A Battle in the Dark

--This follows "Shadows in the Dark"

I hold my breath and will my muscles into stone. Ten paces. I could sprint that distance in a small few heartbeats, and have my blade through his bones in a single feline spring. He only has one shot, but at ten paces I’d have to trust to luck and the gunman’s ineptitude to keep the heavy lead ball out of my blood. Ten paces. I could fling my dagger that distance and hit him easily, but the whipping motion required for straight flight would draw his muzzle. No good arcing the knife gently, with all these branches between here and there.

I’d rather not kill this man. His threat against me is only an act of self preservation, as are my plans to nullify him. For a moment, I am more troubled that my immediate impulse had been to kill. I could call out to him now, and show through my tone that I mean no harm. This course requires me to trust his judgment, which is not something I am keen to do, but I’d rather not kill this man.

I take a breath and a moment to choose my words and my tone. I tighten my throat to call out like an embarrassed neighbor.

A laugh barks off to my right, accompanied by nervous chuckles. Four men, most likely novice bandits, had waited just off the road and let the wagon pass. Now they shamble out of the brush onto the road. They are shades of gray and shadow in the dark, but I can see them, hear the swagger in the leader’s step and the shuffle of the three skulking behind. I can smell their unwashed bodies and steamed turnips on their breath.

"Take it easy, little lady," the first bandit says.

"She’s a pretty lady," chimes in another. The rest guffaw dutifully and continue to close the distance.

The gunman stands solid, and he twists his voice to sound vicious, but I can hear his throat tremble.

"Which one of you wants a musket ball in your chest?"

He locks the hammer back with an emphatic click. All four bandits pause.

They’ve moved close enough to the wagon that the lantern that I can see them clearly. The leader appears to be better fed than the other three, and better armed. He holds a drawn katana it his hands; I can see the chips in the edge and the crust of blood dried to the dull metal. His mongrel cohort sport a pair of long knives and a heavy tree branch with a long nail jabbing wickedly from the end.

With a sneer, the leader continues his approach, and his pack follows closely.

"You don’t want to do that, Miss. You can only kill one of us." He glances at the scythe. "Maybe two. But we’ll kill you and take what we want. You might as well leave your cart and run home."

This talk is pointless. I have been in enough scuffles to know that this bluster means bloodshed is inevitable. I would pull the trigger without another word.

The hammer snaps, and for a moment, I hear only the sounds of the forest. Somewhere, frogs sing next to a brook that whispers lullabies. For a flash, everything is illuminated, and I can’t help noticing the vibrant green of the water-thick leaves.

I leap into a sprint, my body tilted forward, low to the ground, with my left hand gripping my scabbard.

The explosion slams the gunman backward and spews a jet of blue smoke that swallows the attackers. The rumble rolls and echoes off nearby hills, and within the lingering cloud, a body groans and tumbles to the dirt. The remaining three stand flat-footed, and dazzled, blinking and coughing. The leader stands, and does not cough.

The gunman is still staggering for his stance when I reach the clump of bandits. Compared to the fury of the musket, my footfalls were silent, and I remain unnoticed even as my sword flies free and flashes sideways at the nearest man. I catch him in the neck and slide the deadly top third of the blade into his flesh. I feel the tip nick his spine as I pull the steel free of the gurgling body. He does not scream, only bubbles and spews hot blood all over the path.

In front of me, the leader is striding toward the gunman, who has his scythe in a knuckle-whitening grip. The remaining lackey turns and begins to see me, no doubt noticing the fresh corpse, or the lack of companions. He begins to see me, but my sword unzips his ribs along the back with a powerful downward sweep, slicing a clean diagonal through his spine. I miss the heart, but catch a piece of both lungs, which suck air like a toothless man slurping soup. He tumbles forward, landing his face into the road at the feet of his leader.

The final bandit is mid-swing when that body hits the dirt. The jagged edge of his weapon whistles down upon the head of the cart driver. He swings the thing like a club, with no shearing action that gives the katana its elegant efficiency. The strike goes home, despite the poor technique, and bounces a heavy blow against the wagoneer’s skull. The driver goes down, bright red blood tinting his hair, but I know the blade didn’t get through the skull. The fortunate man would have a headache, a scar, and a bald patch, but he would also survive this fight. For now, though, he is on the ground, unconscious, leaving the last bandit to me.

He turns and faces me, and I square off. I let him make the first move: he raises the ruined sword above his head in a huge wind up. I could gut him before he swings, but there is the chance that he finishes the heavy handed swing before he manages to die. The blade whistles down. His arm muscles are bulged. He seems to move so slow. I side step the strike easily, and he swings clear to the ground with his entire body curled behind the blow. When he strikes the dirt, his body is hunched with his head lurched forward. He clearly doesn’t know what to do next. I clear the confusion by stepping my weight into a neat stab through his eyeball. Metal scrapes bone as his skull guides my strike into his brain, and his feet jerk from beneath him as I free my weapon of his falling body. The corpse is still twitching as I wipe the gore from my sword.

I take a moment more to listen. The man who was shot is still alive, groaning. He will die. It could take days, and I am in no mood for mercy killing. Other than that, I sense no danger, so I scoop the limp wagon driver up and load him with his goods in the back. With some careful maneuvering, I manage to get the cart turned around. Where he came from is far nearer than where he is going, and his wound will certainly become infected if it is not cleaned quickly. And so I become the cart driver, clopping through the dark.