21

Your makeshift club is not sturdy enough to parry a blow from his forged mace, you judge, so if you are to get any use of the weapon, you realize you must seize the attack yourself.

As he rushes forward, you dart towards him as well, closing the distance more quickly than he expects. He takes a quick, wild swing in the vicinity of your head, but you duck and the blow goes wide.

You swing your club against his knees and he pitches forward at speed. He lands on his mailed head with a dull, metallic thud. His hand spasms open and the mace rolls out of his grip.

Groggily, he reaches for it, but you have already batted it away with the butt of your club. "Now then," you grunt, ducking right up against his body to snatch his blade from its sheath seconds before his fumbling hands can grab it. You toss the dirk away as well and pound his shoulder as he tries to stand, knocking him on his back.

He groans and freezes when he sees the jagged edges of the bottle at the top of your club, raised above him. You hold the stance for a long moment, your chest heaving.

"Listen to me," you say. "I…have not…your dog."

Onward