Chương 39: Vol 1. The Duel: Part 1

Morton followed Korra down the long stone hallway, flanked by a guard on either side, with a third trailing uncomfortably close behind him. Their metallic boots struck the floor. Rhythmic. Martial. The guard next to Morton was close enough that they were practically attached like Chang and Eng Bunker. He could hear her breathing harshly through her nostrils and could occasionally feel the metal tip of her scabbard brush against his hip.

He wanted to tell her to back off, but he decided that might not be the wisest thing. Korra walked several paces ahead. Morton watched her swift gait, noticing that her broad shoulders were rigid, and her paws were clasped behind her back in a stately manner. Banners bearing the two spears of House Seran hung along the stone walls. They eventually stopped before a thick brown door. It was old; that was for certain, its surface scarred with claw scratches and shallow gouges.

Korra placed one paw upon the bronze handle before glancing back at the guards.

"You three, keep watch. No one enters unless I explicitly permit it." The guards said nothing, simply bowing and taking their positions around the doorway. Korra pushed the door inward, its hinges groaning in intense pain, and gestured for Morton to follow her into the duelling room. It was boxy and austere, enclosed on every side by heavy grey stone. A deep ruddy carpet covered the floor, worn thin in several places, with visible paw marks.

Shelves of black-hued wrought iron lined the walls, with weaponry strewn upon them, mostly swords of various lengths and designs, as well as a few axes, spears, and practice weapons. Some were polished and well-maintained; others were nicked, dulled, or stained from their use and neglect. Morton could smell a faint metallic scent permeating the room, mingling with the sharper smells of whetstone dust and leather.

"Sir Christian!" Korra called out. Morton jolted as she tossed him a slightly curved sword in its scabbard.

"This is your last chance to back down; I will not think of you as dishonourable for choosing to forgo a fight which is stacked against you." Morton partially drew the weapon and inspected it. The leather wrapping around the hilt was worn, and there was an unusual and obviously unintentional curvature in the blade, not to mention the hammer marks that littered it, showing that it had been poorly wrought. Still, it looked and felt similar enough to the katanas Ogura had trained him with.

Morton looked up at Korra, then grinned and tipped his hat.

"I think I got a good chance."

"Do you now?" Korra purred.

"If you think so.""'Deed I do. We're usin' formalities again, are we?"

"This is no longer an amiable conversation."

"Also, think you could explain the rules again… or maybe in a little more detail?"

"It is simple, really: you may strike with the blade, hilt, paw, foot, or any other part of yourself. You may grapple, throw, or restrain. No claws. The Tukuro ends when one combatant yields, loses consciousness, or is pierced by the other's blade—though, as I said earlier, if you pierce someone with the blade, it is you who loses. Leaving the carpet willingly is also surrender. Got it?"

"I think so!" Morton said slyly. Korra rolled her eye, then said, "Shall we get started?"

"Ready when you are, miss."

"Good." Her jacket lazily slipped from her shoulders and onto the floor. Then Korra undid the buttons one at a time, her claws catching slightly on the fabric. She didn't take her eye from him. Each button gave a soft little click as it slipped free. When she shrugged the tunic from her shoulders, the fabric brushed against her clipped fur before falling into a heap at her feet.

All that was left on her upper torso was a strip of fabric covering her breasts, and that, too, slowly and purposefully—with a playful flick of her ears and a devilish smile on her muzzle—fell into a heap on the carpet. Finally, she loosened her trousers, let them fall, and kicked them to the side. Morton felt his heart skip a beat; his brain was lagging like an old computer, unable to fully process what was in front of him. In front of him was Korra, fully in the nude.

There was a shamelessness in her stance, and when she walked closer to him, confidence radiated from her swaggering gait. Her body bore evidence of a lifetime spent fighting: pale scars across her ribs, a thicker one disappearing around the thick, unclipped hair on her thighs, then reappearing along her leg. Beneath her clipped, tawny fur, the thick muscles of her abdomen shifted whenever she breathed.

Morton looked her up and down, and when his eyes unintentionally landed on her breasts, his mind caught up with him, and he turned away. Korra chuckled, baring one fang as she gave a wry smile. Colour rose through Morton's face as though his head were a cup slowly being filled with red liquid. She stepped closer; he only tried harder not to look. Her purr became deeper.

"Why are you looking away?" Korra asked, amusement curling through her deepened voice.

"Are you finally afraid of me? I would not fault you."

"No. It's because you ain't wearin' anythin', ma'am."

"Yes," she said dryly.

"I noticed."

"So why ain't you wearin' anythin'?" The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

"Hm?" she said, cocking her head.

"Oh, yes. I forgot to mention: traditionally, a Tukuro is fought without armour, insignia, jewellery, or clothing. Nothing is permitted between the opponents: not rank, wealth, or false appearances. Only flesh, skill, and honour remain. However, it is usually done between two women. I did not even consider that you, as a man, might be uncomfortable showing your nude figure to someone who is not your wife."

"I… uh…"

"If you wish, I can call it off, but I warn you, I will not give you the reward I promised for besting me." Though Morton kept his gaze fixed firmly on the weapon racks or the carpet, he heard Korra's bare paws slowly cross the carpet. She stopped close enough that he could feel her hot breath travelling down his neck. Morton removed his shirt easily enough, though his hands began to slow as they reached his belt.

Korra knelt beside him, watching without even so much as trying to conceal it, her single amber eye following every movement. Morton took a deep breath, then removed his boots, trousers, and underwear, placing them beside his shirt. Honestly, he considered keeping the hat on, just out of spite and principle, but eventually set it beside the rest of his clothing.

"My," Korra said with a whistle. She rose and slowly walked around him, her paws rubbing against him, examining the breadth of his shoulders, the scars across his back, and the thick—although comparatively sparse next to her fur—hair across his chest.

"You really are womanly. You are built more like a woman than most women I know." She pressed two claws lightly against his upper arm, forcing his bicep to flex so that she could feel its hardness.

"You hide quite a bit beneath those clothes." Morton swallowed hard; he had been in a situation like this before—yet this time, he felt as nervous as he had when he first saw Martha, and he was unsure why. Perhaps it was because they had talked so intimately. Morton internally grumbled. He hated this. He knew this woman was a married royal; he knew she did not care about him; he knew that this was some kind of mind game she was playing, though he did not know why. But…

good Lord, this was why he did not keep partners around. He would get attached too quickly, then they would die and leave him for heaven, and he hated it. That was… Morton began to remember carrying Tahir all the way up the stairs, like how his daddy would bring him up to bed after he and his buddies had gotten wasted by the lake.

He remembered how the kid had clung to him after a nightmare, how he had gently cleaned his paws, how much the kid had started to depend on him, and how much joy he took in providing that care. No, that was not good. He was getting— His chest was heaving. Korra had leaned forward. He could feel her breasts press against his arm and the heat radiating from her lower half against his leg.

"Sir Christian," Korra said coquettishly, "are you familiar with Prince Tahir Orien's sister, Princess Sahri Orien?"

"C-can't say I do, ma'am." Korra put one paw lazily against his cheek.

"She is… how do I put this? A bit of a hedonist. She has multiple civil husbands, you see, and I bet she has a lot more men in her chamber than just her husbands. Now, Sir Christian, we are both people of faith, as we discussed. Does your religion forbid you from having extramarital relations?" Morton took a deep breath.

"'Fraid so, ma'am."

"Aww…" she purred.

"That's a shame. So does mine. I—well, I am not… the most pious woman you will ever meet, but I am faithful to my husband, unfortunate though that may be. But if I were not…" Morton felt Korra press further into him. Now he could fully feel the thickness of her areolas. Her hand moved over his chest as she whispered gruffly into his ear:"If I were a hedonist at heart, I would gladly have you as my concubine… and, depending on how well you perform next, a training partner."

"I don't know how to reply to that, ma'am."

"I'm just playing around," she said with an ear flick. She stepped away from him and waltzed over to her sheathed sword. Morton had to try—oh, by the good Lord above—he had to resist the temptation to look at her swaying bottom. She grabbed the sword and drew it from its sheath, getting into a battle stance.

"Now," she said with a flick of one ear.

"Let's begin." Morton looked at his sheathed sword. His eyebrows knitted into an expression of fierce determination. He was getting that kid a fucking ride to that royal punching fest. He drew the sword and placed it in front of him, spreading out his legs.

"Wonderful stance!" she praised.

"Now let us see if your master taught you well enough to defend yourself against me for even a minute."

"Time for the opening ceremony, then."

"Good Lord, there's an opening ceremony?" Morton scoffed.

"Y'all put a lot of thought into fightin'. When I was—""Not the time for stories," Korra said evenly.

"Got it," Morton said with a nod.

"Just repeat after me, got it?"

"Yep."

"I, Lady Korra of House Seran, having trained under the guidance of my master, Vicuro Turica of the Queen's Guard, Fourth Unit, hereby, with the first beloved, Seroth, as my witness, challenge you to a Tukuro. Do you accept?" Morton blinked. He hoped he could remember all that.

"I… I, Morton Christian, havin' trained under my master, Ogura Takanawa of the Japan Self-Defence Forces, and with my Lord, Jesus Christ, as my witness, hereby accept your challenge."

"Having now entered the Tukuro, I invoke the prophet Kaelreth as the one to whom I dedicate this Tukuro." Morton thought for a moment.

"It does not have to be religious; it can be anyone," Korra whispered.

"Havin' now entered the Tukuro, I invoke Prince Tahir as the one to whom I dedicate this Tukuro." Korra looked deeply at him, then gave a grin.

"Such dedication to your master—wonderful. Now, then, this fight shall begin. Three, two, one—move your weapon!" She swaggered forward, and their blades locked. She stepped in until no space between them remained, her muzzle hovering near his cheek.

"Still confident you can win?" she whispered. Morton strained against her sword as he readied himself.

"A little less than I was five minutes ago."