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Not a moment after the assailant had discharged his weapon, Winterbourne fired his in
response. He did not wait; the enemy may have had a second pistol, and he aimed for the flash
of violet smoke, hoping to score a hit. He was rewarded with the dull and slightly wet smack of a
ball hitting flesh, but no cry of pain. Had he killed the attacker outright? This question was soon
answered as a figure flew into the office, a shortsword drawn and lunging directly towards the
general like a spear point. Winterbourne shouted in alarm, an involuntary exhalation of noise as
he clumsily parried the blade away with his heavy service pistol. The assassin was hurt, and had
overreached himself; he stumbled as he was deflected, allowing Winterbourne a precious
second to draw his blade, the shining steel singing against the lip of his scabbard as he pulled it
free, thankful that he had not put his weapons away the moment he got home.
The figure was dressed in a long brown leather coat, with an unfashionable tricorne hat. Around
his lower face was a thick woollen scarf such as a dockworker might wear on an especially cold
day. Blood drenched the front of his coat, staining the brown an unhealthy black, and the man’s
eyes were wild, bright with pain and adrenalin. Winterbourne was sure the wound was mortal;
how was he still standing up? His eyes flicked briefly to Talenglen, white as a sheet, moaning
piteously as he held his blubbery neck, blood spilling down his jacket and collar from the
assassin’s shot. Gwynt was doing his best to see to the wounded man, attempting to stem the
wound. Winterbourne registered all of this in what must have been less than a second, but in
that time the assailant came at him again. Goddess he was fast! Even with a hole in him, the
man had the speed of a wraith, and Winterbourne was almost cut down then and there for his
carelessness, but managed to deflect the assassins blow. Winterbourne fought as he had never
had cause to fight before, his longer, thinner blade scraping along his enemy’s butcher weapon
as they duelled. The assassin was more than fast; he was well trained, and he probed and struck,
probed and struck, and it was all Winterbourne could do to keep himself from being run

through, having no opportunity to attack in turn. He stepped back, allowing the assassin to close
on him, beating him into a corner. The general was banking heavily on his foe running out of
steam; allowing him to think he was winning, allowing him to continue bludgeoning
Winterbourne’s weapon with stinging attacks that sent violent shocks up the general’s arm.
Winterbourne was beginning to feel like this might be the wrong strategy, that his own stamina
would give out before the man succumbed to his wound; his shoulder burned and his arm was
becoming numb, his palm sweaty with the effort of blocking each blow, knowing that to fail was
to have that vicious shard of metal bury itself into his stomach before he got a second chance.
Winterbourne began to experience a very real sense of fear, the like of which he had never
experienced before; war is not a very personal business. Rarely do duels occur, and rarer still are
you fighting the same man for longer than a few seconds, provided of course that you have even
managed to close with the enemy. This though, this was something different, something
Winterbourne had never before experienced; someone was trying to kill him, to end his life
specifically, and the fear of this new sensation made the general’s adrenaline spike. His
heartbeat pounded heavy in his ears, beating to a desperate rhythm…
LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE. FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT. Over and over again, louder and faster as his
strength faded and his grip softened another fraction of an inch against the relentless assault.
There was also the matter of his weapon; despite what stage plays and small children playing
war in the streets would think, swords were not designed for repeatedly banging against one
another. Doing such would blunt and shatter the blades faster than you might believe, but
Winterbourne could do little else against the furious assault; still, he knew his slender blade
would give out long before the assassins’ butcher knife in this regard. As if to prove him right
immediately, his next desperate block saw his sword snap clean, a third of the metal spinning

through the air as the assassin struck, his heavier blade slashing into the general’s chest.
Winterbourne cried out in alarm and pain as he stumbled back against the wall, clutching his
wound and panting from exertion. He slid downwards, slowly, his legs turning to jelly beneath
him. So this is it; he would not even see the face of his killer it seemed. He raised his broken
sword feebly, unwilling to just give up, the broken point swaying as he pointed it towards his
opponent.

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