now, so focused his attention on the officer instead, who had been behind the line.

The officer stumbled back a step and brought his sword into a guard position – the blade held upright to protect his side and shoulder. To his credit, the officer appeared to have been well-trained. Somon’s first few attacks were voided, and his followup thrust was beaten away. Somon almost had to parry the counterattack. But the officer was too slow.

Everybody was too slow.

Somon brought his sword down as the officer tried to raise his own weapon – blade and hand fell in a slow arc toward the floor, severed at the wrist. Blood gushed from the stump, but before it could even hit the ground Somon had turned and buried his sword to half its length in the face of a yeoman who was belatedly trying to bring his halberd to bear. Two of the others were collapsed on the floor in a slowly spreading pool of blood. They would be dead within minutes. The last, untouched, was staring at him with fear in his eyes and a wet stain spreading in his pants.

Suddenly everything returned to normal. The officer’s sword clattered to the floor. Somon’s arm was jerked downwards by the sword embedded in a man who collapsed at full speed towards the ground.

“Go,” he said as he put his foot on the dead man’s neck and pulled his sword free. “Go, and tell your boss not to try and stop me.”

The yeoman’s eyes darted to his dead officer.

“Your boss’s boss, then.” said Somon. He never saw who it was that plunged a blade through his chest. He only felt the world go dim, and he was unconscious before he hit the floor.