Uvoren glanced at the Sacred Guard, back at Pryce and then let out a roar of laughter. He hefted Marrow-Hunter in his hands and chuckled at the expression on Pryce’s face. “I don’t take orders from disgraced lictors whose allegiance flits from one man to another like a sparrow,” he said. “Settling everywhere but at his captain. If the Black Lord wants to speak to me, he can come and find me here; with my Guard.”
Pryce rolled his eyes and swore tiredly. He dismounted and took a step towards Uvoren, ignoring the war hammer that was raised as he approached. “I’m tired, sir,” he said softly, barely moving his lips. “A friend of mine has died because of your stupidity. So I’m going to ask you one last time. Present yourself to the Black Lord. Face justice at his hand. Or at mine.” And he drew his shattered half-sword, holding it low before him.
Uvoren just laughed again. “You propose to duel me?” He cast an eye over Pryce’s truncated sword. “With that? Is this a joke?”
Pryce was still a long moment. Still in the way that a snake’s head is motionless as it gathers its coils behind it. He just stared at Uvoren, who had stopped smiling. Then he lunged at the captain with his astonishing speed: half-blade raking upwards towards Uvoren’s face. It was not even a blow to kill: it was a blow to hurt and to maim.
But the captain had been expecting the attack and thrust his hammer forward, stepping close and body-checking Pryce forcefully. Pryce staggered, his blow deflected and his blade flying out of his hand with the force of Uvoren’s parry. He tried to dance backwards but Uvoren had trodden on his foot which was now pinned to the ground and Pryce fell hard, twisting to the floor. He gave a little grunt as his ankle was forced into an unnatural extension by the pressure of Uvoren’s foot, sprawling to the ground as Uvoren took a massive overhead swing at his head. Pryce twisted aside, ripping his foot free from beneath Uvoren’s boot and rolling away from the war hammer, which hit the earth by his head with a flat smack.
Pryce scrambled away, staggering upright as his torn right ankle almost gave way beneath him. He hobbled back from Uvoren, unarmed and injured. Uvoren was smiling again. “I didn’t expect much, Pryce. But I expected more than this. You can’t fight me.” Pryce was limping badly as he cast around on the floor for another weapon, but there were none in evidence. Uvoren stood between him and his shattered blade, war hammer raised.
Then the captain rushed at Pryce, checking just before he hit the guardsman, who attempted to retreat as Uvoren swung Marrow-Hunter at him. Pryce ducked, the war hammer moaning as it swept through the air just above his head, but Uvoren kept swinging and managed to manoeuvre Marrow-Hunter’s weight so that the steel handle struck Pryce on the chin. Pryce staggered back, dazed, but his practised legs operated without input and, in an odd, hopping sprint, he managed to withdraw from Uvoren’s range. His eyes swept the ground once more, seeking a weapon of some kind.
Then a voice shouted behind from behind him. “Pryce!” Pryce turned and saw Leon, the guardsman who had killed Lord Northwic beside the sea, drawing his sword. He tossed it at Pryce’s feet and Pryce stooped quickly to snatch it up, eyes always on Uvoren. The captain’s eyes were wide at this display of support from Leon but he quickly recovered himself, giving a little snort.
“Come on, then, Pryce!” he roared. “Come and face me!” Uvoren lunged forward. Pryce was struggling to manoeuvre himself on his injured foot and took a clumsy swing at Uvoren as he retreated. Uvoren blocked and countered in a diagonal blow that Pryce had to pivot to avoid, putting him off balance. Uvoren, poised and balanced still, mirrored Pryce’s pivot with far more control and raised a leg, booting Pryce in the chest. The smaller man was sent sprawling backwards, where he almost lost his sword again. He re-gripped the handle and was on his feet once more before Uvoren had time to crowd him, sword raised and threatening.
There was something beneath Pryce’s foot. Looking down, he saw that their latest exchange had placed him at the site he had lost his sword last time and that its blade’s ragged edge was beneath his boot. Pryce stooped suddenly to snatch at it with his left hand, so that when he straightened, he was facing Uvoren with two blades.
Uvoren was standing off, looking hungrily at Pryce’s injured ankle. Both of them knew that was an almost insurmountable weakness. A weapon of Marrow-Hunter’s weight could not be blocked with a sword. At full swing, its momentum was too great. It had to be dodged: a task of exceeding difficulty with only one working foot. But Pryce did not look worried. He looked furious. One of Uvoren’s blows had reopened the cut that Garrett had made on his jaw and it was bleeding freely again, with Pryce spraying a crimson fountain on each exhalation. “With one foot or two,” he snarled at Uvoren. “Half a sword or a whole one, I will break you apart, Captain.”
Then Pryce charged. He stuttered forward on his unstable ankle, twisting slightly as he surged towards Uvoren but maintaining his course. Uvoren used his greater mobility, stepping one way in a feint before bringing the hammer across in a sweeping final blow, designed to crush Pryce, who was too weak and moving too fast to change direction. Pryce twisted at the waist, trying to limit Marrow-Hunter’s impact so that it clipped his shoulder instead of striking him full-on. There was a noise, somewhere between a crack and
