Happy Life
His dawn-steel eyes narrowed as Alsira fell, his teeth grinding—he was not the only one employing his strategy.
"Finish him, my lady, I beg of you"—a grim satisfaction warmed his soul at the sight of the Knight of Joy's strike.
Lying behind a pile of sand he had himself heaped up in a couple of seconds, from behind which his head barely peeked out, he continued assessing the situation. The participants were thinning out, but it was too early to speak of any final picture. To the right—the golden one struggles with the hooded figure; behind—a one-eyed colleague draws closer to the grim one; somewhere in the distance, my lady tries to punish a scoundrel with her axe; the rest maneuver.
His gaze shifted south—it seemed the northerners were somewhat battered. The Crusher attempts to join the fray, the commander has stepped back and is barking at her colleagues. Is she limping? Indeed, she had taken a serious blow earlier.
His hand darts toward the dagger but stops halfway.
"Would that be gallant? Hardly"—his brain tries to make sense of the impulse that ran through it. Hand and head drop into the sand. "That is not quite in line with my code."
"Now or never."
After lying there for a few seconds and running through the possible options in his head, Vargas finally draws Goldcutter, rises to half his height, and dashes with the speed of lightning—poisoned and bereft of spirit, but lightning nonetheless. In his case, rather a ball lightning, hiding the blade behind his back so that a stray glint would not cut the observers' eyes and give away his maneuver.
Coming face to face with the last remaining commander, he gives her a nod and a second to process it, then makes a couple of thrusts alternating with a swing. To his credit, even in an unexpected situation and despite her wound, she dances like a sylph. However, the final thrust—by his own standards somewhat dirty, which cut at his heart, but battle is battle—was anticipated by a feint: with his free hand he made a gesture as if he meant to grab her, thereby directing her reflexive dodge into the convenient direction his weapon so craved.
The dagger sinks into the lightly armored flesh like a knife into warm butter.
"We are even, Lady Crimson Blade. Lester always pays his debts,"—the phrase from the fiction he had recalled earlier came back to mind and tongue. "You are magnificent, and your will is worthy of praise as well. May a higher power judge us from here on,"—his hand at that moment reflexively touched the cross on his neck.
Picking up the fallen hat so it would not drop into the sand, he returns it to its owner's hands.
Leaving a bow, he sweeps his cloak, briefly blocking the view—and in the very next moment, as it clears, he is already gone.