Honor - Kevin Killiany [37]
Clinging to balance, she turned to take his next attack.
Rolling out of his frog kick, Sonandal came up from the ground with all of his weight behind a smashing roundhouse.
Corsi almost thanked him.
The edge of her hand met the back of his fist, deflecting the force of the blow away and down as she rolled her hand to grip his wrist. Her other hand came up, catching Sonandal below the shoulder blade. Turning at the waist, she let herself fall away, pivoting, and leveraged her weight into his momentum.
The redirected energy of his lunge tumbled the Smaunif leader through the air. He landed with a hollow thud, the breath forced from his body.
Corsi danced lightly to her right, hoping her bounce did not reveal the electric shot of pain stabbing up from her left knee with every step. A duller ache radiated from the center of her back and a ghost of numbness flowing down from her elbow warned her not to depend on her left hand’s strength.
She wasn’t going to last much longer. If she was going to win, she had to win quickly.
Taking advantage of Sonandal’s slow roll to his feet, she turned to Copper, standing closest to the violence of all the K’k’tict.
“If I am to prevail, I must attack.”
“Then do not prevail.”
Sonandal’s bear hug caught her from behind, crushing the breath from her. The Smaunif arched his back, raising her in the air, then slammed her to the ground.
Her senses reeling, Corsi rolled away, scrambling to gain distance. Roaring in triumph, Sonandal came at her, his arms wide for another grab.
Coming up on her hands and damaged left knee, Corsi lashed out with her right leg; the from-the-hip kick connecting solidly with Sonandal’s knee. He shrieked, stopping himself before his forward drive snapped the joint backward. Getting her right foot back under her, Corsi pushed off from the ground. The right move, the power move, was to come up in a left mule kick to the Smaunif’s gut followed by the heel of her right hand to his nose, driving the shattered sinus bones back into his brain. But she knew her left knee couldn’t take the impact.
The patched fabric of her trousers popped in the wind as she snapped her left leg up and around in a roundhouse. Pain flamed up her leg as the top of her bare foot slammed into his cheek, spinning him bonelessly away.
Corsi’s back muscles spasmed, turning her pivoting recovery into a crablike stumble.
Sonandal hung, his arms limp, slowly swaying forward, away from her. If he fell, he’d be outside the ring. The fight would be over, she would have won, but not the way she wanted. Not the way that mattered.
Lunging forward, she caught a fistful of the Smaunif’s uniform just as he fell. Hauling back with all her strength, she pulled him into the ring; tripping him over her right ankle so he sprawled in the bloody mud.
Her left arm would not respond, still bent against her ribs by her spasmed back. Corsi had to turn her back on Sonandal, even as she saw him gathering himself, to reach his sword. Grabbing its hilt, she yanked it from the earth, backstepping with the same motion and slashing it backward.
Her back screamed as she halted the swing.
On his knees, Sonandal met her eyes along the length of the bloody blade.
Corsi deliberately dropped her game face. She let her professionalism drop from her like a cloak and let her horror and disgust at the slaughter show through. Digging deeper, she focused on Spot, her life blood spilling as the Smaunif blade—the blade she held in her hand—split her body, willing the butcher to see her hate and rage.
He saw it. She could see in Sonandal’s eyes he saw her hate and knew he was dead.
There was a moan from the K’k’tict, low and despairing.
From the Smaunif, stony silence.
Her left arm would not move. She needed her left arm for what she had to do. But it was still trapped uselessly by her traitorous body’s leftward crouch. She was going to have to improvise.
With a curse she flourished the sword, the blade flashing dully as it spun. Reversing her grip, she drove the point