220 Servant of the Axe – Farewell, Farlaine

Chapter Type: Conflict (vs other)

So, add poison into the mix.

Meh.

I mean, I’m not immune to ... most poisons. But like Bleeding and Disease, they were conditions that I had built up defenses against. Causes are literally everywhere in nature, and I do so enjoy continuing to survive.

There are those who want for a close contest, to say that they battled against nature and won. I’d rather that nature tired itself out just getting into my bloodstream, where it was beaten mercilessly until it gave up.

Speaking of close battles, Farlaine had switched tactics, using stop-thrusts to keep me at range. His sweating was more evident, and his breathing hard. Sure, he can use up as much fatigue as he wanted, as fast as he wanted.

Because when you’re tired...

I darted in immediately after his thrust, slashing at the height of his chest. He was able to slam the hilt of his sword into my head as I passed. There was an uncomfortable crunching noise from that area, and my vision on that side suddenly became tinted with red.

But my slash connected, with a force that helped spin me around to face him. It was more like hitting someone in plate, except for the burst of blood from his wound.

.....

[You have scored an ORANGE critical... You have scored a YELLOW critical for double damage!]

Wait, what?

I mean, there were abilities that did that. I had one, I just had to sacrifice my shield to do it.

Well, abilities had uses per day, didn’t they? I was close enough to thrust, but it struck his thick belt, doing no real damage. It stuck there, and my parry had time to slow his spinning slash, but not block it completely.

He drew back, sweating, shirt hanging open, showing a horizontal cut. He huffed, and SMILED.

“Second Wind!” he said. The sweat began evaporating off of him, and his breathing immediately settled.

Crap. I’d never unlocked that ability.

I’d never HAD to unlock that ability.

But he was using a style known as Florentine now. It’s showy, and requires a weapon in either hand, and it just burns fatigue points.

Against an untrained opponent, it can turn a battle; it’s a lot like a cheapskate’s version of Flurry of Blows. Or perhaps I’m being uncharitable. Lunges, by that logic, are a cheaper version of Flash Step.

In any case, against a prepared, trained, defensive fighter, such as myself, such things were less effective. Oh, he pushed me around the dueling area. For a time, there was nothing but defense for me.

Oh, and the poison on the dagger? When he cut me, it registered as a Neural poison, meaning it did nerve damage, against the mental track. I was tempted to look at it, but a distraction like that was just something you didn’t do in battle.

It was rating four; I left the System to handle it.

If he was expecting more from the dagger, he was careful not to show it. The blows continued coming, long and short. Short and long.

“Second Wind!” he said, but it was long enough to take a strike at his knife hand. As though he hadn’t seen my blow, he moved forward to stab with that same hand. My thrust hit his lower left arm, parallel to the bone.

historical

[You have scored an ORANGE critical for... ORANGE critical for four times normal damage.]

The dagger flew from his limp grasp, rebounded off my scales, and came to rest on the grass.

Farlaine fell to his knees. “What? No. No, it’s just an arm hit. Muscle only. How...”

And then he fell forward, unconscious.

“Finish him!” screamed one of the women. Not the Mistress of the Duel, someone dressed as the Queen of Foxes. She even died her hair orange with a white stripe down the center; I thought that was an excellent touch.

The Mistress of the Duel nodded at me; I nodded back.

As I may have mentioned, the Flavian is a flexible sword. It has both a point and an edge, like an arming sword, but it is built to a shorter scale and thinner blade. It is capable, in the right hands, of cleaving through bone. The sword itself will be ruined, but you can do it.

I pulled a different tool from my inventory, the wood axe. It would also be dulled by this work, possibly be unusable. But... much cheaper to replace than my sword. There were murmurs, both of appreciation and depreciation from the crowd.

“Barbarian.” a Frog Lord hissed at me.

And so, I was; I was a monster and I was a barbarian. I knew there were laws and moreys and conventions and folkways, and if they didn’t apply to me, I wasn’t going to extend them to others.

I took up the woodsman’s stance, and struck until it was done. I moved the head away from the body with my foot, and left it there in the grass.

And then, I moved off a bit to take a knee. I was sweating, and breathing heavy, and my head felt like it was filled with cotton pillows. My sweat had a faint acrid odor, from...

The poison!

[You are not currently poisoned.] my System told me.

I felt like I could collapse, and just lay there insensate until morning.

Ah, found it.

[You have 5/30 sanity remaining.]

And that wasn’t even the deadliest poison available.

“Oh, do get up.” Madonna said. “You barely bled at all. At worst, you’re still at over half health points.”

“Poison.” I said, between gasps.

“Poison?” she said, louder than she needed to. She took my head into her hands, pressed a thumb painfully into the bruise near my right eye. “Oh, surprise, you have a concussion, too.”

“I really don’t.” I said. “It’s just a skull fracture.”

“Can you stand on your own?”

“It’s not my health, it’s my sanity. But yes, I think...” My limbs moved, like a novice playing with marionettes.

“No.” I said, “I need help.”

“And you’re slurring your words slightly.” She said, manhandling my arm over her shoulders, and using it like a lever to force me to stand.

It registered as painful, but not so much that it got past the throbbing wall of numbness in my head.

I stripped off the mask as we were passing through the side yard of the house. “I’m not... I can’t... I’m having trouble breathing.”

“Do I need to throw you down a well?” she asked.

“That might... might help.”

“Can you make it to the inn?”

“What? Three blocks? I can make three blocks.”

And I did. The stairs were like something out of a horror novel; it is a miracle I didn’t turn an ankle or worse going up them.

But when I next collapsed, it was onto my bed.

“There you go, you pansy. Poison.” She closed the door, and locked it from the outside.

I didn’t feel or smell much better in the morning, like a corpse someone had tried to preserve in lime juice. The fruit, not the chemical compound.

My left side was numb, from mid-thigh to mid-rib, and from fingertip to just beyond the shoulder.

I think the most productive thing I did that next day was use the chamber pot.

I had plenty of nutrition from the party; I didn’t need to eat, so I didn’t.

The next day, some devil wench who shall go unnamed unlocked the door; I cooked and cleaned pots and just stayed downstairs, on the floor behind the cooking counter waiting for feeling to come back to my left arm.

On the third day, I was almost normal. Everything still tasted faintly of limes, but I had a full range of motion back.

I needed a bath, as I was ... whatever adjective describes someone covered in dried sweat. I’m supposed to say that it is surprising how much even a simple bathing refreshes the mind and renews the spirit.

What was surprising is that the governor’s personal guard showed up while I was dressing.

“This, again?” I asked, pulling on a sock. “The governor can summon me with a note, I hope he knows.”

“Si, but there is a matter of him being seen to protect you.”

“Surely, two guards will do better than four?”

“Oh, no, sir. The governor will explain when we get to the palacio.”

The governor was busy, so his wife got to explain. Rumor had it that there was an assassin stalking me.

“I’m not a particularly hidden target.” I said. “These past few days must have seemed an ideal time to finish what Farlaine started.”

“La Tarantula Sangre has a particular method. She likes starting when her target is at full health.”

“What weapons should I be prepared for?”

It was a redheaded woman, short and petite who answered. “I use primarily rapier or the main gauge. I use poisons, curses, and magical attacks, favoring the divine domain of blood.”

She extended a hand to me, fingers down so I could kiss her wrist, as is expected between two of noble blood. “I, sir, am La Tarantula Sangre, the Red Tarantula, and I have come quite a long way to kill you.”