Lazar’s voice is such a small dry rasp that even if she thought she heard him, no she didn’t, because absolutely all of her attention is fixated on squirming and kicking away from that bandit’s weaving dagger, trying to keep it from a direct stab. Her leather armour would blunt the impact, but someone persistent could probably land a hit and this last man standing is— very persistent—
Her cheek hurts, having caught a wildly-flailing punch which’ll probably swell into a black eye tomorrow. It’s all messy, chaotic. These are not professionally-trained soldiers; they’re scrappy, undisciplined, hungry.
But over the bandit’s shoulder, she can see Lazar back on his feet and looming closer, big and broad and reinforcement-shaped. She’s still half-crushed between the other man and the bridge, using his weight against her even as he’s wheezing from the kick of her knee. Her eyes meeting Lazar’s, she tilts her head in one sharp motion, a wordless gesture meaning this direction,
and it’s at a good angle for her to lurch the bandit into position, Lazar’s knife to slip between his ribs from behind, for the surprise and pain and impact to carry the other man forward and both of them to tip him over the edge of the bridge, plummeting into the churning river below.
Was that the last of them? Looks like the last of them.
Astrid’s panting, half-draped over the stonework, watching his limp body carried away down the current. The adrenaline’s still pumping, from this small short burst of lethal violence in every direction. Similar things have happened before, when her hold’s trade routes or hunting routes were overrun by bandits and they had to push them back. The whole thing feels so annoyingly, pointlessly avoidable. If only they’d cleared out when they told them to.
She looks over at Lazar. The livid shapes of fingers pressed into his throat. “Thanks,” she says, for getting the last one, and “Sorry,” for her not having reached him when he was being— strangled? Maybe strangled.
good shit
Her cheek hurts, having caught a wildly-flailing punch which’ll probably swell into a black eye tomorrow. It’s all messy, chaotic. These are not professionally-trained soldiers; they’re scrappy, undisciplined, hungry.
But over the bandit’s shoulder, she can see Lazar back on his feet and looming closer, big and broad and reinforcement-shaped. She’s still half-crushed between the other man and the bridge, using his weight against her even as he’s wheezing from the kick of her knee. Her eyes meeting Lazar’s, she tilts her head in one sharp motion, a wordless gesture meaning this direction,
and it’s at a good angle for her to lurch the bandit into position, Lazar’s knife to slip between his ribs from behind, for the surprise and pain and impact to carry the other man forward and both of them to tip him over the edge of the bridge, plummeting into the churning river below.
Was that the last of them? Looks like the last of them.
Astrid’s panting, half-draped over the stonework, watching his limp body carried away down the current. The adrenaline’s still pumping, from this small short burst of lethal violence in every direction. Similar things have happened before, when her hold’s trade routes or hunting routes were overrun by bandits and they had to push them back. The whole thing feels so annoyingly, pointlessly avoidable. If only they’d cleared out when they told them to.
She looks over at Lazar. The livid shapes of fingers pressed into his throat. “Thanks,” she says, for getting the last one, and “Sorry,” for her not having reached him when he was being— strangled? Maybe strangled.