I Know Not (The Story of Fox Crow) Read Online Free PDF
Author: James Daniel Ross
performers parrying every strike believe every strike should be parried, even those that wouldn’t ever have hit. It was a simple trick to swing far to his right. He was inexperienced enough to try to parry it and even simpler to triple the force behind the handle and spin the sword in a screaming vertical arc to take his over–extended sword arm from his body.
That’s the nice thing about the arm. There are dozens of nasty creatures of the night that will fight on mangled and mutilated, but humans tend to stop and scream. He did, and thus lost any interest in harming me.
I heard the thump of booted feet behind me and I spun, dropping into a crouch and swinging my weapon low. The Spiked–Club bandit had been aiming for my head. Never aim for the head. Aim for the groin. Heads duck, but groins don’t usually go anywhere until the very last moment. I was a little high, unable to get the blade to bite into his legs. The shock of the phantom crashing through his ribs like matchsticks and collapsing his lung removed the embarrassment of my slight misstep. Dead, after all, is dead. The sword slid from his vitals as if oiled, and I was back to en garde before the shock of his instant death had lifted.
Three, as I had dubbed him, was more cautious. He slowed, having seen his two mates felled in seconds, he was confident he could take me while his comrades watched his rear. His comrades happened to be the one screaming and dying behind him, but I was too busy killing him to tell him that.
The guardsmen held back, making them smarter than the hoods they had just watched me dispatch. Entering a fight was always risky because a back swing aimed at an enemy in front can kill a friend behind just as easily. Unfortunately, that meant I would have to kill him alone.
Great Western sagas tell about warriors trading blow after blow, never slacking in their will to win. I know different, thankfully so did my arms. Real men parry because blows that kiss flesh hurt, my only complaint was someone had obviously told him as well. Our blades having met and shaken hands, we circled around to begin our personal war in earnest.
He felt me out, and I him. Cuts and stabs were sidestepped and dodged. He was the inferior with steel; he was the more tired, he had a shorter reach and less powerful weapon with no shield to make up the loss. All the coins tallied in my favor and staring into my eyes, he saw that I knew it, too. Had he came in quickly like his partner, it would have been quick. Now he would have to wait for me to kill him slowly and safely. He knew his business, attacking quickly and cleanly, not like Mr. Spike Club—too eager to kill to live. I could not count the number of inbred bastards who had rushed in to end their life on my blade, too dumb to realize–
WHAT?
His steel slid into my vitals like a firebrand pushed into my belly. I felt wet things once attached slide away from one another in ways that cannot be described. The Fog had betrayed me, letting an image flit past when most I needed clarity. He began to retreat whirling his blade in a flourish, savoring a victory that was not won.
“I’m still alive, you dog fondler.” I lashed out, again and again, a hail of blows like the rumbles of distant thunder.
“Thomorgon take you.” he spat. Evoking the name of the God of Death to draw his attention to me.
I growled a far more vile curse, calling upon a God far darker, “Isahd devour you first.”
He parried and dodged, but found that there was nowhere to go. My life was pouring out of me and I knew it. There is nothing more dangerous than a man who thinks you have just killed him, because he has nothing left to look forward to except having company on the trip to hell.
My blade batted his aside, sending it arcing into the bush, then swept back to his crown, smashing through
That’s the nice thing about the arm. There are dozens of nasty creatures of the night that will fight on mangled and mutilated, but humans tend to stop and scream. He did, and thus lost any interest in harming me.
I heard the thump of booted feet behind me and I spun, dropping into a crouch and swinging my weapon low. The Spiked–Club bandit had been aiming for my head. Never aim for the head. Aim for the groin. Heads duck, but groins don’t usually go anywhere until the very last moment. I was a little high, unable to get the blade to bite into his legs. The shock of the phantom crashing through his ribs like matchsticks and collapsing his lung removed the embarrassment of my slight misstep. Dead, after all, is dead. The sword slid from his vitals as if oiled, and I was back to en garde before the shock of his instant death had lifted.
Three, as I had dubbed him, was more cautious. He slowed, having seen his two mates felled in seconds, he was confident he could take me while his comrades watched his rear. His comrades happened to be the one screaming and dying behind him, but I was too busy killing him to tell him that.
The guardsmen held back, making them smarter than the hoods they had just watched me dispatch. Entering a fight was always risky because a back swing aimed at an enemy in front can kill a friend behind just as easily. Unfortunately, that meant I would have to kill him alone.
Great Western sagas tell about warriors trading blow after blow, never slacking in their will to win. I know different, thankfully so did my arms. Real men parry because blows that kiss flesh hurt, my only complaint was someone had obviously told him as well. Our blades having met and shaken hands, we circled around to begin our personal war in earnest.
He felt me out, and I him. Cuts and stabs were sidestepped and dodged. He was the inferior with steel; he was the more tired, he had a shorter reach and less powerful weapon with no shield to make up the loss. All the coins tallied in my favor and staring into my eyes, he saw that I knew it, too. Had he came in quickly like his partner, it would have been quick. Now he would have to wait for me to kill him slowly and safely. He knew his business, attacking quickly and cleanly, not like Mr. Spike Club—too eager to kill to live. I could not count the number of inbred bastards who had rushed in to end their life on my blade, too dumb to realize–
WHAT?
His steel slid into my vitals like a firebrand pushed into my belly. I felt wet things once attached slide away from one another in ways that cannot be described. The Fog had betrayed me, letting an image flit past when most I needed clarity. He began to retreat whirling his blade in a flourish, savoring a victory that was not won.
“I’m still alive, you dog fondler.” I lashed out, again and again, a hail of blows like the rumbles of distant thunder.
“Thomorgon take you.” he spat. Evoking the name of the God of Death to draw his attention to me.
I growled a far more vile curse, calling upon a God far darker, “Isahd devour you first.”
He parried and dodged, but found that there was nowhere to go. My life was pouring out of me and I knew it. There is nothing more dangerous than a man who thinks you have just killed him, because he has nothing left to look forward to except having company on the trip to hell.
My blade batted his aside, sending it arcing into the bush, then swept back to his crown, smashing through