Lament of the Slave

Chapter 98: Try to Keep Up

This time my uppercut connected, and damn, that hurt. The movies made it look easy, but when my clenched fist hit Freyde's chin, I thought I was going to scream. Bone on bone, it was a wonder one of my fingers didn't break.

Amateur mistake, that's what I heard echoing from the ranks of the onlooking guardsmen, and it was. I blamed Deckard. He hasn't taught me anything yet. That and the fact that my previous sparring partner had a layer of fat so thick under his skin that he couldn't even feel my blows. It was like punching a pillow. A fucking massive pillow with teeth and claws that mauled me so many times it was hard to count. Seriously, I tried.

Should I use my claws, like, back there? To draw blood.

Deciding not to right now I moved around, not stopping, and despite the unexpected pain, aimed for the maybe-an-elf's unarmored thigh. My left fist was weaker, that was a fact. Though it did the job just as well. To Freyde's credit, he tried to cut me. He was just too slow, and his blade passed through empty air.

Advantage, I had the edge, something I'd never had before. A whole new feeling that was so exhilarating it scared me and drove me to pounce on Freyde, show him who's boss at the same time. So not to give in to my instincts and get my thoughts together, I did what I thought was the only sensible thing to do, and after three strikes, I took my distance from the bookkeeper turned swordsman.

Not my eyes, though.

"Well," Freyde breathed, rubbing his chin. "That felt familiar."

"What do you mean?" I cocked my ears, having never fought him before.

He took a step to the side, limbering up the leg I punched. "I'd like to say this is the first time a woman has hit me, but you don't know my grandmother."

The guy had granny issues, no doubt.

"Comparing her to your grandma, slick move, man." Came a scoffing woman's voice from the ranks of the watching city guards. A few more of these remarks reached my ears, most of them more distracting than helpful.

Although, being compared to his grandma was not exactly flattering.

"I thought you were ready?" I growled. Not exactly a delicate question either.

Still in a fighting pose, ready for my next attack, he admitted that. "Not as much as I thought. You're damn fast."

Was I? I'm not saying I went at it half-heartedly, but I could have put in more effort, been faster. Was the 33% from [Swift as a Whip] really that much? What's more, I didn't even use the double speed. Was that it, then? A smooth win. Or was I jumping to conclusions? Like me, the not-quite-elf could have skills he hasn't used yet.

"Well, try to keep up," I said and launched at him again. My intention was to go for his other side, not to repeat my attacks. However, Freyde swung his sword the moment I moved and right where I wanted to hit him from. Fluke? If so, he was damn lucky because the same thing happened again two breaths later when I went for his throat. Changing my position briskly yet again, it was only my third punch that I managed to land after narrowly avoiding his sword. He went too wide with the slash.

Did he get faster? No. Did he use a skill? Most likely, he seemed to be able to predict my attacks somehow and respond by a hair's breadth earlier. In this strange way, he compensated for his lack of speed.

It was quite interesting and challenging to find a way around it. Basically, I had to go further with my speed and make my attacks less predictable. Even so, I only managed to land about a quarter of my strikes.

Distancing myself again, I growled: "How the hell are you doing that?" My low voice sounded more frustrated than I wanted it to.

"How are you avoiding my sword slashes?" he returned my question, no less frustrated than I was. "Some sort of spatial awareness?"