He did not bother with begging , nor threatening. The moment they had appeared from the shadow he just gave a few words.
"Are you sure?"
The sword became their orators as they danced.
It was a frantic, desperate waltz in the dark, their blades kissing and singing a sharp, ringing song of iron. Their legs skipped over the treacherous pebbles, sparks flying into the air like brushes of orange paint against a canvas of black. The darkness favored them; the moonlight was a fickle thing, providing just enough silver to track a movement but not enough to telegraph a strike.
Karlin proved his match well enough keeping his attention.
All Harlon needed to was wait. Then he found his opening, snaking through a clumsy parry to plunge his dagger into the stranger's back.
The blade bit into the meat of the shoulder, and the man let out a shout of pain, blood dribbling out as he wrenched the blade away.
