Chương 42: Vol 1. The Duel: Part 4

Korra lunged. Morton positioned himself, expecting her to tackle him; instead, she came to an abrupt stop, stepped backward, then forward, then back again. She began to encircle him. Her paws moved with a peculiar rhythm: forward, backward, sideways, and each time Morton thought she was about to attack, she halted just beyond his reach. Her tail swayed playfully low behind her, the tip occasionally flicking in a direction opposite to what one of her shoulders suggested. Morton got onto his knees.

He kept his hands raised. Korra reached towards his injured arm. He swatted at her paw, and she pulled back before he could catch it. A coy little smile tugged at her muzzle. Her shoulders rolled as though she meant to spring, but her hips remained loose and uncommitted, and her tail traced lazy little half-circles over the carpet. Morton's eyes raked her up and down, deep in concentration, as he tried to figure out what her plan was. Then she feinted high, but Morton saw through it and caught her dropping low.

He wrapped his foot around one of her legs and pressed the other against her thigh. She tried to push his foot off with her tail, but he fell onto his back, sending her sprawling forward. She pinned his wrist and tried to slide over to force him into an arm lock, but Morton raised his knee and drove forward. Korra was still faster than him, and she had good technique, but he had something she didn't—an alcohol addiction that made it so he was never below 240 pounds.

As she tried to slip out, Morton wrapped one arm around her middle and heaved himself onto his belly. Korra let him do so. As they turned, she released his other wrist, but then, just as they were about to collapse onto the carpet, she pivoted and hooked one leg around his, tossing herself backward. With quickness, Morton landed shoulder-first, swiftly transitioning into a shoulder roll. As he rolled, he came to a stop on his side. His index finger was less than an inch away from the edge of the red carpet.

He saw Korra casually swagger over, then bend down and tap the edge with one claw.

"Careful," she said.

"You almost—" Morton got to his knees and rammed her down. As they rolled across the carpet, Korra managed to slither her way up his body and take hold of his injured arm. As her paws moved up, she made sure to press hard on the open wound, causing it to open further and smear blood across her fur and onto the carpet. Morton clenched his teeth. It hurt. It hurt really fucking bad. His other arm lifted, and he contemplated whether to yield. No. He was not yielding. Not yet.

As Korra prepared to go into an arm lock, Morton had a sudden recollection: he knew exactly what this move was, and he remembered the technique Ogura had taught him for escaping it. He shifted his hips, trapped one of Korra's legs, then reversed the position, heaving with his weight. Korra suddenly found herself underneath him, with Morton controlling one of her wrists. She flicked her ears and smiled.

"Your master taught you hand-to-hand martial prowess well, I must say."

"Sure did, though usually, whenever we rolled around," Morton grunted, "there were more pants." Morton had the pin secured until— Korra wrapped her tail around his wrist, and while it did not fully overpower him, it distracted him and made him lose control of his grip just long enough for her to buck, twist, and shrimp out. Morton leapt after her. The fight became messier as they tussled. The grappling became ugly and breathless.

Korra drove her knee beneath his ribs, forcing the breath out of his lungs and, for a moment, not allowing the air to return. Morton trapped her against his chest, but she escaped with a headbutt to his jaw, and white light flashed behind Morton's eyes. He grabbed her wrist and tried to roll, but Korra dug her heel into the carpet, managing to break her wrist free. The blood from his arm was making their grips slipperier than they needed to be.

Eventually, Korra ended up straddling him, using her strength to pin his arms. From where she was, Morton was forced to stare directly at her bosom. Korra flicked one ear.

"Still distracted?" Morton used her moment of jeering to bridge his hips, throwing her off balance, trapping her arm, then rolling her. He got behind Korra and locked an arm around her neck. Korra began to panic, her tail lashing wildly against the carpet. Her claws instinctively unsheathed and reached for Morton's face, only for her to remember that it was forbidden. Morton tightened the chokehold. Korra's chest moved up and down rapidly as her breathing became restrained. Morton's arms quivered.

His injured arm was beginning to fail. He was starting to think that really was a stupid idea. His fingers, one by one, loosened, and Korra broke free. Morton launched after her, and as they got back into a ball, Korra's knee buckled. Morton instinctively caught her. He reached out for the injured leg but stopped. Korra noticed and growled, "Do not dare fucking pity me!"

"Wasn't pity," Morton replied evenly.

"Just seemed unfair to win because your knee gave out like that." Korra's expression was one of intense, burning ire. She slammed Morton down, his head dangerously close to the edge of the cpinned one arm beneath her knee, and started to apply a shoulder lock. Morton screamed. He was trapped under the pressure, and with the force Korra was using, she might actually break his arm.

"Yield," she shouted.

"Yield, you filthy guardsman of House Orien." Guardsman of House Orien… That wasn't what he was, but… as Morton's vision began to darken, he thought of Tahir's ruined paws and the way he had cleaned them. He thought of Tahir crying into his chest. He thought of the cultists and the promise he had made to get Tahir to the capital in exchange for showing him around his world. And he visualized the carriage waiting upon his victory. Morton clenched his eyes; his head was vibrating.

He felt the tendons in his shoulders strain to their limits. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. Morton quickly hooked Korra's bad leg and squeezed as hard as he could. Korra caterwauled and fell forward. Morton repositioned himself, forcing her bad leg into a lock. Then he pulled with all his might. Her cattish yowls grew louder and louder.

"Yield!" Morton said.

"I will not—" Korra yowled as Morton pulled harder.

"—yield yet. You have not won!"

"Ma'am, I really don't wanna break your leg."

"Go ahead and break it, I—" Korra dry-heaved. She had not been in this much pain in a good long while, and as her vision became whitish around the edges and she felt the muscles in her leg about to snap, she reluctantly shouted, "I yield the Tukuro." Morton released her instantly, and the two tumbled onto their backs. They both lay on the carpet, gasping, panting, tired, and in desperate need of a good long rest. They remained there for a moment. Korra cautiously bent her knee.

Pain was present in her visage, but her leg moved just fine. Morton looked over.

"Didn't break it, did I?"

"No," Korra panted.

"You merely made me wish you had, is all."

"Hey, that sounds like a good thing in my books." Korra slowly turned towards him. Then she began to laugh: deep, bellowing laughs that rose straight from her stomach. She covered her muzzle with both paws, though that did very little to contain her fit of laughter.

"Now what is so funny?" Morton asked.

"Oh, nothing," she said through her fit of laughter.

"It's just… the way you fight reminded me of something my mother used to say."

"And what may that be?"

"That the best fighter you'll ever meet is a drunk farmer who wrestles bears." Morton gave a toothy grin.

"I'll tell ya, that ain't too far off from how I learned." Korra's laughter died down.

"I can truly say, Sir Christian, that was the best fight I have had in a long, long time."

"If rollin' with me is the best you got, that must mean the fighters of your country are hella shit. Ain't no Mike Tysons 'round these parts."

"I don't know what that means," she said matter-of-factly, "but… yes, I do think the youth of today—the Kharani—are shamefully weak. They have had relative peace for far too long. There is no need for them to be conscripted to fight the orcs now that the orcs seem to be focused entirely on the elven tribes. It has made them soft. Pathetic. Older women… or, oh Seroth, I keep forgetting you are not a woman. Older people like us know what it is like to suffer. We know the beauty and importance of strength."

Morton said nothing for a moment before replying.

"I have to disagree, I reckon." Korra cocked her head.

"The people of… Texas—hell, if you can even call it that anymore—are sufferin' far more than I ever did when I was a young feller… because of the cowards who wage war."

"And I was starting to like you," Korra said in an even, disappointed tone.

"To think someone like you cannot see the honour in war."

"It is not that there ain't no honour in war," Morton corrected.

"Lots of honourable people fought in wars. The war where I come from, it ain't honourable. No one is fightin' each other; they are simply killin' each other."

"I do not understand."

"Do you like guns?"

"As in pistols and cannons and such? No. They are expensive vanity projects."

"Now, hear me out, ma'am: imagine if they weren't expensive and you could make a hella lot of 'em. Soon, they get bigger and bigger until you're destroying whole cities. Tell me, miss, do you reckon there is any honour in a war like that?" She wrinkled her nose.

"No."

"That is the war I had to survive." They both sat in silence for a moment.

"But… I do reckon there are honourable people in war. And it is your job, as a good person, to kick the shit out of the bad people."

"I see," Korra said.

"That is a unique perspective." A brief silence passed between them.

"Sir Christian… I have only ever told my husband this, so take this as a sign of my trust: do you know the reason I loathe the other noble households of Avion?"

"Because they bring crappy gifts for Christmas?"

"You love to say things I do not understand. No, it is because they are all run by dishonourable people. And I fear their lack of morality will bring about a calamity—a horrible, horrible disaster. That is why I truly wish to win the Coniton. I do not wish for House Mavereth or House Orien to take control of the Queen's Guard."

"Hey, Tahir seems like a good kid," Morton added.

"Perhaps," Korra said, "but Tahir is not the one I fear. He is only a man. It is the women governing his house who would command the Queen's Guard."

"Says who?"

"Tradition."

"And who says the tradition is correct?" Korra flicked an ear.

"Sometimes things are just how things are." Korra dragged herself upright and extended a paw towards him. Morton accepted it. Together, swaying slightly, they managed to stand.

"By blood, body, and witnessed surrender, I, Lady Korra of House Seran, hereby decree that the Tukuro belongs to you."

"Coulda just said I won."

"I did." Morton shrugged.

"I'll have your carriage, horses, and supplies ready to go within two nightfalls," she said.

"You and Prince Tahir Orien may stay in one of the guest rooms until then."

"Sounds good to me." After they finished putting their clothes back on, Korra limped towards the door and pulled it open. The three guards outside looked into the boxy room. Their gazes travelled across the torn and bloodied carpet, Morton's wounded arm, and Korra's trembling leg.

"Have the servants prepare for Morton's departure in two nightfalls," Korra said sternly.

"Sir Christian has won it." Korra glanced back.

"And summon a physician. Have them down here as quickly as possible," Korra added, "before this idiot bleeds on anything expensive." Morton limped out of the room behind her. He looked down.

"Might be a little late for that," he said.