Andreas kept moving, launching himself backward until he regained his feet, where he at least looked like a warrior. In the back of his mind, shame warred with excitement: he should have seen the kick coming; this fighter was not like the others.
His eyes narrowed on the Easterner’s hands. This shortened grip on the longer weapon made no sense; surely it would be better to hold it by the end, to take advantage of its greater reach. The pain in his midsection told a different story. Perhaps this Eastern warrior preferred the close fight. Very well.
He darted to his right, snapping his point forward as he moved. It was not the most powerful of strikes and would not be terribly effective against a man in armor, but against an unarmored opponent’s arm, it would be enough to disable the limb. In his mind, he could hear his own shouted commands during the training sessions at the chapter house. Hit first; hit fast!
His blow connected a little off center—so as not to break his opponent’s arm—and the other man’s hand let go of the staff. His opponent whirled away, and Andreas stayed close, intent on pressing his advantage.
The staff whirled toward his head, a one-handed swing that caught him off guard. He beat it down, stepping out of line, and snapped the point of his wooden sword back up. The butt of the staff intercepted his strike, preventing him from landing a second blow on the already bruised arm. With a flick of his wrist, he slid his point along the staff, down into his opponent’s fingers. It would be painful but not debilitating, as pain alone was never enough to stop a well-trained man in the throes of the battle rush.
Even as Andreas’s tip struck the Easterner’s fingers, the staff was already rotating, and the end he’d beaten down slammed with an awful force into his bruised midsection. He clenched his teeth, flashing a grim smile. It would have driven the breath from him a second time, but for the fact that his lungs were already empty. He was leading with his left side, and his gambeson was well padded. The blow hurt, but it did not slow him overmuch.
*
The force of the Frank’s strike jarred Kim’s arm from wrist to shoulder. His left hand reflexively opened, releasing the staff. Surprised, Kim retreated, flexing his fingers and moving his wrist. His arm was not broken. Curious, as this man seemed skilled enough that had he wanted the limb broken, he might have done so with the opening he’d taken. Mercy? Or foolishness...? The latter Kim doubted. In his experience, foolish men were less likely by far to live long enough to become skilled warriors. Or perhaps these barbarians are merely too stubborn to fall.
The Frank stayed close, pressing in on perceived weakness. Seeking to break his opponent’s momentum, Kim brought his staff about in a one-handed strike aimed at the Frank’s head. The blow did not connect, but by battering it aside, the Frank had to change his direction. He stepped away, bringing his tip up in an attempt to strike the arm again. This time, Kim was ready, and the butt of his staff turned aside the Frank’s point before it could land. The Frank was resourceful, however, and Kim felt pain blossom across the backs of his fingers as the tip of the wooden blade slid down his staff and struck them a blow that was not as hard as it might have been, but painful nonetheless.
He didn’t let go, though, as his opponent had just given him an opening. Kim kept the staff moving, rotating the weapon about and whipping up the end the Frank had beaten aside. With satisfaction, Kim felt it solidly connect, but the Frank was moving away already, acting neither winded nor broken. Leaping back, Kim endeavored to give himself space.
Instead of retreating out of reach as well, resetting their fight, the Frank chased after Kim with serpentine speed. A gloved hand shot out, seizing Kim by the wrist, and he was jerked off balance. The point of the Frank’s wooden blade snapped forward in a sudden thrust. Bend in the wind, Kim thought, letting his body arc away from the point, not quickly enough to avoid it altogether, but far enough to avoid the worst of it. The point loomed in his field of vision, and he struggled to bend farther. He felt the impact more than he heard it—a loud crunching noise that resonated throughout his skull—and he found himself unable to breathe through his nose. He fought against blurring eyes as tears reflexively came.
The Frank had broken his nose.
Through the haze of his vision, he saw the sword whipping around to finish him with a blow to the left side of his head. Disoriented, his stance wobbly and not stable, he was in danger of being knocked senseless. If he let the blow land. Blocking out the pain in his face, he concentrated on his hands, forcing them to respond to his demands. The staff swung up—agonizingly slowly, it seemed—and the two wooden weapons loudly crashed against one another as he fought to remain on his feet.
*
It was like sparring with Taran, Andreas realized. Getting his hand on the Easterner’s wrist had opened the other man’s defenses, and the strike to the nose—with the commensurate flow of blood—had evened the score. But the fight was far from over. It’s not truly a fight until both are bleeding.
The nose? Taran had laughed once when Andreas had landed a lucky strike. That barely counts. And he had swiftly demonstrated to the younger Andreas just how little a broken nose slowed down a resourceful and practiced fighter.
Andreas kept up the pressure on the Easterner, striking from both sides. Each attack was parried, but he could sense his opponent’s increasing desperation. His opponent’s balance had been direly shaken; Andreas could feel how unstable his stance was in how the staff bounced against the wooden sword. With each strike, the Easterner’s balance slipped a little further. He will have to yield soon, he thought. One of my blows will get through, and then—