Kaylee slithered towards the barely-seen cloth of red, hidden behind several layers of thornbush and tree... warily, she approached, for it was very early in their game, and she found it hard to believe Azail would be caught so easily.
Nor was she wrong. Pinned to the trunk of a twisted swamp-tree by her shaft, a torn rag of red cloth hung limply.. Drawing conclusion and reacting with the lightning speed of one who spars with demons, Kaylee whirled around to face the opponent she knew must even now be attacking her from behind.
There was a crack as her bow was shattered by a blow from that ironlike fist; by the time she whirled around to face the tree-pinned cloth Azail had disappeared again into the swamp.
She understood his game now. Not willing to gamble against her danger-honed speed, he had faked her out by playing on her paranoid reflexes. He had been hiding behind the very tree she was staring at, waiting for her to turn her back before he attacked. Apparently he was feeling playful today, since he only took her weapon. She could guess what that meant; as she pulled the throwing discs from her pouch she was sure she'd end up losing them, too, before the game was over.
How had he known when she turned, though? He was never one to guess at these things. Then it came to her - he was watching her reflection in the swamp-water. "Only him", she thought to herself. Only he would dare challenge her at such odds, pitting only his body against all of her arsenal.
The discs were serrated and edged as razors, sharp enough to slice through the armor-like hide of demons, if thrown with sufficient force, and Kaylee had force and to spare.
She spotted him again... he was standing a hundred feet away; considering how dense the swamp was it was a miracle she had a clear, unobstructed line of fire to him, but before she could think on this her reflexes had taken over and the deadly discs were spinning towards him.
He caught them. Pinched between thumb and forethinger, his hands like gauntlets unharmed by their blades. And he returned them. They came whistling through the air back towards her, slashing through her arm, her shoulder, her hip, and drawing her blood out to mix with the murky water of the swamp..
She realized now he had chosen this place to spotted on purpose. He wanted her to attack with the discs from a goodly distance, so he would have enough time to react and catch them. She had more left, but she withdrew her hand from the pouch, realizing they wouldn't help her. Though he had drawn blood she waited, tensed, coiled and ready to attack, the balefire burning in her eyes as Azail stalked towards her. He hadn't beaten her yet.
Suddenly, he crouched, then sprung towards her, landing in front of her and sending a splash of swamp-water into her face, blinding her for a second... she reacted instinctively, lashing out with her serpentine tail to coil it around his legs and hold him there, out of fists' reach but close enough for her swords...
Her eyes cleared as her hands shattered, dropping the blades they'd drawn into the swamp-water where they were lost in the dim depths. She saw Azail's leg coil for his third kick, and then her world exploded in a haze of pain as his steel-hard foot slammed into her chin.
(Azail had landed on only one foot, the other foot raised as high as he could without taking it above the water-level, so that when the tail-lash he expected came he'd still have one leg free.)
Pulverized by a few more kicks, her tail grew limp and released its hold. Azail leaped upon her, shoving her weakened body down into the swamp. He landed atop her, descending a hail of punches upon her chest and face. He stopped then, and looked into her eyes.... they still shone with the fires of violence. She was close to death, and he still hadn't beaten her.
He leaned in close to her bloodied face, then, and paused. She could hear the sound of his breath and heartbeat, though hers had started to grow too faint to discern. He studied the glint of her fangs, the glistening tresses of raven-dark hair, the delicate chin and shoulders, such features of beauty that lay beneath the blood and muck.
Azail has never been able to explain to anyone else, in terms they could understand, just what he felt then. It was neither lust, nor hatred, nor love, nor aesthetic apprection of beauty, or abject terror; it was something partaking in some part of each of these.
As the light behind her eyes flickered and her body grew limp, he whispered to her. "Later. Perhaps I will kill you later."
She was ready for the rematch by the end of the week.
| Tueday, October 21, 1997 |
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