“That’s true,” Mildred snapped. “I don’t know exactly what you want—to make me look bad in front of John, in front of everyone. To take him for yourself in some way I don’t understand…just to play some motherfucking stupid game for all I know. But you’ve gone too far now.”
Margia had expected the strike, and was ready for it. Mildred jabbed with a straightened hand, fingers rigid, powering the blow from the elbow so as not to telegraph, aiming for just under the blonde’s ribs with an upward thrust. If the blow had struck home, it would have driven the breath from her body and been a hammer blow to her heart, despite the hard muscle that ridged her torso.
But Margia was quicker, her anticipation adding fire to her reflexes. Her right arm swept down, deflecting Mildred’s arm by redirecting its own momentum, and she shot forward her left arm, with her hand turned palm up, driving it into Mildred’s face.
Mildred snapped her head back before the full force of the blow could hit her, but still there was enough for her to see stars as the heel of Margia’s hand brushed against her. Mildred toppled back, and knowing that she couldn’t prevent her fall, she relaxed into it so that she would be floppy as she hit the earth, and would not jar or break anything. She hit the ground, tensing her calf and thigh muscles to propel herself back upward, but found that Margia had already anticipated this move.
Instead of staying on her feet to deliver the next blow, as Mildred had expected, Margia had followed Mildred down, dropping to her knees so that she caught Mildred on the way up, her bony knees smashing into Mildred’s ribs, driving her back to the earth and pinning her there. The blonde’s hands snaked out for Mildred’s throat, and there was a gleam in her eyes that bespoke of blood lust.
It was only because Mildred was a fraction quicker than Margia thought that she managed to prevent the grip taking hold on her throat. Mildred brought her hands up, pulling her arms together so that they wormed in between the blonde’s. She pushed her arms out, taking Margia’s forearms away from her prone body, and turning her hands so that her palms gripped around the blonde’s forearms in a viselike grip that pinched the flesh and felt hard bone beneath. “You won’t beat me,” the blond armorer whispered, her voice husky with excitement. “You’ll tire before I do.”
And although she desperately refused to admit it to herself, as this would destroy her own fighting confidence, Mildred knew deep in her gut that Margia was right. Mildred was a good fighter, learning from her companions and adding this to her basic drive and determination, but for all that, she knew that she was ultimately no match for an Amazon warrior who had been born to the life and trained almost from birth. Margia would be stronger over the distance, have more stamina, and would have an almost genetic disposition to combat.
Mildred was in deep trouble, and she knew it.
By this time, members of the Gate had started to drift toward the fight. An internal skirmish of this sort was rare among the tribe, and rather than any sense of urgency there was an over whelming feeling of curiosity among the onlookers. Krysty desperately wanted to intervene, but a shake of the head from Tammy told her that it would be a breach of protocol that could endanger the status of their entire party.
Dean, Jon and Petor had also homed in on the fight, after hearing the initial argument.
“Shit, Mildred doesn’t stand a chance,” Jon said matter-of-factly.
Dean shot him a sharp glance. “Mildred’s a good fighter,” he replied. “Margia’s gonna have to be good to take her out.”
Petor shook his head. “Doesn’t matter how good a fighter she is. She sure as shit ain’t el loco, and that’s what Margia is.”
Jon agreed. “That’s the problem. She’ll keep going until she wins, even if all the flesh is flayed from her hide. She just gets this wild fire in her. I’ve seen her before.”