I swirled my blade around and deflected a Chulik’s blade. He pressed on with vehemence, for he, like everyone else, could hear those ferocious war cries blasting up at his rear. I clashed blades again, and looked past the Chulik for an instant, took in what I saw, and then went back to work.
Beyond the bows of this Grodnim swifter a larger swifter had eased up, a double-banked vessel. She lofted over the fighting-men, and warriors poured from her — and, they wore the red, the glorious red, and at their head punched a tight and compact knot of Krozairs, their brands living flames in the speckled light.
I took the Chulik with the old underhand and he toppled back, yelling, for even a Chulik may yell when he has been hurt to death. He fell. Now the decks were clearing. Grodnims were hurling
