The pommel impacted with a crunch, a splinter of a tooth flying from her mouth along with a spurt of blood. The metal end barrelled into her chin with such force her teeth painfully smacked together, nearly clipping off her own tongue, and flinging her off her feet to land prone on the ground with a heavy thud.
To lose your footing usually meant death. Hence why she had often seen to tripping the opposition. Unfortunately, that lesson might well be turned against her now.
But to her luck, the remaining bandits had regathered their courage. Seeing the harder struggle he had had with her had emboldened them into thinking they now held a higher chance of winning. Or a chance at all.
A last push. A quick attempt at ending this spree, before they would all rout or perish. After all, he was only
one man, for
Astra's sake.
Some took inspiration from Miran's throw, flinging a spare dagger or two his way, before they engaged again. This granted her a window to crawl back, wiping her bloody mouth with the back of her hand, spitting rust-red phlegm on the ground. She had maintained a stangle-hold on the axe, bringing it with her - and even now, she could see the drops she had spat out slowly lifting, drifting into its axe-head like moth to a candle.
It seemed she might well have met her match, finally. As only a true warrior could determine, she could now instinctually assess his skills and how they stacked up to hers. There was a high chance she wouldn't win this fight. Especially if he now made mince meat of her remaining gang.
Miran had no intention of dying today. She planned to die old - in a bed - in a house full of pampering servants and endlessly flowing wine, living on a diet of succulent eggs and other exotic foods from all corners of
Arethil. Not as a half-frozen corpse in this middle-of-nowhere swamp.
It was time to take more drastic measures.
Springing to her feet, Miran sprinted past the current fray, her ears catching the battle-cries and shrill screams of injury, as she approached the carriage. There, her fingers seized the collar of the first, cowering passenger she could find - a young woman in her second decade, screaming in fear. She held her thirsty axe to her neck, lifting her face up by her chin to direct her pleading eyes at the
Nordenfiir warrior, who no doubt had finished off her remaining henchmen.
Only a noble heart would take on the liability of protecting a carriage single-handedly. Such chivalry. It was time to use it against him though. If her axe couldn't cut through his guard, then his own conscience might.
"Oy! Bear-man. Drink this in."
She gave a bloody smile with her fractured jaw - cruel, vengeful and full of deadly intent - pricking the woman's skin with her blade. A long string of blood trickled down from her neck to her collar.
"Throw down your weapon or you'll have her head on a platter. My treat."
Arnor Skuldsson