The Fight

He did not hesitate.

With a muffled grunt he began a limping run towards the three men. The tip of the sword clanked to the ground, it was too heavy to carry in both hands and move at speed. The notched sword carved a thin trench through the old wood of the bridge as he dragged it behind him, his right arm ached fiercely under the weight of the blade.

The three men stood their ground.

Two more steps.

Tears coursed down his face with each step of his wounded leg, the embedded wooden spike tearing through the muscle of his thigh.

One more step.

The two men holding short blades, they looked more like rusty farm tools, raised their weapons. The third held the blood soaked ruined blade he had retrieved earlier, gibbering to his allies. They glanced at him and stepped backwards, the cackling man approached alone.

He had counted correctly. With one final lunging step (on his good leg) he pulled himself into range of his first enemy. He let go of the sword, steadying himself. It crashed to the ground loudly, his assailant stopped short – confused.

He reached out with his plated hands, grasping the man by the back of neck. He cried out in fury and pain, whipping his left leg backwards – the wound wept dark blood. He pulled at the head of his attacker yanking it down, his leg careened forward thigh first. The exposed chunk of wood punched easily into the mans head, he jerked madly for a few seconds and fell limp, blade clunking to the floor.

The pain in his leg faded for a brief moment, he felt victorious. 

 

 Steel slid across the right side of his ribcage.

“No..” He jerked to left as quickly as he could.

The blade thrust forward, tearing through his undergarments and slicing a deep wound in his side. He screamed and sank to a knee, clutching the wound. He heard foot steps approaching from his other side.

Metal whistled through the air, but found no connection. He had dropped to the ground, anticipating the wild strike of his foe. In his hand he now clutched the sword again, he adjusted his grip quickly.

The crazed man had over committed to his swing and was still regaining his balance. This was not to be.

He pushed himself to his knees and lashed out with the sword. The man toppled over, garbling a horrifying scream, his left knee sheared across the top. Blood boiled from his leg, he twitched on the ground moaning. The sword had slipped from his grip at the end of the swing – clanking uselessly over the edge of the bridge spinning into the unknown.

One more.

His final problem, for the moment, seized him from the right. His arms wrapped around him like links of iron chain despite their apparent frailty. He grunted and struggled, twisting furiously and even lifting the crazed figure off of the ground and spinning him around. He soon began to tire.

Foolish.

He couldn't catch his breath. His vision faded from vibrant color to misty gray and white. The arms remained cinched around him, squeezing viciously. He couldn't achieve the leverage necessary to strike out with his elbow. The man began laughing, a raspy blood filled cackle. 

 

“Tired?” The grip released. He pitched to the ground, his swollen cheek landing on the splintery wood. The pain normally would have been a cause for great distress.

I'm going to die.

His mind raced. He could find no foothold, no memories of a long life lived in happiness, no warm familiar faces to see him off to wherever he was about to go. No memory at all. Nothing.

A sharp blow struck him in the ribcage, aimed at his wound. He cried out and crumpled into the fetal position, blood oozed between his clenched teeth.

“DO IT!” He screamed between gasps. Blood and spittle flew through the air, spattering the man's feet. “What are you WAITING FO-” he looked up, the man was gazing across the bridge with a strange look on his face. The ferocity drained from his eyes.

He took the opportunity to scoot away as quietly as he could, following his attacker's gaze.

“Impossible.”

At the far end of the drawbridge, amongst the piles of cracked lumber a body rose. Clad in silver armor, scratched but impressive nonetheless. The figure slumped to the ground, unable to rise. The crazed man was still staring.

No more.

He pounced at the man's legs, a startled cry broke the air. They crashed to the ground. Before the man could react he had seized his right hand which still clutched the strange short blade, and slammed it onto the ground. The grip did not loosen.

Light and sound exploded on the left side of his head as he was dealt a blow by the man below him, he shook his head sweeping away the strange shapes drifting through his vision. He seized the hand and began prying at fingers. The man screamed.

“LET.”

He pulled at an index finger, the digit twisted and snapped.

“IT.”

The man was howling, punching madly at his face and back. He gripped the mans thumb and wrenched it to the right.

“GO!” The sound of a ripe twig snapping echoed through the air. The blade thudded to the ground. The man screamed, holding his maimed hand within his left guarding the ruined fingers. He kicked out with his legs weakly.

The scabby feet dragged across his bloodied tunic, attempting to push him back feebly. He didn't care.

“Hello..?” Echoed from across the bridge. The voice was hard to understand.

He grasped one of the kicking feet and dragged the man towards him. The heel of the other foot jabbed him in the side, a grimace of pain arched across his face. He tugged on the mans leg harder. He was close now.

He seized the stained tunic (woolen after all) and pulled, bringing the howling man to a sitting position. He clenched his metal clad right hand and fired it into the man's throat. Shock exploded in the man's bulging eyes, he crashed to the ground surrounded by air he couldn't breathe.

He kicked the struggling man away from him, the frantic light in his eyes dying slowly as the oxygen burned out of his system.

He let himself lean over and eventually fall to his unwounded side. The world was pain. He started to drift away from consciousness only to be shaken awake a few moments later. A man stood over him, but something was different.

In between the blasts of pain within his skull he could barely make out his outline. He knelt over him dressed in a similar black under-tunic.

“The armor..,” he coughed weakly, “was heavy.”

The man uttered something muffled, it didn't matter. A deep spinning blackness had come to take him away from the pain. He welcomed it.