Moonrise

A Wolf-blood officer, the handsome one Baj recalled from the General's pavilion, came between them. 'We are not wasting time with this. Get it done – to the death or not – but get it done.'

George Brock-Robin nodded, and Baj said, 'Yes,' unbuckled his sword-belt, drew rapier and left-hand dagger from it, and tossed the belt behind him.

The crowd of soldiers, silent, circled and shifted until they'd made what they must have made many times before – a fighting space generous enough, of tundra carpeted with lichen and snow-streaked sedge.

A few gray thrushes flew past them, as if on more important business… To the north, the Wall loomed two miles high.

The handsome officer drew a cavalry saber, flourished it, then struck it across his cuirass, so steel rang on steel.

George Brock-Robin, shield up, came trotting.

Baj circled away to his right, keeping to the Person's left – his shield side. Brock cut that angle in a bounding rush, caught Baj as he backed away, and as their swords clashed on guard, points aside, hit him a smashing blow with the shield.

Baj thought he felt his right cheekbone crack, a little snap as his head went back. He spun full around to his right again to stay on Brock's shield side, avoid the short-sword. Blood was coming down his face; he could feel it. Should have guarded left-hand, with the dagger.

No sound from the watching soldiers.

Made more cautious – not by the injury, which hardly seemed to hurt at all, was only a numbness – but by Brock's moving so fast, striking so surely, Baj, smelling crushed grass in cold air, feinted changing his circling from right to left, and saw Brock's boots shift beneath the round shield to stay with him.

The Person stepped in and struck with his short-sword, thrusting low inside – a to-be-parried blow, it seemed to Baj, so Brock could judge his ward. Baj took the thrust in quinte on the left-hand dagger's long blade, gave with the blow's slashing power so it slid whining off his steel… then moved to his right again, cautious of the shield as Brock shifted – lightly, swiftly – to follow him.

Shield blow and sword thrust had proved the Person twice, perhaps three times stronger. There'd be no meeting him force to force, but only by indirection… As he circled to his right – careful, careful not to stumble – keeping away, keeping Brock's shield his shield as well, Baj saw the soldier had been trained to never leave his sword arm exposed, never be caught wrong footed, with his shield out of line. It was a fine way to fight in ranks – even open ranks.

For that sort of battle fighting, it was perfect – and Brock, immensely strong and very quick, appeared to use that strength with disciplined restraint.

But it seemed to Baj that the soldier's veteran practice might be used against him… And as they circled – he already feeling weary while Brock moved so smoothly, so fast, in a sort of close constant dancing – Baj suddenly stopped and stepped to the left. And as he saw, beneath the shield's rim, Brock's boots shift neatly to follow, he lunged full-length – knee almost to the grass – thrust down into the soldier's right boot, felt the blade-tip slide through leather to the splitting resistance of little bones – then recovered and was again circling to the right as Brock grunted and came after him… not limping.

Determined not to limp, apparently, Brock stepped out perhaps even more firmly – and Baj, just as he had the moment before, suddenly halted, feinted to the left, lunged and thrust into that booted foot again.

'Nasty,' the Master would have said. 'Unfair – and the perfect thing to do.'

His face no longer numb but in increasing pain where the shield had struck him, Baj circled again to the right, to Brock's shield side – swift blind sideways steps over uneven turf, invitations to trip and be killed, watched by a silent circling wall of soldiers. Blood was running down his cheek… his neck.

Brock, shield held a little lower, came after him – with him – his black boot spattering red. Limping now, but limping very swiftly, the Moonriser cut the angle again, drove into Baj with his shield, and thrust up to gut him.

Baj parried a second time with the left-hand dagger – felt his wrist sprained by impact hard as a horse's kick – and lunged turning off-balance to thrust his rapier's point down into Brock's suffering boot again, so firmly planted for that sword stroke. Then spun away, scuttling to his right as before. Fleeing, was what it was.

Brock seemed to take a moment to settle himself, to put pain in its place. Then, gazing annoyed over his shield rim, he came again.

Baj tried to flex his knife wrist, couldn't feel it as Brock struck at him – leading with the short-sword now, his wounded foot a little refused.

Baj tried to ward that fast stroke with the left-hand dagger again – parried it, lost the knife humming away from an agonized wrist – and leaped to thrust the rapier over Brock's shield. The shield came up to block and Baj whipped his blade away to feint at the injured foot now exposed. The shield came down, and Baj thrust high and over again and caught the soldier shallow in the throat – then side-stepped fast to his right from an instant savage rush and quick spearing thrusts of the short-sword, certain soon to catch him in the belly.

It seemed he'd managed only a slight injury, no more than an inch or two of slender steel into a massive throat, fur-tufted, corded with muscle.

Tiring… tiring, considering what next he must do, Baj misstepped on tundra turf but recovered, still circling away from that determined short-sword, snap-thrusting with more than human speed, quick as the tongue of some southern snake.

Breathing hard, Baj sidled to the right, circling, legs uncertain with fatigue – and knew that weariness, and having lost the left-hand dagger, were going to get him killed. Now he fled half-turned to his left, bringing the rapier's length across in limber parries of those murderous ringing strokes coming low inside.

He bitterly regretted having been so shy with that single thrust to the throat – an instant more of off-balance risk would have sent the steel another inch deeper. But he'd been afraid of Brock's blade.

Baj stumbled, circling… circling to the right, exhausted as if this had been a fight for hours. Brock still came after – the muzzle-face, gray eyes intent over the shield's rim – but perhaps came more slowly, without such driving ferocity.

Baj thought it might be the wounded foot; the soldier left wet red now with every step. The tundra's snow- dusted grass was dappled with bright blood along the circling way they'd fought. Some of that, Baj supposed, was from his face where the shield had struck him.

There was blood, also, at the soldier's mouth, a thread of it down one side into his whiskers as he came, moving more slowly He was making a sound. Baj, forever side-stepping to his right, away from that short-sword, heard it very clearly… a sort of soft snarling, but with liquid in it.

Brock suddenly stopped and stood still… Grateful, Baj stopped also, ceased the circling-away that was making him sick, with his cracked cheekbone hurting so badly. He stood taking deep breaths.

The soldier made that soft liquid sound again. Some blood came spilling from his mouth, as if he'd drunk blood, taken too big a swallow of it – and Baj realized George Brock couldn't breathe, had been strangling on his blood for some time. That inch or two of steel…

They looked into each other's eyes.

Then Brock coughed out a great spray of red – turned half-away… and whirling suddenly back, hurled his shield sliding off his left arm and scaling sideways so its edge slammed into Baj's shoulder as he tried to dodge, and knocked him down. Then the massive soldier, mouthing crimson foam, came staggering with his short-sword in his hand.

Baj rolled up and caught Brock on the rapier's point as he came. The thrust hesitated at the belly's massive muscle, then slid in. Up on one knee, gripping the hilt hard, Baj lunged to the right, turning full out and away so the rapier's blade – a foot of its length still buried – was left almost behind him, the slim steel deeply curved in desperate guard as the short-sword's edge swung in.

It was a clear sound at the shock, a bell's clanging note. The rapier, hammered, leaped free – and springing straight, numbed Baj's arm, but didn't break. Something, the short-sword's edge, glanced to just touch the right side of his head, above his ear, with a quick kissing sound.

Baj scrambled back… and saw George Brock-Robin slowly kneel, slowly go to all fours so the short-sword's bright blade was pressed into snowy grass, his massive head thrown back as he tried to breathe.

Baj then wanted… wished to do anything else. But instead, weary, trembling, he climbed to his feet – steadied, placed his sword's point – then drove the blade down through George's ribs… searched for the great heart, and