Belka faced the two cavaliers, halberd leveled. One wore a helmet and the other had a mad look in his eyes. Both were sullen, and their armor was spattered with blood. “Throw down your swords!” Belka called, gripping her halberd. She found she was shaking, to be subject to their maddened attention. Dust floated in the dark blue air of the fortress hallway.
The helmeted cavalier lurched forward with a swing, and Belka swatted his blade aside with the flat of the axehead. He stumbled, nearly falling, as the second cavalier approached. “And should we let another one through?” The helmetless cavalier called hoarsely to his fellow.
“I need to be through,” Belka said. “I’m not with the madfolk outside, I’m—”
The helmetless cavalier leapt toward her, and on instinct, she cut him down. Her axehead lodged in his side, and with a grunt he fell to his side. A line of blood trickled and stained the carpet on the granite floor as she wrenched the blade free.
The helmeted cavalier, still disarmed, ripped off her helmet—for it was a woman, and not a man as Belka had thought—and ran toward the body of her fellow cavalier. “Athalu!” She cried.
Belka stepped backward, uneasy.