Cross Conviction

Coalescence (13-2)

Held at length by the reach of his opponent's twin scimitars, Sturm was unable to retaliate with his much shorter bayonet. He was being pushed back- consistently losing ground as the armored intruder pressed on. With no means of counterattack, the boy continued to lose ground with every deflection and backward dodge.

I can't keep this up, Sturm thought to himself. If this goes on much longer, he'll push me back against the wall and I'll be finished.

Though his hearts raced, the young swordsman managed to maintain his composure in the face of this unrelenting onslaught. Still, as he backed ever closer to the wall, the terrible swish of the enemy's curved blades cutting through the air drew nearer to the knight candidate's ears. This warning was not lost on Sturm, who weighed the dire implications as he narrowly avoided a series of potentially fatal strikes. Were his movements slowing with fatigue or were his adversary's becoming more precise?

The enemy's right blade caught Sturm's jacket collar, wrenching the boy's shoulder to the side as it tore through the wool. Before he could right his destabilized posture, Sturm received another grazing slash across his chest, tearing a gash across his light pajama shirt and drawing blood beneath it. The stinging pain caused the knight candidate to cringe and, with his vision reduced, he was swiftly struck in the chest by the intruder's metal greave. Sturm was launched backward down the remainder of the hall by the heavy impact and slammed against the far-side wall with such force that he bounced forward. The armored man, quickly closing the gap between them once more, detached the blade from his left hand, and grabbed Sturm around the neck as the latter fell forward. He then effortlessly hoisted the swordsman into the air by his throat.

Stunned by severe whiplash, Sturm's body hung limply as he glared down into the man's dark mask with one half-open eye. As he regained awareness, the sensation of his fingers wrapped around hard wood alerted him to the fact that he hadn't dropped his weapon throughout the ordeal. With both his hearts furiously thrusting oxygen to the reaches of his body, Sturm raised his right arm and violently drove the bayonet's blade down into the exposed section of chainmail protecting the enemy's clavicle area.

Against any normal adversary, such an injury would certainly have proven fatal. The intruder, however, showed no reaction as the blued steel of the weapon's blade disappeared into his neck.

Sinking to disbelief, Sturm twisted the bayonet in an attempt to inflict further damage, but to no avail. What the hell is this thing? he though.

Suddenly, the bayonet's metal tang began to melt away and seep into the hole in the intruder's chainmail, leaving behind only the weapon's wooden grips. As these small rectangular pieces fell from Sturm's palm, the boy began to pound on the armored man's helmet and mask with closed fists. Though the strength behind the knight candidate's strikes was great enough to split his knuckles, his adversary stood unfazed.

With total disregard for Sturm's frantic assault, the intruder detached the scimitar from his right hand, which he then wrapped around the boy's neck as well. Due to the height difference between the two opponents, Sturm's feet were held well over a meter above the floor as the armored intruder steadily increased the pressure around his throat. Hindered by lack of oxygen, the power behind Sturm's blows was gradually reduced until he could lash out no longer. Just as the knight candidate's view of his assailant gave way to black, the pressure on his jugular was abruptly diminished.

Too weak to reopen his eyes, Sturm felt his back pushed against the wall before a strange, rippling sensation tugged at his shoulders. Images swirled in his head as he drifted away from reality. Sturm saw visions of his friends, instructors, and father flash before him. Had he risen to answer an ally's plea only to fall, hopeless and isolated?