A Dog Among Princes

Chapter 21

“Oh we’ve got some Holy chain knights.” Guts whispered.

“This ought to be good.” Casca scoffed. “How soon do you want to bet they drop out?”

“I don’t know, there’s something about the skinny one.” There were three of them. A girl who looked like she wasn’t used to holding anything heavier than an inquisitor’s whip, a boy maybe a year or two older than her, and a stout older man. The girl was excited, too excited. She was compensating for nerves, likely hadn’t seen much combat. The boy stood loosely, like he was bored. He was either stupid or he was fairly confident in his chances. The ring of calluses on his thumb and the outer edge of his index finger made Guts lean towards confidence. A fencer then. Might not be a bad fight.

“I don’t know, looks like he’s got some stiff competition.” Griffith put a hand on his shoulder. He was wearing his usual armor with a few alterations. They had to completely remove the back panel of his breastplate, securing the front half with extra long straps. He’d also replaced his regular riding boots and spurs with wide toed sabatons. A rumor had “leaked” that he had been gravely wounded and most of his body had been replaced with prosthetics. Griffith, ever the showman, had decided to play things relatively close to the vest for now, planning a dramatic reveal for his fight with Guts. Casca had gotten a new set of armor and a sword commissioned for the event. She deserved it, it had been a while since she’d done anything nice for herself. Guts wore a simple new set given as a parting gift by Godot. He wouldn’t be caught dead in anything more befitting his station. It would’ve been embarrassing if he ran into one of the freelancers he used to run with back in the day. Even when he was with the Band of the Hawk he’d occasionally participate in tournaments as a black knight under the name The Black Swordsman. He’d never hear the end of it if he showed up in something too fancy. He saw a few familiar faces among the competitors, a few new hopefuls. A few stuck out to him, the fencer from before, a Kushan soldier with twin three-pronged daggers, and a guy that looked about Pippin’s build carrying a huge sword (still smaller than his own). Interesting line up. Guts looked at the board where the bracket was being written to see if his first opponent had been decided yet.

“Who the fuck announces themselves as ‘The King of Massacre’?” He squinted at the name next to his own. Guts had listed himself as “Guts The Black Swordsman”, just putting his given name in front of his regular alias. It was simple enough and if you knew who he was, you knew who he was. This guy was really over compensating.

It was the guy about Pippin’s build. When the announcer gave his introduction supposedly he was a wild animal that had killed 130 of midland’s soldiers. The hawks scattered throughout the stands began laughing uproariously. Ah so that was this guy’s shtick, he was an impersonator. His opponent seemed confused and enraged by the reaction in the stands. Then the announcer began Guts’s introduction. “Opposing him is Prince Guts the Black Swordsman, first of his name, Raid Commander of the Band of the Hawk and slayer of a hundred men.” His opponent blanched.

“Hey look, I didn't mean anything by it.” He started to back away.

“Gotta make a living somehow.” Guts shrugged. “Wouldn’t fault you for backing out now, but I bet you’re curious to see how we’d match up.”

“Not that curious.” He threw down his sword. Damn, he might’ve been a decent warm up. Ah well.

“That man is a prince?” Farnese stared at the huge man on the field. “He looks more like a common thug with that ridiculous cudgel.”

“Apparently he was just a common thug until about a year ago.” Serpico had his legs kicked up on the edge of the ring, cavalier as always. “Then the king found out he was his long lost grandson and took him in.” He snorted disdainfully. As he should, Farnese thought. It was ridiculous to think a mercenary could learn to comport himself as a prince in just a year.

What a sick joke. Serpico crossed and uncrossed his legs. That could’ve been him damn it! He didn’t begrudge Farnese for any of it, it wasn’t her fault their father was a bastard. But damn if it didn’t make him angry to see living proof that his life didn’t have to end up the way it had. He had resigned himself to letting go of all his own wants and desires years ago, but it was because he’d just assumed that was the way things had to be. Clearly that wasn’t always the case.

“What are we even doing in this Godless place anyway?” Farnese crossed her arms.

“Well we were unable to find any omens of the dark Falcon on our journey. There were rumors that the prince and his men got into some kind of conflict around the eclipse. Perhaps we can get them to tell us if they saw something,” Azan offered. “Besides, you could always use the practice, my lady.” She huffed in her seat.

“This is beneath knights such as us.”

“Hey look, they've got zeppole.” Serpico stood. “Let me know if a good fight starts.” He needed the walk more than he needed the pastry, but having something sugary certainly wasn’t off the table.

Casca and Griffith’s fights weren’t as disappointing as Guts’s. They at least got to fight their opponents. Not that it took them particularly long. Their opponents were skilled, just not on either of their levels. Casca had finished her bout quickly and efficiently, allowing her opponent the mercy of a swift defeat. Griffith on the other hand had taken his sweet time, slowly dismantling his opponent. It was almost painful to watch. Neither of them had much tournament experience, so they didn’t really know how to keep things entertaining for the audience when they outmatched their opponents. He was pretty sure he’d seen a beignet stand somewhere. That’d be a nice change of pace.

When he got to the stand the young fencer was also there, haggling with the vendor.

“Are you sure you can’t just take it? Silver is silver”.

“I’m sorry Sir, but I can’t accept foreign currency”.

“Two beignets for me.” Wait there was a girl with him right? “Actually make that three.”

Wow he was big up close. The prince had a few scars visible on his face and more dotting his bare arms. He’d seen and survived a lot of action. That big sword must not have been entirely for show. He handed Serpico two of his pastries.

“Apologies, your highness.” Serpico bowed. “I couldn’t possibly.”

“You can give me the silver for it if that’d make you feel better.” The kid wasn’t a noble. He’d have taken them no question if he was. No, this kid was used to charity having strings attached. Most holy chain knights tended to be the children of actual knights whose parents wanted to keep them out of combat. Somehow Guts didn’t think he was one of those.

“I couldn’t, really.”

“I’m not going to be able to eat all of these.” Serpico knew he was lying. The prince was a big guy, he could if he wanted. But he knew a third refusal would be taken as an insult. He’d also tossed in the implied threat of wasting food for good measure.

“If you insist.” Serpico accepted, but still gave him the two pieces of silver. He didn’t intend to owe him any favors.

“Hope to see you on the field. You look like you can handle yourself pretty well.”

“Only when I have to.” Serpico scratched the back of his head. An affectation. Let him think you’re a dunce. The prince flicked his eyes up and down giving him a once over.

“If you say so.” Habitual humility. He was used to hiding his skill. In an outfit like the Holy Chain Knights he was probably always surrounded with higher ranked nobility with easily bruised egos. He’d probably gotten good at pretending to lose. “I’ll see you on the field then.”

He said it with such certainty now. As if that once over had told him all he needed to know. He was a strange man. Farnese came running up from the stands.

“Serpico! What on earth is taking you so long? Azan is about to fight!” She grabbed his arm and started pulling.

“Hey, you want one of these? I don’t think they’re zeppole, but fried dough is fried dough.”

“Pardon?” She looked at the pastry in his hand. “No! Of course not! Now come on!”

“Alright, more for me,” he said, the sound muffled around the beignet in his mouth.

“So who’s fighting now?” Guts climbed back into his seat.

“The older guy. They said his name was Azan.” Casca leaned back in her chair.

“Wait Azan?” Guys looked out onto the field. The old man held an iron staff, reinforced and spiked on either end. “Holy shit, that’s bridge knight Azan! He was active when I was a kid! I didn’t know he was still in the game!”

“He’s gotta be pretty old by now.” Casca sat forward now, her interest piqued by Guts’s excitement.

“Yeah, but back in the day he took out nearly a hundred cavalrymen on his own.”

“Like somebody else we know.” Griffith smirked.

The old knight still held his heavy staff with practiced grace. He let his opponent dictate the pace for a while to gauge his skill. After he seemed satisfied with his assessment, he swiftly took down his opponent, sweeping a leg and knocking away his sword.

“Do you yield?” The man nodded. Azan offered his hand to help his opponent up. A skilled fighter and a good sportsman. The old timer was clearly confident if he could afford even his opponents such courtesy. Then again this was a tournament. Maybe he’d be less chivalrous if it was life or death. However, the way he clapped his opponent on the back, thanking him for the fight, suggested that was just how the man was. With his skill he could afford chivalry. Might not be a bad match either. Guts had really had some awful luck with that first bout, but he had a feeling his luck was going to change for the better.

At the end of the first round, eight combatants remained. The younger two Holy Chain knights had both made it through as well. The boy, Guts now knew his name was Serpico, had put on quite the impressive show. He’d acted like a complete buffoon, seeming to just barely avoid all of his opponent’s swings and only coincidentally managing to disarm him. Or that’s how it seemed to an untrained eye. He kept his evasions down to incredibly minute movements, knowing exactly how much he needed to move to avoid a coming blade. He was damn good, and played the role of a clown well. His companion, Farnese, on the other hand was all stiff, practiced form. She’d clearly been trained, but she was inflexible. She hadn’t found her own style yet and it showed. Farnese also didn’t share her mentor’s grace in victory either, walking stiffly off the field when she was finished without even acknowledging her opponent.

The Kushan soldier, Silat, had also made it through. He was a defensive fighter, though his style was much flashier than any Gits was accustomed to. Those three-pronged daggers were excellent at catching an opponent’s blade. He wasn’t sure if they would stand up to a blade like his own, but he carried a coiled weapon as a side arm that Guts hadn’t seen yet as well. If he remembered right, Judeau said it was called an Urumi? Another fighter with a strange weapon then. Although from what Judeau said, if he wasn’t damn good at it, it seemed that he was just as liable to hurt himself with a weapon like that as he was to hurt his opponent. He had plenty of flash, but time would have to tell if he had any substance.

The last fighter who made it through was an old buddy of Guts’s. Gareth wasn’t the most remarkable swordsman but he was serviceable. Had a nasty habit of keeping a dagger in his sleeve as “insurance” though. Was a bitch to fight if you weren’t wise to his bullshit.

The bracket for this round had Guts against Serpico, Griffith against Azan, Casca against Farnese, and Silat against Gareth. Casca kicked the dirt when she saw her match up.

“Hey at least it’ll be an easy fight.” Guts silently cheered at his own match up.

“That’s exactly the problem.”

“Oh looks like I’m up first this time!” Griffith pointed to his own name.

Azan had heard tell of The White Hawk of Midland. He might have been old, but he still kept himself well informed in matters of war. The general was younger than he expected. He also styled himself oddly, leaving his long hair loose. The poor boy was asking to get it caught on something. It was strange, it was almost as if he had stepped out of a painting instead of one of the bloodiest battlefields the continent had ever seen. The way he’d toyed with his previous opponent also made the old knight nervous. He’d have to stay on guard around this one.

“Guts has told me of your accomplishments, Sir Azan the Bridge Knight. I do hope they weren’t exaggerated.” He smiled widely under his helmet. It wasn’t mocking, but hungry.

“Ah, so you are familiar with my reputation then.” The old knight laughed nervously. Something about the young man made his hair stand on end. “I’m afraid those were the accomplishments of a younger man. However, I can still put up a good fight.” He was holding his staff tighter than he should. What was this? He was beyond being intimidated by school boys.

“I look forward to it then.” He charged, so fast it was as if he flew. It was all Azan could do to put his staff up in time. Griffith’s blade shattered against the iron staff. Shards blew in all directions. One flew towards Azan, cutting his cheek. The young general looked at Azan apologetically. “Sorry about that. This is the second time this has happened if you can believe it.” He tossed aside the hilt.

“It is unfortunate, but I assume this means you will have to yield?”

“That won’t be necessary.” Griffith began removing his gloves.

“I feel that it would be dishonorable of me to attack an unarmed man.” Griffith tucked his gloves into his belt. That was strange, Azan hadn’t thought he was wearing gauntlets. Why had he worn his gloves over them, that couldn’t be comfortable. His fingers twitched and inch long claws unsheathed themselves. Azan’s mind went blank.

“No need to worry, I’m far from unarmed.” Azan let his muscle memory take over. He couldn’t succumb to panic. He was too old for that. It was best to let his body do what it understood.

It was difficult to get a hit in with this one. Griffith was too busy dodging his swings. He would need to get closer but Azan wasn’t making it easy with that long staff. Griffith caught it on the edge of his forearm redirecting the brunt of the force away from him. “This truly is an incredible weapon.” He inspected the spikes at the end of it. He wouldn’t want to be hit in the head with those. “Wherever did you learn to wield such a thing?” Azan tried to pull his staff back, but slipped his arm over the top and locked the shaft under his elbow. He held the claws of his left hand at Azan’s throat. “Do you yield?” He tried to pull out his staff but Griffith didn’t budge.

“I yield.” Griffith retracted his claws and released Azan’s staff. He extended his hand to the old knight.

“You fought well, sir. I would be curious to speak more about your weapon later, if you intend to stay for much longer.” Azan would have to speak with Lady Farnese about this one. He did not believe the man was the Falcon of Darkness they were looking for, but still whatever he was was still likely of import to the Holy See, one way or another. Azan took his hand and was surprised to feel that it was warm and yielding.

“I will have to request permission from my commander.”

“For what reason do you cut your hair so short? It does not befit a lady.” Farnese unsheathed her sword. Casca threw her head back and laughed.

“I have never in my life been mistaken for a lady. I would say that it does not befit a soldier for you to wear yours so long.” Farnese turned red.

“You will regret insulting me so.” She completely lacked confidence in her own ability. Casca felt for her, she knew how it felt to be a woman commander in a unit of men. However that didn’t mean she would go easy on her. Casca was one of best swordsmen in the Band of the Hawk and she didn’t intend to lose.

Farnese wouldn’t lose to this loose woman. She was the commander of the Holy Chain Knights! It would be a stain upon their honor if she lost to a mere commoner, and a heathen no less! No god fearing woman would comport herself the way this soldier did. Farnese would have to put her in her place.

Casca opened by cutting one of Farnese’s braids. Half her hair fell loose into her face, obstructing her view. Casca hoped this would be a valuable lesson.

Farnese spat the loose hair out of her mouth and tried to blow it away from her eyes. A dirty trick! So this was how the godless fought. The woman soldier did not attack while Farnese was blinded, waiting for her to pull her hair back again. Did she really think so little of her?! Farnese charged forward. Casca quickly pulled her into a lock.

“Your men are watching you aren’t they?” She whispered. “Calm yourself. It wouldn’t do for them to see their commander in such a state.” She dared to tell Farnese how she should behave?! She was mocking her! Farnese wound up to slap her. That would put her in her place. Casca caught her hand. Her expression was grave, no mocking smile present on her face. “You’re a knight aren’t you? Showing such contempt for your opponent will only get you killed.” Casca shoved her back. “Come on then, again.”

This was the test. Would she throw down her weapon in frustration or would she square herself and attack again? The girl held her weapon tighter, her teeth gritted in anger. She did not throw down her blade. Casca smiled slightly despite herself. Good. Farnese stabbed forward, more calmly this time. Casca still easily brushed her aside. Although the girl had drive, she was an ametuer going up against a master. The gap in their skill was incredibly apparent. Casca did not end things as quickly as she could though. She allowed the girl to throw herself against her until she began to tire. She fought back gently, occasionally throwing in a well projected strike for the girl to parry, but at the end of it Farnese was panting and Casca had barely broken a sweat.

“Do you yield?”

“Never.” Farnese tucked her hair back behind her ears and swung. Casca disarmed her with a quick flick of her wrist.

“Do you yield?” Farnese ran for her sword, turning her back to Casca. Big mistake. Casca unscrewed the pommel of her sword and beaned Farnese with it. She went down. Casca retrieved the pommel of her sword and checked on the young knight’s condition. She was knocked out but still breathing. Casca waved to the judge. “I do not believe my opponent is able to continue. See that she is looked after at once.” Casca knew it was meant to be an honor to lead the Holy Chain Knights, but it must’ve been an incredible amount of pressure for one so young and immature. Then again, she’d probably been a little younger than that when she joined the Band of the Hawk. This girl would need to be sturdier for the path that she’d chosen.

“So, are you ready to have a real fight or are you going to just keep up the clown shit.” Ah, he’d caught him.

“Well that depends on you I guess.” Serpico kept his sword sheathed, his hand on the hilt, waiting for the right moment. He heard the clink of a chain. Serpico jumped into the air, lashing out with his rapier. He felt that massive sword sweep under him catching the sole of his boot. His sword grazed the prince’s face, cutting along the line of his cheek bone.

“Good dodge.” Guts didn’t bother to wipe the blood from his face, reflexively licking at the trail as it reached the edge of his mouth.

“You’re better than I thought.” Serpico inspected the sole of his boot. Damn, these were his only pair too.

The boy’s eyes were fully open now, focused on the task ahead. He lowered his sword, allowing it to scrape against the ground. He then quickly flicked it up, flinging dust into Guts’s eyes. Serpico lunged, pointing his blade at Guts’s throat. Guts blinked away the dust and blocked the blade with the wide flat of his own. The kid was willing to use the environment to his advantage. Usually knights had that beaten out of them. This kid clearly understood his limits and was willing to use tactics that brought Guts down to his level.

Serpico wasn’t going to be able to beat him in a fair fight. That much was obvious already. Hitting that sword felt like hitting a wall. There was no budging that thing at all. He started looking around for something to use. The environment was against him. The wide open field made it easy for Guts to swing that huge sword of his around. He was still slightly faster. The prince moved remarkably well in that heavy armor but it still slowed him down a little bit. Maybe there was something he could do to surprise him. The walls!

Serpico was allowing himself to be backed into the edge of the ring. He could’ve dodged most of Guts’s swings but was instead being pushed back trying to block them. Guts was reasonably sure that he was doing it intentionally but allowed it to continue. He was curious to see what he planned to do.

Serpico felt the back of his palm touch the edge of the ring. Perfect! He lifted himself up onto the wall and kicked off the edge, launching himself high in the air. He struck downward but Guts quickly ducked out of the way. His sword still took a few strands of his hair as he flipped over him. Well that was all he had. Time to throw in the towel. Wasn’t worth getting injured just for bragging rights. He laid his sword on the ground before Guts could begin his counter attack.

“What, that’s it?” Guts let his sword fall dejectedly. They’d just gotten started.

“Isn’t worth getting hurt if my life isn’t on the line. Besides, I hate the sight of blood. Maybe some other time.” Preferably somewhere narrow, or maybe inside, like a room full of columns. Somewhere he’d have a harder time swinging that sword.
M
“I look forward to it.” Kid was smart. He’d make a much better mercenary than a knight. That fox-like cleverness would serve him well. He hoped he would get to fight him again.

When Farnese woke up Serpico sat at the foot of her cot.

“Did you win?” She asked, still hazy from being hit in the head.

“No. I’m glad you’re alright Lady Farnese.”

“Get out of my sight.” She rolled over. What a humiliation. Every single one of them had lost. He slid off and left the medical tent.

“That’s no way to talk to one of your men.” Casca leaned against a tent pole.

“He is my personal servant, I may speak to him however I wish.”

“He’s also your comrade in arms. You can’t expect respect from those under your command if you don’t respect them in turn.”

“That is a peasant’s position. My men will respect me because I am their commanding officer.”

“While it is not my place to advise you, there are many commanding officers that wake up with a knife buried in their neck due to attitudes like that.” Her dark eyes were beautiful, with an intensity unlike anything Farnese had ever seen.

“Are you threatening me?”

“Far from it. I’m trying to help you.” Casca ducked out of the tent as well, but those eyes stayed with Farnese. She would kill that woman for the insult! For the insult and no other reason, she reminded herself as her face grew warm. That’s why she had to die.

Guts and Griffith had been matched for the third round. Casca was up against Silat, who had won handily in the last round.

“So do you have a plan?” Griffith asked.

“More or less yeah. You kinda gave me the idea for it actually.”

“Oh? Care to share?”

“You’ll see when we get out there. Just, uh, know that I’d never intentionally try to hurt you alright?” Ooh that was promising.

The first thing Griffith did when he hit the field was tear off his breastplate. The straps had been bothering him all day. The horrible sound of metal tearing metal filled the arena as his claws cut through it like paper. He kicked off the sabatons next. They were so heavy and unwieldy. The audience went quiet. Let them, it was just him and Guts now. He had already taken off his sword, but he wasn’t advancing. Instead he remained in place breathing strangely. That couldn’t be good, was he overheating?

Before the tournament Guts had asked Casca and other members of the band for a list of observations. When he was lost to rage in the middle of battle what did they notice? Among everyone he’d asked there had been one common element to their lists. He’d been breathing oddly beforehand. The air hissing out through gritted teeth. Guts knew that when he practiced a form enough times, eventually his body would move to complete it once initiated without his direction. So much so that he could move through forms without even thinking in the midst of battle. Perhaps all he needed to do was begin the movement. Give his body the start it needed to take over.

“What's going on with Guts?” Judeau squinted at his figure on the field. He took deep shuddering breaths. Casca knew what that meant. A horrible roar ripped its way from his throat. A sound no person should be able to make. She almost felt worried for Griffith.

Griffith remembered that sound. It had accompanied the most terrifying experience of his life. It really had just been Guts in there. The armor just let him fight despite his wounds. That bestial strength and ferocity was all him. Griffith steeled himself. Maybe he should’ve brought a sword after all. He dodged the first strike just barely and the second came swiftly after, knocking him off his feet. He’d been lucky, Guts had caught him with the flat. His third strike fell down onto him. Griffith kicked the blade aside just in the nick of time and rolled in the opposite direction. He slashed up with his claws, catching Guts in the arm. He growled in response and lashed out with his fist, smashing into the beak of Griffith’s helmet. It hurt like he’d been punched in the face. If that had landed on the face underneath, his nose would’ve been broken. As it was, his head was still spinning from the impact and Guts was lifting his sword again. He grabbed Guts’s ankle with his talons knocking him to the ground as well. Guts dropped his sword as the back of his head impacted the dirt. He didn’t bother picking it up in his rush to get at Griffith again. They were both down to teeth, claws, and fists.

It was getting difficult to watch now. Griffith had torn off Guts’s armor and now they were just beating the living shit out of each other. Guts’s fists beat dents into Griffith as Griffith tore Guts to ribbons. It was like they were animals. “Oh my God that’s what he’s going for.”

“What who’s going for?” Judeau asked.

“Guts. What better husband for a monster,”

“Than another monster!” Judeau finished. “He’s really going all in on it though. Isn’t he worried he’s going to hurt Griffith?”

“He’s not acting.”

“What do you mean he’s not acting?” Another terrible roar drew their attention to the field. Guts had managed to get on top of Griffith’s chest. He bashed Griffith’s helmet over and over until it finally slipped back. Upon seeing his face Guts froze. His fist fell to his side and he slumped forward. Finally succumbing to blood loss. Griffith stayed down as well. His chest rose and fell with breath but he was too dented to move. The judge very carefully moved in to check on them both.

“No clear winner can be announced in this contest.” Judeau stood up.

“I’m going to see if I can find Puck.”

“Go, I’ll try to convince the organizers that they won’t kill the doctors.”

“I thought you said you’d never try to hurt me.” Griffith wheezed.

“Intentionally. I’d never intentionally try to hurt you.” Guts weakly raised his hand.

“Quit moving!” Puck whacked him with his chestnut seed.

“Ouch.” Guts croaked. His throat was torn up from the strain he’d put his voice through before. He needed a good hot lemonade right about now. Guts was also still slightly lightheaded from blood loss. Puck had alleviated that somewhat but he still probably couldn’t stand.

“…And protect us sinners though we may spurn the guidance of your hand,”

“Will you please just shut up!” The girl hadn’t stopped praying since they’d woken up. Something told him she hadn’t stopped praying since they got there. He wondered how Casca was doing. She was probably in the middle of her own bout at this point. He wished he could see it.

“As his highness and the general are unable to continue, this will be the final bout of this tournament.”

“One disappointment after another.” Silat shook his head. “The two men offered very little challenge and now they’ve put me up against a woman?” Casca was used to sexism. It was a fact of life in the camps, but it was still always miserable to hear it from her comrades. From her enemies, however. She attacked without responding, shocking the man into a defensive position. Now all she had to do was push her advantage. Sexism from enemies was useful, especially in the first few seconds of combat. It gave her a valuable window where his guard was down to strike hard and fast. With this man especially, wielding his twin katars, underestimating his opponent could be a fatal mistake. Casca had seen his past two bouts, he was an aggressive fighter despite his more defense oriented weapons. His goal in the past two fights had been to lock his opponent’s blade in the prongs and disarm them. She could respect his skill at predicting his opponent’s moves, but against an opponent he had an inaccurate assessment of right off the bat, his style was completely useless. He tried kicking her in the head. He was flexible certainly, but that was a big mistake. She caught his boot with her sword and swiftly kneed him in the groin. He jumped back quickly.

“Good recovery.” She knew with an arrogant opponent like this, compliments would only serve to enrage. It would make him think she was looking down on him. Admittedly she was a little bit, but it was calculated. Silat redoubled his attacks, more cautiously this time. He was getting it now. He managed to catch her sword with one of his katars. He struck his heel against the ground and a blade popped out of the toe. He once again tried for a kick to the head. Casca dipped her shoulder and let the kick pass over her head. Then she grabbed his planted leg and lifted, letting the man’s momentum carry him into the stands. The judge began the ring out count, but the man didn’t get up. Casca raised her sword to the crowd.