Quickly her left fist shot out in front of her then sped back, her elbow ramming into his rib cage. And the choreography was perfect, the execution flawless, as he screeched and doubled over, and all she had to do was reach her left hand behind her and push his leg out from under him as she bent lower and slammed him over her back directly into the third man, who was springing forward as if on cue.
A flash to her right: the one who had been further in the shadows was drawing his sword as he ran towards her. And now she thanked the first man for stealing her weapon, for here it lay in the scabbard he had buckled around his waist, and she was still bent, directly over him, and she drew the hilt.
Now. Now it was time for the rage, and she opened the sluice and let it flood forth, filling her mind, lashing and crashing in waves, and her eyes shone red as she whipped the sword into the air, and there was that familiar, beloved, exquisite sharp ring as it blocked the attack. Sparks flew. And the man was frightened out of his wits, shaking as he parried, horrified at the fury, the ferocity, the strength of this woman who struck at him again and again and again, and his hair stood on end at the unearthly noise she made, the gloating, ghastly, exultant yell of triumph, of joy, of lust for his blood. She was no woman, she was a demon, a hound from hell, a -.
Yes, she was. She was, as she hacked his limbs, and then his screaming head, from his body; she was, as she turned back to the other men and skewered them like hogs; she was, as she reversed her hilt in her hand and raised her arms and thrust her sword downward into the bearded man, through his belly, his back bone, and down into the earth below, and she released it, the hilt shivering briefly as cool air replaced the heat of her hand.
It was over.