Chapter Fifty-One: Wounds

Chapter Fifty-One: Wounds

Honeyfield didnt grin or gloat. He didnt grimace or snarl. He looked like he hadnt slept in a month, and wanted to go to bed. He simply stood, looking half asleep, mostly facing Val, waiting for them to make their move.

Val obliged him. Tom felt mana surge in her at the same time that she thrust her sword, quick as a snake. A green lash snapped out at their opponent as well.

Honeyfields two daggers appeared in hand again, sleek and black, and he moved to parry. Val denied him the opportunity, feinting, then changing the angle of her attack to thrust at his chest.

Tom took his opportunity while they were engaged, and stabbed his spear into Honeyfields leg. Sesame moved forward too, blocking Honeyfield from escaping in his direction, but unable to attack him without potentially injuring Val or Tom. Sometimes, the big bears size worked against him.

Tom sent him rapid commands, asking that he stay back, and wait for an opportunity to use his roar, similar to Scorns tactics. He doubted the bears tough fur and hide would stand up to Honeyfields blades.

Vals sword pierced Honeyfields chest just as Toms spear took him in the back of his left thigh. He tried to swipe his other dagger at Vals stomach again, but she was quicker, expecting it this time, and dodged backwards to avoid it by a hair. Tom withdrew slightly as well, wary of his extreme speed and deadly blades.

Honeyfield did laugh then, a quiet wheezing, and he whispered to them with lungs filling with blood.

I love a good wound, dont you?

Then he attacked.

He became a whirlwind, striking at Val almost too fast to see. Val managed to stave off the assault, if only barely. The staccato pinging of metal meeting metal echoed all around.

Tom was slightly stupefied. This was two high-tier Idealists going all out. The sheer speed, the dexterity, the cognition, the strength! going into every blow and counter was incredible.

But Val was losing. Tom could see it. She was passing average with her sword, and had the body tempering that came with her high tier Ideals, and still, she was losing. Slowly, granted, but sooner or later, she would slip.

Honeyfield was faster. He was stronger. He was more agile. He had an entire extra Ideal on Val. Tom wouldnt be surprised if getting wounded gave him some kind of buff, from the looks of things too. Most importantly, he was better with the sword.

Tom could see Val lagging, see her trying furiously to come up with some way to buy herself space, to actually create an opening to damage him - anything. And she was coming up short.

All this from a few furious seconds of clashing. And then something changed.

Vals eyes went wide, and Honeyfield grinned wider.

He dropped his daggers. Drop may have been the wrong word. He certainly let go of them. But they didnt fall.

They hung in the air, right where he left them, and then began to circle Val. His greatsword materialised in his hands again.

Val clenched her jaw, and her eyes went stony. Something in Toms gut felt like it had been tipped over a long drop. He knew what that look meant. He had to help.

He moved forward, and stabbed, and found his thrust fouled by one of the flying daggers. It turned on him threateningly, feinting attacks at him. He snapped his spear around in a flourish, striking it on the flat of its blade, and sent it hurtling away into the woods.

The momentary distraction was all Honeyfield needed.

He advanced on Val again, again a tempest. His greatsword was far too heavy to be properly parried by Vals own needle-like sword, and now she had to dodge, losing even more ground.

It ended suddenly. She moved to avoid a sweeping cut and his remaining dagger punched forward, into her back. Triumphant, he brought his greatsword high for the execution.

Val roared, and threw herself at him, feral, all poise and precision abandoned. Tom felt mana flare in her again and again, as she gave him everything she had. Surprise flickered in Honeyfields eyes, but he recovered quickly. He accepted Vals sword through his chest, took a couple of solid punches to his ribs, and then it was done.

Just like that, it was over.

Val jerked. Honeyfield pushed her off him, and she slumped to the ground, a puppet with her strings cut. A double handful of small blades, the same hed been using to throw, were nestled in her stomach. Smitten howled and rushed to her side.

He turned, and Tom immediately jabbed his spear into his face. Honeyfield casually poked it off course with a small knife. One arm hung limp at his side. He reached up to the hilt of Vals sword, and drew it from himself. He shuddered, but as though in ecstasy, not pain. He absently tossed Vals sword to the ground.

A great yowl ripped apart the silence, and green beams lanced at Honeyfield from the canopy. Several pierced him through, but he withstood them, and flicked the knife in his hand back along their trajectory. No more came.

It was a thrust, perfect as any textbook. It would have made any Combat Instructor at the Academy write home about it to their parents. It would have given any Guard who saw it tales for the beer hall for a decade.

Tom shifted, swung his back foot out smooth, pivoted his weight, and drew his front foot along the earth. Leaves were disturbed, but only barely. The broad blade whistled, just slightly, as it cut past him. He poked the point of the sword into Honeyfields leading wrist. He twisted, delicately, and removed it, gentle as a fat, pretentious noble dabbing their lips after soup.

Honeyfield stumbled on the follow through. Just slightly, but it was there. He turned, and Tom saw, he knew, that Honeyfield was struggling to support the weight of the sword. He looked at Tom, with those sleep-ringed, sunken eyes, for a long, languid moment. The sword disappeared. His two wicked black daggers replaced it. And he came on again.

He lunged at Tom, trying for his earlier impression of an unrelenting, savage storm, but came up all blow and bluster. If his earlier assault on Val had produced staccato pinging, then the sound of their rapid strikes and parries and blocks could now have passed for Forge Street before a market festival.

Tom began to grin. He looked into Honeyfields eyes, willing him to see it. And he did. And his anger got the better of him, spurring him to attack even harder, even faster. It did him no good. It was sad, really.

Tom was faster now, much faster than before. With all the buffs Honeyfield had unknowingly given him, he was the fastest hed ever been. But he was still not actually any faster than Honeyfield.

No, he was just better.

He had trained with the sword since he was old enough to walk. Had it beaten into him every, single, day from then on until he couldnt walk any longer. He had strived and strained for the sword with every single iota of his being.

He had not manifested it. He didnt even like them. But he was still leagues better than Honeyfield, all other things being equal.

Honeyfield was a blitz. And Tom grew bored of him.

Now, he thought, and took a half step back, off tempo, throwing off Honeyfields rhythm completely.

A group of tiny sparrows flitted inwards, flapping and fluttering directly in Honeyfields face. Every line of his body spoke rigid surprise.

Okay, he thought again, and thrust.

The sparrows dispersed. Honeyfield stared dumbly at Tom, swaying on his feet, Vals sword planted directly through the bridge of his nose, just below and between his ordinary eyebrows.

Sesame roared, and his body juddered, shot through with obsidian. A few whisper tags exploded quietly on his arms. He fell over backwards like a board, dead. Tom felt his life force leave him like a cloud had passed over a summers sun.

He stared at him grimly, for a moment. The last of the wound he had caused him knit itself seamlessly back together under his massive regeneration. He sighed, suddenly feeling very exhausted.

A high whining brought him back to reality.

Smitten? Smitten!

He rushed to where the dog was cradled up against Vals body. Scorn was sitting beside her head, looking agitated in the extreme. Smitten was gently licking at the wounds on Vals stomach. One hand of her hands grasped her long grey fur. It seemed so tiny and weak and horribly grey.

Then it twitched.

Tom gasped, and dropped to his knees. He felt clumsily at her throat. He waited.

Alive! He thought, triumphant, as he felt her faint pulse flutter under his fingers. Shes still alive!

Smitten had some sort of healing. He had no idea how it worked though. It must have been enough to keep her from death, but he didnt know if it would stay that way.

He racked his brains for a solution. He had no potions that would do her any good. They had no more mice between them. He was lost.

He sat, Smittens whines piercing his heart. He wouldnt accept this. He had to do something!

He sent rapid orders to Sesame, and the bear snapped several young trees and dragged them over. Tom pulled a sheet of canvas from his inventory. He would build a travois.

Within minutes, he was done. He gently picked Val up and placed her in the travois, fixed to Sesas broad, dependable shoulders. Then he set out for Wayrest, as fast as he dared. Two weeks, unburdened.

He would just have to hope Smitten could keep her alive.