The next hail of arrows harmed Svyatogor no more than the previous one. He reached Crewslayer in a heartbeat. The shocked kinani man managed to detect a swing of a sword, but that was the extent of his reaction. He blocked it with a shield, the impact felt more like a hammer blow. It drove him down, forced to crouch.

It felt like something in his arm shattered upon the hit. A knee strike to the buckler followed instantly. Ymdaton was sent rolling away. The world darkened in his eyes for an instant turning from the moonless night into the starless one.

When he finally stopped moving and picked himself up, Svyatogor was already among crewmen. Everyone assailed him at once, torches were dropped down in favor of using both hands in the fight. The engagement turned in the chaotic mess lit from beneath by abandoned fires. The foe made a statement at once.

The statement was the death of Azumas. Poor man had risen his arms in defence, yet not quick enough, the sword passing by them and piercing his eye socket. The man of the mountain, for Ymdaton could not think of that warrior to be any other person, was not thwarted by the best crewmen of Abeneewy. He did not fight his way through the crowd, he stepped among them graciously with no one to hinder him.

Ymdaton could not follow his movements with his eyes. It was not that the enemy was blindingly fast. His slashes, parries, and dodges were visible. Yet the way that he transitioned his body from one stance to another was breathtaking. Crewslayer could not fathom it. It was as if he saw the beginnings and the ends clearly, but between his eyes were filled with water, leaving shallow suggestions of a silhouette. He could not simply comprehend Svyatogor’s manner of fighting.

It appeared as no one present could do so either. Ahisynim got his throat slashed with a contemptuous ease, Bodahy got a pommel to the head which was enough for him to fall and never stand up, Azulh received a shove with a shield so powerful that he was throw away from the bridge and into the river, Hasdruhy got his legs swept and his chest stomped upon so that it caved in almost a palm’s depth.

The strength of this enemy seemed on par with his skill and his name: legendary. Backstabbing him was not effective either, even while completely surrounded, the warrior was ever aware of opponent’s intentions. He seemingly randomly sidestepped and swung his shield backwards, always avoiding the attackers.

The sheer hopelessness of the situation stopped Ymdaton for joining the battle. Greatest warriors of Isary died like clueless serfs. Here Crewslayer’s story would end. He imagined how that would sound in a song. A promising crewman of many deeds went into forest on a mission to disappear there alongside all his brethren and the gold he was assigned to guard. A sad end that would be laughed at by future generations, if remembered at all.

There was still an option. Call a retreat, leave their baggage, return with thousand men sometime later and hope it would be enough to defeat the one of the mountain. If he lived, he could explain his defeat, he could make others understand, make his lord understand, he could continue and acquire dozen more worthy victories. There was no bravery in dropping upon the sword, there was no shame in not doing so.

As these thoughts passed through his mind, Ymdaton understood that they did not made him feel agitated or afraid. Somewhere along the road he stopped caring about what would be told about him. What concerned him truly was what he could tell about himself. Was he doing the right thing? Was he following the oath that he had given?

High Crew, the most glorious position for the warrior taught him that glory was worth nothing, if the path to it was paved with dirt. He dropped his shield, his left arm was limp and broken beyond use in battle anyway. His right hand, however, was strong, the axe in it was as trusty as ever. It was enough. After a brief moment of reflection, he joined his peers.

Svyatogor continued ripping lives. Ymdaton happened to enter the fray behinds the foe. His several attempts to gut the warrior from behind were not successful. It was then that Abimnupal stepped in front of the enemy. They exchanged several swings and while kinani man did not connect any blows, he was not swatted away either. He pressed on, his movements becoming faster and more elaborate, until to Crewslayer’s eyes his friend was moving in the same manner as his foe.

Svyatogor was forced to pay more attention to the crewman before him. More of his parries were directed forward now and less to the sides. Ymdaton saw a chance. With a tremendous effort, he tracked the long sword traveling through the air. It was hard to keep attention on it, for its swings were also bizarre. But for a moment he saw it. He hooked the blade with a beard of his axe and pulled it away, providing an opening for Abimnupal.

His friend did not wait. While the enemy was off balance, he directed a swing to his face. Blood sprayed from under the blade. Svyatogor’s head rocked back. Crewslayer’s heart missed a beat. What a beautiful combination was it. But the very next moment the horror continued. The enemy delivered a swift strike with the edge of a shield right to midriff of his opponent, who was momentarily open. It was so mighty that Abimnupal flew away, also knocking down several crewmen in his wake.

Ymdaton forgot about the battle completely. He rushed after his friend and dragged him out of the skirmish, so that he would not be stomped upon. The fight continued, kinani warriors dropping one after another, but he did not care anymore. Blood ran down Abimnupal’s chin. He was not dead, but seemingly breathed his life out with every ragged sigh and cough. He looked Crewslayer straight into the eyes.

“That was a finest blow I ever did,” he gasped, “And the bastard still dodged.”

“Do not speak, you will mess your lungs further,” uttered Ymdaton, gritting his teeth.

“I won’t need them in the West,” his friend smiled weakly, “Listen, I don’t like your expression. Do not be foolish, do not go avenging me right after I fade. You will lose and you know it. Look,” he nodded towards the bridge’s edge.

Crewslayer quickly glanced there and saw nothing. He turned back at Abimnupal, fearing his friend would go away once left without attention. But the dying warrior was urging him to look again silently. On a second try Ymdaton saw a small empty boat sailing down the river. It was barely distinguishable in the darkness.

“Those on the brim see further,” chuckled Abimnupal, his laugh turning into coughing, “Take one or two sacks and jump into it. You can still do something useful for our lord with them. You can hire a mercenary squad or buy a whole caravan of food. The river will carry you away. It is better than dying there in the name of honour and vengeance, trust me. Azytenisar will still need you and there is nothing you can do for me, or for them,” he tilted his head towards the battle, “Go, what are you waiting for!”

“I will drag you with me,” said Ymdaton.

His eyes ached, he choked on the words.

Abimnupal shook his head. He did it three times, to the left, then to the right, then to the left, and then he did not move anymore.

Crewslayer closed the eyes of his friend and stood up.

There were but eight warriors fighting Svyatogor now. They would not last long, he knew it. Ymdaton detected a scared pack bakhmat in the darkness. He put his axe into the loop on his belt and snatched a sack of gold from animal’s side with his one good hand. With this baggage he sprinted to the edge of the bridge and jumped.

The boat was passing nearby and he managed to land right into it. The vessel flew under bridge and begun sailing away from it. Creslayer glanced back and saw lights still flickering, shadows still moving there. Probably no one noticed his escape. He looked forward. He did not know where the river of blood was flowing to, but its flow was fast and carried him away, which was the most important.

There was a loud impact against the wood and the boat rocked violently. Ymdaton knew what happened without looking back, but he did not want to believe.

He grasped his axe and turned to face Svyatogor, whose dark silhouette towered over him in the night. Behind was the bridge, now more than fifteen steps away. A human being was not supposed to be able to jump that far. There was an ugly cut on warrior’s cheek, his white beard was darkened with blood. Crewslayer attacked without hesitation. That was when he noticed that the foe wielt no weapons. Perhaps he left them behind so he could jump better. Ymdaton’s attacks were futile as before. The warrior avoided them, parried with armguards, slapped the blade away with his palms.

But his movements were not as unreadable as before. They were still hard to follow, yet Crewslayer saw them now. He did not understand the change at first. But then it became apparent to him: they fought aboard, the boat was rocking on the waves. Ymdaton was used to this sensation for he was a marine and participated in boarding actions countless times. His foe was a land dweller, albeit an extremely dangerous one. He was not clumsy, his skill was too great to allow it, yet the kinani man had just the advantage that he needed.

He made several feints in order to position his weapon inside enemy’s guard. He did not manage to do it with a blade facing in the right direction, yet the butt of the axe was fine enough. He caught a moment when the boat soared up and made a rising swing. The rocking of the vessel added to his own speed and provided just enough momentum to surprise the foe. The hit connected.

Blunt side of the axe smashed into Svyatogor's jaw. Two teeth, shining white in the night as pieces of ice flew out of his mouth and vanished in the river.

The warrior pierced Ymdaton with a stare.

“Have you had your fill?” asked he without a hint of anger in his voice.

Then the man’s fist was near Ymdaton’s chest, instantly, without any visible movement. He grasped the crewmen by the hauberk and lifted him into the air with ease. Crewslayer tried to hit him, but was not quick enough. Svyatogor swung him around and smashed into the boat’s bottom. The vessel shattered into pieces.

Ymdaton was picked up by the river, spinned and tossed around. He tried to swim or the shore, yet drevlyani armour which served him so well during past moons was now dragging him down. He managed to lift his head over the surface and catch few gulps of air, but then sunk completely.

He struggled against the current to to avail, until it threw him against a boulder. He got hit to the head. His consciousness submerged into the darkness just as his body came down to the river bed.