Chương 40: Vol 1. The Duel: Part 2

Morton's footing stumbled as Korra turned her body and forcefully drove his sword to the side. The blow travelled through the blade, rattled the bones of his wrist, and sent a sharp pain up his arm. Morton caught on quickly. Deciding not to fight against the momentum, he dipped the point of his sword beneath hers, then turned his wrist before wrenching his blade free. He was starting to think he might be rustier at this than he had realized.

With horrendous footing, he managed to pull back just as Korra leapt forward. Her sword swept low. Morton dropped his own blade to intercept it—clang! He let out a low grunt. The impact pushed his arms tight against his chest. Every muscle, from the flexor carpi ulnaris in his forearm to the deltoids of his shoulders, tightened beneath the tremendous strain. Korra leaned into the locked blades. Her lips were curled into an amused little smile. Morton's bare feet began to slip backwards.

Good Lord, she was inhumanly strong—quite literally. Morton clenched his teeth. With quick wit, he twisted his hips, forcing his shoulder behind the blade. Korra's sword shifted aside, just barely, but enough for Morton to step backwards and break the lock. He slashed diagonally. Korra, with cattish swiftness, leaned out of the way. She snapped her tail against the carpet to counterbalance the sudden movement. Then she sprinted forward and thrust. He slapped the point of her blade aside.

The two began to circle each other. The carpet felt scratchy against Morton's bare soles. He looked down: as Korra moved her feet in a steady, methodical pattern, her claws slipped in and out, digging into the fabric whenever she needed extra purchase. There was the faintest hitch whenever she placed her weight upon her left leg, though it vanished so quickly that Morton wondered if he had imagined it. Morton advanced posthaste, giving her the present of multiple blows in quick succession.

Korra turned each aside with ease, a disturbing calmness in her visage; it looked as if she wasn't even actually trying. Clang! Clang! Clang! She gave ground only when she wished to, retreating in smooth and methodical steps before planting her back paw into the carpet, pushing her sharp claws deep into the fabric, then driving forward with her leading paw. Their blades locked. Morton pushed, letting out echoing, bear-like bellows as he did so, his face contorting into an expression of intense ire. He pushed again.

And again. Harder and harder. He bent his knees and threw all of his weight through his arms. Still, while he managed to make her absurdly sinewed arms tremble just a tad, she remained fixed in place, firmly rooted in the carpet as if she were one of the stone pillars of the Parthenon. Morton glanced down, eyeing her carpet-sunken claws.

"Hey!" Morton sneered.

"I thought you said no claws!"

"No claws while grappling," she said slyly.

"I reckon that seems like an important distinction."

"I thought it was obvious. It is one of the first techniques you learn, though…" She looked down at Morton's feet.

"Doesn't seem like you can really do it. If there is one manly thing about you, it's those ridiculously small and smooth claws of yours."

"Ain't claws, ma'am," Morton said.

"Just nails."

"Well, then, you can't do much with those pathetically smooth NAILS!" Korra abruptly released the pressure. Morton nearly tumbled onto his arse. She swiftly turned sideways and, with purposeful and teasing tardiness, guided his blade past her with her own, then pushed her weight forward, elbowing him in the shoulder. SMACK! A sudden wave of pain exploded inside his arm, pulsing and disorienting. Before he could recover, Korra drove the bottom of the hilt into his forehead. Morton screamed. White filled his vision.

His head jerked aside, and he staggered back, rubbing his face with his forearm before his vision had fully returned. Korra stood back with one leg raised cheekily.

"Still think you have a good chance of winning against me?" she purred. Morton coughed.

"I reckon you should ask me that again when I'm unconscious."

"Oh, I intend to, you big, strong, feminine man."

"Heh, it's funny," Morton wheezed.

"Back in Texas, my friends and even my daddy, we woulda called ya' a manly woman." Korra giggled.

"And here in Avion, there are usually two types of men who dress and act the way you do." Morton planted his feet and met her, their blades locking once more.

"Young rebels and street whores," she continued.

"Are you either of those, Sir Christian?"

"Well, I ain't young, and I ain't a call boy, but I am rebellious." Korra fought with gracefulness, with a beautiful flow, like the waltzing movements of a ballerina or water rushing through a narrow channel. Every movement had purpose and reason, and each flowed seamlessly into the next.

A high slash turned into a low thrust; a missed thrust became a turn of her wrist, bringing the hilt of her sword into his temple; and even when Morton pulled back, forfeiting an attack, she seemed already halfway into one of her own. Compared to hers, Morton's movements looked stiff and ungraceful, but they were practical. He kept his sword close, and he wasted little energy on broad, decorative swings—sometimes the crunchier and less pretty movements were the necessary ones.

That was the lesson Ogura had beaten into him, usually with a wooden sword and incredibly profane language, all those decades ago: keep your elbows close, watch the shoulders, and always remember that while a blade—like the government, as Ogura would jocularly say, thinking it the funniest thing in the world—could lie to you, the body did not. Morton watched Korra's shoulders turn. He stepped inside her swing. Her blade passed behind him, and Morton slammed the guard of his sword into the side of her ribs.

Korra's muzzle wrinkled, and she let out a sharp grunt as she stepped back apace. Morton followed that up with a shove. She took two steps sideways, her claws tearing bits of fabric from the carpet as she tried to catch herself. Her left knee gave the slightest tremor before she shifted her weight away from it.

"Well," Korra panted, her tongue lolling, "perhaps your master was not entirely incompetent." Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. Morton nodded.

"He'd be real flattered to hear that, I think." Morton lunged. She barely caught his blade in time, and steel scraped against steel. Morton began to push her backwards. She was tiring, and he knew it—one pace, then another and another. Korra's tail lashed behind her, irate. She tried to keep herself upright as Morton drove his weight forward but found that her arms were starting to feel the strain.

Morton chortled, feeling a warm, fuzzy sensation in his heart: a little spark of satisfaction that he had taken her down a peg, if only a little. Then Korra stepped closer—FAR closer than she needed to. Her thick mane brushed across his cheek; her breath travelled fierily over the side of his neck, sending little tingles down his spine. She pressed her bosom against him, deliberately rubbing it against his chest in a slow, circular fashion as their swords strained between them.

Morton's concentration shattered as his brain started to lag. Korra noticed. Yeah, of course she noticed; she was doing it intentionally. Her eye moved deliberately down his body in a coquettish manner, then slowly returned to his face. She playfully flicked her ears, then said with a giggle, "Your eyes seem to keep wandering. I wonder what seems interesting?"

"I'll be honest with ya'," he groaned, his wrist hurting from straining against her sword, "I'm tryin' real hard to keep 'em from doin' that, ma'am."

"Oh, are you?"

"Yes."

"You do not appear to be succeeding." She laughed.

"You remind me of a younger, more feminine version of my beloved: always so flustered."

"I ain't usually flustered," Morton said, unsure why he was admitting this.

"I'll be honest with ya', miss, you're the first woman who has… made me lose concentration in a hell of a long time. Not since Martha."

"Well," she said, flicking one ear, "who could resist a body like this?" Korra shifted her hips and drove one knee between his legs, carefully avoiding anything delicate but forcing him to take a wider stance. Morton wobbled. She turned her blade and sent him stumbling back.

"Honestly," she continued, advancing in a confident catwalk, "you even seem to possess the mind of a woman. So confident in your postmarital chastity, your widower's chastity, your solemn vow never to have these feelings again. And yet, when push comes to shove, the darkest recesses of your mind wish you to be lascivious. I know because I am a woman. I may be disciplined—more disciplined than any woman you will ever meet—but the second I look upon my husband, he has total control over my mind."

She purposefully looked down at somewhere Morton definitely did not want her looking.

"Honestly, were it not for that thing dangling between your legs, I would never be able to tell." Morton grimaced. His face heated, and his skin turned ruddy.

"How 'bout we quit talkin' 'bout our genitals and do a little more fightin'?"

"Oh, with pleasure," she said. Korra licked her muzzle. Then she moved. Morton barely saw the first strike. He raised his sword on instinct, but Korra struck near the guard with her blade, knocking his hand sideways. The second blow came from the opposite direction, and Morton moved out of the way, unsure where to place his feet. Shit, he thought. She… she tricked him. She had used that little conversation to give herself time to rest and regain her energy. Korra sent another blow his way.

He stopped it, but the impact forced him to turn his entire body. The third blow twisted his wrist into an awkward position, nearly wrenching the sword from his grip. Morton quickly retreated, but Korra followed, not allowing him to gain ground. Steel against steel rang through the boxy room in rapid bursts. Morton's forearms began to burn. Sweat ran down his face. His hair and beard were both damp. His chest heaved.

The sword felt heavier with each parry, and yet Korra did not seem to be on the verge of exhaustion. She was fitter than him—a far more beneficial muscle-to-fat ratio, without the extra pudge that weighed Morton down. Sure, he was fit enough to fight for a long time under adrenaline, to run, and to traverse long distances, but that did not mean he was fit enough to fight in a controlled, sport-like environment. It was the difference between a professional boxer and a street fighter. Korra struck high.

Morton blocked. She turned the strike low. He pulled his leg back just before the edge swept past his knee. Her tail snapped playfully across his calf, and Morton lurched sideways. Korra released one paw from the hilt and drove her fist directly into his liver. The punch was loud, sending a booming echo throughout the room. Morton bent over as indescribable pain rocked his person. He felt like throwing up. Whatever dizziness remained from the strike to his forehead became considerably worse.

"God-fuckin'-damnit!" he yelled. He turned wildly and slashed, hoping it would do something. He was starting to lose his usual composure. For a moment, he almost didn't care if giving her a sword-based injury meant he would lose. Korra ducked beneath each attack, her mane sweeping across his pudgy abdomen as she passed. Morton froze. He felt cold steel against the back of his neck. Korra giggled devilishly, then withdrew, stepping several paces away from him.

She placed one paw upon her hip and flicked one ear tauntingly.

"You may yield if you wish," she said.

"You have lasted longer than most. You know, it has been a while since I have done a proper Tukuro. I had a lady—a nice young guardsman, straight from the far-off countryside, looking for work and a better life. You know the drill. Very confident in her abilities. I used to practise with her, but she ended up not being loyal in that regard. After one or two sessions, she got on her knees, broke down crying, and said, 'Please, forgive me, my lady, I cannot do it anymore!'"

Morton glanced at her, then quickly redirected his gaze towards the weapon racks over in the far eastern corner. He knew from the brief time he had spent in this world that exposed breasts—while they could be an object of erotic fixation, especially in a romantic context—were not culturally sensual to the Kharani, at least not compared to the scandalous lewdness that was a man's bare bosom.

While she was toying with him, Korra probably considered herself no more indecent than a farmhand working shirtless on a summer's morn beneath the hot Texan sun. But Morton, at least the last time he checked, was not Kharani. And this was really, really fucking awkward. Horrendously so. With every movement, he was reminded that they were both bare-bottomed. Every blade lock brought her close enough that he could feel her breath, her fur, and the movement of her body against his. It felt…

incredibly intimate, despite the fact that they were strangers. The only woman he had ever been nude with was Martha. Being nude now with Korra felt wrong, despite the fact that Martha had been gone for so long and that they were not doing anything intimate—nothing that could be considered cheating. That worried him. Those locked-away, lustful feelings he had not experienced since Martha's death, along with all his worries, came together into one enormous distraction.

Korra knew this, he reckoned, and she was using it against him. He DESPERATELY needed to focus on something else. He racked his brain. Think, think, think! He needed something stronger, like— Morton looked down at his left arm. That was it!

"Ain't quittin' yet," Morton said, "but I gotta do somethin' first." Before Korra could respond, Morton placed the edge of his sword against the outside of his left upper arm and pulled it across the skin, giving himself a shallow laceration. Crimson blood trickled down his arm and fell to the floor. Morton screamed as loudly as a rooster's morning call through clenched teeth. It felt as if his whole arm were on fire.

"What in Seroth's name are you doing?" Korra shouted. Morton lowered his sword, panting heavily like a dog in the summer heat. The shock and pain extinguished the heat in his face. His embarrassment ceased. Morton's world narrowed, focusing entirely on the fierce burning in his arm. Morton chuckled through a wheeze.

"Alright," he said breathlessly.

"I'm ready."