“Hey! You!” Yla shouted, climbing the last few steps onto the bridge. The black-clad, helmed-and-visored figure made no reply, continuing only to rest his hands on his shield.
“My friends over there,” she said, gesturing over her shoulder to a little gathered crowd on the hill just down the road, “say you’ve forbidden passage on this bridge. Their bridge.”
“My liege bade me so,” the knight replied. His voice was leaden, his breath hissing through the grate in his helm.
“Your liege, whose heraldry…” Yla made a point of looking him up and down; his shield, his tabard, his surroundings. None bore any charges.
The knight made no reply.
“Well, I’m here for the good residents of Dethersdyll who can’t reach the iron mines just a quarter league behind you. That’s their livelihoods. Their kids start going hungry in a week if they don’t have ore to cart out.”
The knight made no reply.
Yla rolled her eyes, adjusted her belt, and strode forward onto the little arch bridge. The black knight moved like lightning: one moment his hands rested firmly upon the rim of his shield, and the next his shield was on his right arm, and his left was curving upward, whipping a wicked steel blade with it.
BWONG.
“Oh! Southpaw,” Yla said. She grinned at her helmed adversary. For her part, she had needed to make a last minute adjustment to deal with that new bit of information, but she had put up her shimmering shield of force in time and in place. For his part, he was already moving lightly on his feet, shield leading and sword low on his left: he had taken the sudden reprisal in perfect stride, betraying not a hint of surprise.
“I’m crossing the bridge. They are, too,” she said.
He rose the point of his sword in threat.
She whacked his shield with her staff.
“Stop me, eh?”
He gave no ground, remaining on the balls of his feet, behind his shield. He was too smart for the ploy.
“All right,” she said. She held a hand forward and bubbled inwardly with anticipation, feeling the heat rise until… pop.
A surge of flame tore across the bridge and splashed against the knight’s shield. Little wisps of smoke dimmed the sunny day.
The knight waited a beat, tossed his smoldering shield aside with the same motion he made to wave away the last of the flames, and charged, sword high.
Yla gave two paces of ground, then sprung forward and tried to meet his arm with the thick of her staff. But his aim was decent and she caught the blade just above the crossguard, which snapped her staff in half and forced her back. The blade’s foible bit into her shoulder.
The knight, towering over Yla, swung the blooded blade up and back, winding up a killing blow.
Yla pushed down the adrenaline and searched for the wound within her. There it was: the hot flow of blood, the stinging, branding pain, the fire of the fight.
As the knight raised his sword, Yla erupted with fury. There was a flash of light and a crack-boom concussion.
When the smoke cleared, the crowd made out Yla sitting at the apex of the little bridge, waving to them with her good arm.
“It’ll heal,” she said as they huddled around. The shepherd, kneeling beside her, started tending anyway, saying, “aw, none of that. Let us do a good turn, now.”
The reeve turned to her, having just instructed two men to carry the fallen knight’s badly charred body back to the village. “We’re grateful. You mean it when you say it’ll heal?”
“Yes,” she and the shepherd said in unison.
“Good. The Marshall in these parts is putting out for help. Something big going on, we think. I’m sure your aid would come much appreciated.”
“Marshall, huh?” Yla said. “I don’t normally go in for soldiery. Nothing against it, really, but…”
“Oh, the Marshall is good folk, and this certainly isn’t ‘bout guarding the Baron’s privy, if that’s your worry.”
“Sure—ow—sorry, you just caught me by surprise is all. So… something, big, you say? I could do big.”
“Evil’s afoot, ma’am.”