The Othmen envoy rose up above the Shadow Master, her hair billowing out like one hundred serpents and then she sank suddenly to the ground. She stumbled as her billowing torso started transforming back into that of a human. She looked confused.
“What is happening?” she demanded.
“Oh dear,” said the Shadow Master. “There goes all the enchantment.” He pointed with his sword. “What light through yon darkness breaks? Why that is the last of it. And that sound in the water, that’s your cousins dying.”
She held a hand to her chest as if there was pain in the transformation.
“Sorry,” he said. “I know this could have come at a better time for you.”
She glared at him with naked hatred and said, “I will still kill you.”
“You and what army?” he asked. “Oh, silly question.”
She leapt at him with her sword drawn and he stepped back and blocked her with his two swords. The Janissaries unsheathed their own weapons and moved forward, surrounding him. “Did I mention my reinforcements?” he said as he stepped back again and again, as her blade flashed at him, sparks leaping where their swords struck.
“The city does not have enough men to defeat one hundred Janissaries,” she cried. “And you cannot defeat us on your own.”
Instead of replying, he spun around quickly, as if warding off the men surrounding him, and a dagger flew out from his cloak as he moved, striking her in the shoulder. She dropped her sword and gasped in surprise. He stood up and said, “That’s why I brought a friend.” All she said in response was, “Kill him!”
The Shadow Master spun again to knock more arrows out of the air that were fired at him and then turned to chop the point off a spear that was thrust at him. He leapt in the air as another slashed at his feet and evaded a set of bolos aimed at his neck. “Now is a good time to help,” he called. And one of the masked figures lying on the ground stood up shakily. He seemingly plucked the three arrows out of his body, the tips blunted by his body armour, and took off his mask. It was Vincenzo the scribe.
“Now you’re in trouble,” said the Shadow Master. The Othmen envoy ignored him and pulled a whip out of her belt. She cast it at him and he raised a sword to cut it, realizing as he did so that it was the wrong thing to do. The whip was woven through with strong metal threads and it wrapped around his sword tightly. He looked at the smile on her face as she looked beautiful again, smiling graciously to him. It was another weapon he seemed not prepared for. The instant distraction cost him his advantage as several other whips snapped out, catching his other sword and both arms.
“Now, this time you will die,” she said, almost sounding sweet.
“Now is a good time to remember the feel of a sword in your hands,” said the Shadow Master to Vincenzo. And the scribe drew his sword. He twirled it in the air once. Then again. Much faster. Then he looked up at the closest Janissaries and smiled. No longer Vincenzo the scribe. His battle memory returning. He knew how this was going to play out, as if he had written the scene in great detail already. Two Othmen warriors rushed at him, scimitars drawn. He dodged the first and cut down the second, then turned and cut the forearm clean off the first man at the wrist.
“Cue fanfare,” called the Shadow Master as Vincenzo leapt at the next three men advancing on him. He ducked the first sword, came up on the attacker and hit him hard in the chin with his shoulder. He then snatched the sword from his attacker’s hand and pushed the man’s body at the two Janissaries who were slashing at him. As they tried to evade the body Vincenzo leapt high, jumping off the falling man’s body and coming down on top of the two men. He cut one at the neck and pierced the other in the face. The three bodies fell together.
The Othmen envoy watched in disbelief as Vincenzo cut a path through her warriors towards her and she unclipped a small bronze device from her belt and cast it at his feet. He did not even see it spin like a top, and then it exploded, sending out a thick yellow gas. Vincenzo and the Janissaries who were enveloped by it all fell to the ground the instant they breathed just a trace of it, and started shaking uncontrollably.
“And now you,” the Othmen envoy said, reaching for another brass device at her belt. The Shadow Master, held now by several whips and surrounded by sharp spear points, did not know what the Othmen device did, and had no particular interest in finding out. He said, “All right, play time is over.” Then with a seeming ease he pulled his arms free, his twin blades cutting through the whips and knocking away the spears. He moved so fast the Othmen envoy thought she must be suddenly drugged. He cut his way through the whole Janissary force like a reaper cutting his way through a wheat field. Men fell to the left and right of her as he whirled and slashed and leapt like nothing she had ever imagined possible.
“No!” she screamed, and screamed until they were the only two left standing and he stood with his bloodied sword blades both crossed at her neck. One hundred Othmen warriors dead at his feet, and he just smiled at her as if it had all been a game to him. “Who are you?” she hissed.
“Always, who are you?” he said. “Never, how did you do that?”
She fumbled for the device in her hand, but then it fell to the ground harmlessly as her head was cut from her neck. Her headless body stood defiantly for some moments before falling, like a marionette with the strings slashed.