and I laughed.
“Afraid, are we?” I asked, advancing a half step.
He took the bait.
I am not small, but he was taller. But women balance better with sword forward and shield at a slant, while men raise the shield forward and the blade back. He advanced to where he could just reach me with his greater height, assuming I could not return the favor.
But that put him a foot into my range and I struck, punching out my hand and whipping my wrist. I swung my sword low and it bit into the hide armoring his thigh. It did not cut through, but the impact staggered him. His blow stumbled and glanced off my shield, and I pressed at once.
He recovered with a solid swing that cut a deep nick into the hide edge of my shield, and we scrabbled around, trading blows to little effect. He was hurt but little, but he was shocked by my response and he was scared. He thought to overpower me unarmed, to humiliate and shame me, and perhaps violate me. Once met, he dared not retreat from a mere woman, even if it meant an actual fight. And if he were to lose?
His blood-rage brought him in hard and fast, with a blow that half cracked my shield and dented the boss. I grunted and powered into it, trying to get my point under his guard and to his belly. I succeeded, but it was a soft thrust and didn’t pierce. He backed up quickly, and I flicked the tip up, catching his exposed forearm. Skin parted and blood flowed. I pressed again, and my next thrust just barely nicked his breast under the hardened hide.
This is the true nature of fighting, not the glorious finalities of the sagas. Two warriors cut at each other until one is weakened enough to surrender, flee, or die. Neither of us could give in or run. In Aeschere’s haste to make a name, he’d ensured one of us would succumb this day.
His next blow broke the damaged section of shield and strained my arm, the shock jarring my elbow. My hand went numb, and pain blazed from elbow to shoulder. But he was extended and his arm weakened, and I hacked it, cutting muscle and bone so blood gushed freely.
Growling in pain, he seemed likely to flee, but he knew how that ended. He dropped his shield and swapped his sword to his left. Now undefended, he nevertheless had a weapon on my unprotected side. And he was angry and hurt.
It was all I could do to raise the half shield in my damaged arm, shriek in pain as his weapon crashed down, and drop under the onslaught. That put me low, and I drove my point up into his belly. Fluid and humors spilled, and I smelled the stench of cut bowel. As my cry of pain faded, his rose, as he knew he was dying.
Death was not immediate, though, and might take days. His sword was still live, as was the hand behind it.
I clutched the remnants of my shield just as he struck. Between the splinters and the mail, it felt like a blow from a club, driving the wind from me. Spots before my eyes told me I had no time. All I could do was strike again, this time cutting his thigh. That staggered him back and to the ground, where he attempted to rise and squealed, and then fell again.
I drew in sips of air, then breaths, and my vision cleared. Taking in a deep draught of damp swamp fog, I staggered around his fallen figure. I was a widow and a woman. There had been no honor given, and I granted none back. I batted his sword arm aside, raised my own, shouted a battle cry, and chopped.
I would come back to this. After I saw to my son.
I leaned the sword on the wall, and stumbled through the hut and into the small room. Before I opened the door, I knew.
Grendel’s life had slipped away while Aeschere and I dueled. The man had won that much, denying me presence at my son’s passage, and denying Grendel my comfort. Oh, how I