Swans Over the Moon Read Online Free

success in
melee (he had cut down at least five since his horse died, and
taken as many with his falling steed), his knights were slowly
losing to the Scaramouche's superior numbers. Doubt now began to
prod at the edges of his thoughts, and he wondered if his
confidence would begin to bleed out of him, assuring his
defeat.
    He thought he heard one of his knights
nearby, a familiar voice among the chaos. He cut down two more of
the enemy with one stroke on the way to his battle companion's
voice. Too late did he realize that the voice screaming above the
din belonged not to one of his knights, but to a woman, and that
his foray had landed him even deeper in the midst of the enemy.
Doubt was making inroads, and a tingling fear rose in his gullet.
The battle pushed outward, away from him, like an expanding bubble.
The growing void around him did nothing to embolden him. Instead,
he felt naked and vulnerable. This apprehension to exposure
scattered his battle focus so that he startled when he turned and
saw Cimbri in the expanding circle. He knew then that it was her
voice that had drawn him there.
     
    White Ke5
    Black Qe6
     
    They spotted each other simultaneously and
both were struck by the cosmic inevitability of their encounter
here, alone, at the heart of the battle. They circled each other,
looking for an opening to present itself, an opportunity to strike,
she with a blood-encrusted bayonet, he with his rapier and poniard.
The clatter of battle continued to recede from them, the shuffling
of feet and dust and their breathing becoming louder in the eerie
vacuum.
    Cimbri had the demeanor of a crazed dog, hair
standing out at odd angles, eyes agape, blood and saliva falling
from her mouth. Every nerve was aware and tingling with
electricity. Blood-lust overtook her.
    She used the length of her weapon to keep the
Judicar at bay. He feinted with a downward thrust toward her legs,
but she caught the deception, following through with a low strike,
piercing his thigh deep into muscle until she hit bone with the tip
of the blade. She smiled a crazed smile, twisting the bayonet with
a turn of her wrist and a grunt of effort, holding her weapon
against the Judicar's leg bone, further emphasizing his
vulnerability. But her face dropped quickly into despair as he took
advantage of her gloating, hacking her strong hand off at the wrist
with one swift slash in her momentarily glory-numbed second of
inaction. She dropped to one knee as he slid his leg off the
bayonet. The pain of extraction burned and pounded far more than
the pain of the initial penetration. He limped over to where she
knelt, in a whirlwind of confusion, unable to steady her weapon
while simultaneously gripping the stump of her wrist. She quickly
put her free hand to her breasts, tearing out a frilly jabot and
pressing it to the crimson-spilling wound to staunch the
uncontrolled flow of blood.
    The Judicar lowered the point of his sword to
her neck, held her chin up with the weapon's blade. He looked into
the eyes of the daughter he once loved.
    In his peripheral vision he caught flashes of
ivory on black through the dust, the muffled pattering of
approaching footsteps drummed from somewhere beyond his sight. A
warm gust of wind blew the wall of dust away and the Judicar looked
around to find himself surrounded by Scaramouche, three dozen or
so, their bayonets all pointed toward the familial pair, a fanged
maw of steel about to sink its teeth into the prey.
    “Stalemate,” he rasped.
    “No,” she conceded, “you have won. I will
soon pass out from blood loss and they will flee, leaderless. You
will, no doubt, rout their army and kill the weak and the
stragglers. But before that, I want you to hear and understand.”
She shivered, and her breathing became erratic. Her eyes fluttered
uncontrollably, though she strained hard to maintain
consciousness.
    “You have fought bravely. I will grant this
request – as one warrior to another.” Any hint of