Michael vs Douglas

Father Douglas ripped at the bag, but I clung grimly, while we fought and kicked at each other—until the bag tore open under the strain and spilled the swords onto the sand.
He seized the hilt of Fidelacchius, a katana-type sword that was built to look like a simple, heavy walking stick, until you drew the blade. I seized Amoracchius, scabbard and all, and barely brought the sheathed broadsword up in time to deflect a sweeping slash from Father Douglas.
He gained his knees and swung again, and I had all I could do to lift the sheathed sword and fend off the strike. Blow after blow rained down on me, and there was no time to call upon my power, no opportunity to so much as rise to my knees—
Until a size-fourteen work boot hit Father Douglas in the chest and threw him back.
Michael stood over me, an aluminum baseball bat in his right hand. He put out his other hand, and I slapped Amoracchius into it. He gripped it midblade, like some kind of giant crucifix, and, with his bat held in a guard position, limped toward Father Douglas. The priest stared at Michael with wide eyes. “Stay back,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Who says you’re able to?” Michael rumbled. “Put down the sword, and I’ll let you go.”
Douglas stared at him with those cold grey eyes. “I can’t do that.”
“Then I’ll put you down and take the sword anyway. It’s over, Roarke. You just don’t realize it yet.”
Father Douglas wasted no more time on talk, but came at Michael, the katana whirling.
Michael batted (no pun intended) the attack aside like a cat swatting down moths, the baseball bat spinning.
“Slow,” he said. “Too slow to hit a half-blind cripple. You don’t know the first thing about what it means to bear a sword.”
Douglas snarled and came at him again. Michael defeated this attack, too, with contemptuous ease, and followed it by smacking Douglas across one cheek with the hilt of the sheathed sword.
“It means sacrifice,” Michael said as Douglas reeled. “It means forgetting about yourself, and what you want. It means putting your faith in the Lord God Almighty.” He swung a pair of blows, which Douglas defended against, barely—but the third, a straight thrust with the baseball bat’s tip, drove home into his solar plexus. Douglas staggered to one knee.
“You abandoned your duty,” Douglas gasped. “The world grows darker by the day. People cry out for our help— and you would have the swords sit with this creature of witchcraft and deceit?”
“You arrogant child,” Michael snarled. “The Almighty Himself has made His will known. If you are a man of faith, then you must abide by it.”
“You have been lied to,” Douglas said. “How could God ignore His people when they need His protection so badly?”
“That is not for us to know!” Michael shouted. “Don’t you see, you fool? We are only men. We see only in one place at one time. The Lord knows all that might be. Would you presume to say that you know better than our God what should be done with the swords?”
Douglas stared at Michael.
“Are you stupid enough to believe that He would want you to cast aside your beliefs to impose your will upon the world? Do you think He wants you to murder decent men and abduct innocent children?” The bat struck Fidelacchius from Douglas’s hands, and Michael followed it with a pair of crushing blows, one to the shoulder and one to the knee. Douglas went down to the sand in a heap.
“Look at yourself,” Michael said, his words hard and merciless. “Look at what you have done in God’s name. Look at the bruises on my daughter’s arms, at the blood on my friend’s face, and then tell me which of us has been deceived.”
Again, the bat swept down, and Douglas fell senseless to the sand.
Michael stood over the man for a moment, his entire body shaking, the bat still upraised.


Side Jobs, The Warrior, Page 260-262