[Firefoot]

Harold glanced up, startled, as the door crashed inward. A man, one Harold vaguely recognized, strode through the door with a sword in hand. Eowyn was dropped by Arthur, who also drew his sword. For the moment, Harold shoved Henry into the closet and shut the door. He readied his sword, knowing this man couldn’t be the only one coming. He was proven right almost immediately when three women pushed through the door, one of them Sandrina. She met Harold’s gaze boldly, hate mirrored in her eyes.

“Time for you to die,” said Harold. He lunged for her with his sword, and his blade crashed on that of the woman standing to Sandrina’s right. He did not waste time to glare at her.

“It is not I who will die today,” said Sandrina. Harold supposed she was trying to sound noble. “It is you.” She too drew her sword, and Harold found himself faced by the three armed women.

“Not until you do,” replied Harold, and with that he made another move that began the continuous dipping and twisting that made up the special dance of sword fighting. Harold had great skill with a sword, and he knew it. He received a small nick on his left shoulder, but returned it with many more. Seizing an opportunity, he snaked his sword back behind one of the woman’s legs and sliced at her hamstrings. The woman collapsed, out of the fight. Now Harold had but two opponents. The ring of metal on metal was in his ears, and his awareness was limited to that of his sword and this battle.

He was about to deliver the death-stroke to the woman he did not know when his blade was stopped abruptly by another’s, and Harold was jerked back to reality. He saw that it was a man, about the same height as himself. Harold kept his eyes on all of them. Sandrina seemed perhaps a little relieved. The man spoke to them, “Sandrina, Anora, you two go and help Henry and Eowyn. I will take over from here.” The man turned to Harold. Harold now had the opportunity to see what else was going on in his peripheral vision. There was only one other man that he had failed to notice before, and he was fighting Samuel. Arthur was still fighting with that other man, whose actions were now visibly labored.

“You have caused Sandrina a great deal of pain, you know,” the man addressed Harold, apparently testing Harold out.

“Good,” replied Harold. “She has caused me a great deal of trouble.” Harold ran his blade down that of his new opponent’s. Harold feinted left and stabbed to the right. The man parried both with slices of his own. Harold nodded. Here was a decent swordsman. This fight was more intense than the one he had fought with the women. Harold could feel sweat dripping down his forehead. He had not had rough days like these past few in many years, and he was not young anymore. To his benefit was the skill and wisdom such as it was that came with age. There was no time for thought. The heat of his hate fueled him on. He had a goal to accomplish; this man was only an obstacle. By the end of this day, Henry and Sandrina alike would be dead for the griefs they had caused him.

The man was good, but Harold was better. The man, seeing a chance, reached out too far, and Harold did not hesitate. He ducked, knocking the man off balance, and stabbed into the man’s side. Blood spurted from the wound. The man fell over in a faint, but Harold knew he was not dead. He had struck beneath the rib cage. He set his sword to the man’s chest. Ordinarily, he would have left the man, but he had aided Sandrina, no small crime in Harold’s opinion.

“I would not do that if I were you,” said a soft voice behind him. It was one Harold recognized instantly: Henry’s. Harold felt sharp cold metal against his own neck. Slowly, he turned around.

“If I were like you,” said Henry. “I would kill you now. But I will not. I will give you a fair chance. Let us see whether your sword skills have improved since we were teens.” Harold’s temper flared. Henry had beaten him before when Harold tried to kill him; he would not now.

“You will regret it,” Harold spat. He turned, and walked toward the gaping doorway. “Come. We will do this properly, in somewhere with more space than this room. Henry grunted in assent, and followed Harold outside.

The brothers faced off, a few feet from each other, each raising his sword. Wordlessly, they flew at each other. Both started out relatively easily, and as they felt each other out the skill level steadily increased. Very evenly matched, both Henry and Harold received small cuts, but nothing more serious than that, though Harold's shoulder where the woman had cut it was throbbing. They fought in a cold fury, their swords blazing as if on fire in the light of the westering sun. The advantage switched back and forth, both men attacking and parrying.

Henry made as if to slash into Harold’s right side. Harold saw this as a fatal mistake, and he stabbed with a vengeance at Henry’s heart. As soon as he began to move, Harold knew he had made a mistake. Henry had fooled him with a simple trick, and sure enough the blade of Henry’s sword came up and knocked Harold’s weapon out of his hand. He knew that Henry would not let him go free this time. Bitterly he rued the day Arthur and Samuel had failed to kill Sandrina. Because of their mistake, he would die this day.

Henry wore a small smile on his face. It was not happiness, nor satisfaction. Harold realized it was sadness. Henry moved his sword within inches of Harold’s face. Harold did not flinch.

“I wish I did not have to do this,” said Henry. “but I do. If it had been only me you had hurt, this day and every day since Sandrina turned up missing, I could forgive you. I was not the only one hurt, though. My wife and daughter have suffered, too. This is for them.” His voice, though it had grown softer in tone, had also grown harder in conviction. This aroused curiosity in Harold. He wondered his brother’s words, that his death was for Sandrina and Eowyn. What kind of love was this? Harold did not understand, did not want to understand. It was too late for him. Any breath he took could be his last. He pushed the soft thoughts away. He had lived strong, and he would now die strong.

“This is for them,” repeated Henry, and with those words he drove his sword through Harold’s heart.