Dunsen froze in shock, Polliver's strike held nothing back. He wasn't trying to stop him; he was trying to kill him.
This wasn't a sparring match. It was an assassination.
Unlike Polliver, Dunsen wasn't blindly loyal. He simply wanted to check if his idol, Ser Gregor, needed help. He hadn't intended to kill anyone. But Polliver clearly meant to take his life.
The thrust came too quickly. Caught off guard, Dunsen had no time to retreat. He could try to parry upward with his sword, but there was a problem, he didn't have the time.
Raff the Sweetling, standing nearby, flinched in alarm. He was the highest-ranking man among Gregor's followers. Whether it was Dunsen or Polliver who got hurt, or worse, he'd be held responsible.
Injuries could be explained. Death couldn't.
Gregor Clegane was never cruel to his men. In fact, compared to other knights and lords, he was almost indulgent. But his version of mercy still seemed like cruelty in the eyes of others.
"Watch out!" Raff 's signature smile froze on his face.
A flash of steel. Polliver's sword lunged at Dunsen's throat.
Swish!
The blade passed by, and blood sprayed.
Dunsen twisted his neck just in time, dodging the killing thrust, but not fast enough to escape unscathed. A long red line appeared across his throat, like a bloody necklace. Blood spurted from the wound.
He'd narrowly avoided death. Had that blade struck even slightly deeper, it would've pierced his artery, and that would have been the end.
Polliver scowled in frustration. "Afraid? Don't dodge, you damned mutt!"
Coming from someone trying to kill him, it was laughably hypocritical.
Still reeling, Dunsen backpedaled quickly, dodging two more rapid thrusts, one toward his face, then one at his gut.
Polliver wasn't pulling his strikes. Each one was aimed to kill.
This wasn't about blocking a door. This was about eliminating an enemy.
Rage flared in Dunsen's chest. He ignored the searing pain from his throat and launched into a counterattack, his sword a blur.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Three rapid strikes pushed Polliver back on his heels.
Polliver spun, swinging for Dunsen's waist. The corridor was too narrow for Dunsen to dodge sideways, he'd either have to take the blow or retreat. Polliver was betting that Dunsen, like a true disciple of Gregor, would never back down.
And Dunsen didn't. He gripped his sword with both hands and met the attack head-on, slashing upward in a powerful diagonal arc.
Polliver's technique was inspired by Gregor's devastating spinning cleave, an attack once so powerful it had cut a man and his horse in half. Ever since witnessing that, Polliver had obsessed over perfecting the same move, focusing solely on raw power.
The blades clashed, silver streaks meeting in a blur.
But instead of the explosive crash Polliver expected, there was only a soft ting. Dunsen had redirected the force, not blocked it, but guided it away with a clever twist of his blade. In that same motion, he spun past Polliver like a shadow.
Polliver's full-powered slash met nothing but air. He stumbled forward under the weight of his own momentum, and by the time he caught himself, Dunsen was behind him.
And striking.
With a vicious downward arc, Dunsen's sword carved a deep line from the base of Polliver's neck down to his tailbone. A red gash burst open, clothes splitting with it.
Polliver gasped in agony, slamming into the stone wall. He'd meant to trap Dunsen there. Instead, they'd traded places, and he was the one cornered.
He whirled around, but Dunsen's sword was already lunging again, straight at his throat.
It was the same killing thrust Polliver had tried to use at the start.
Only this time, delivered with superior technique and terrifying speed.
Polliver had no room to dodge, no time to retreat. He could only block.
CLANG!
Sparks flew as Polliver barely deflected the thrust.
Before he could counterattack, Dunsen's blade twisted, spun once, twice, two feints aimed at both sides of Polliver's chest.
Uncertain which was real, Polliver raised his sword to strike Dunsen's head instead, gambling on a mutual kill.
But Dunsen was faster.
He shifted slightly, dodging Polliver's slash, then stabbed, cleanly, precisely, into Polliver's sword wrist.
"AHHH!"
Polliver screamed as his sword dropped from his hand.
Before it even hit the ground, Dunsen's blade flipped again, aiming straight for his throat.
Another killing thrust.
The blade moved like lightning. If it connected, it would impale Polliver against the wall.
CLANG!
A spray of sparks exploded between them.
Raff the Sweetling had slipped in like a cat, silent and sudden, parrying the blow at the last second.
Polliver collapsed against the wall, drenched in sweat, blood pouring from his back. He panted heavily, trying to stay conscious.
"Enough, Dunsen," Raff said quietly.
"He tried to kill me!" Dunsen shouted, furious.
"Polliver was obeying Ser Gregor's orders."
Dunsen's face darkened. "So I was in the wrong, then?"
"You weren't wrong," Raff said in his usual soft tone, "But if you kill him, then you will be."
Inside the room, Gregor's howls had stopped.
"The room is silent," Raff continued. "Our concern should be Ser Gregor's safety, not tearing each other apart."
The name "Ser Gregor" was like a magic spell. At its mention, all three men froze.
Dunsen let out a furious huff and sheathed his sword, glaring at the wounded Polliver. The fight was over, for now.
There would be plenty of time to kill that idiot later (as Dunsen often thought of him). But right now, what mattered most was Gregor's condition.
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