* * * * *
At the very moment Elryia and her companions rode north, Grahamas traveled south alone. He had only a small piece of bread left and debated throwing it away, but wondered, with such a long trip, where his next meal would come from. Rather than casting it aside, he chose to tuck it away.
He reached back into his saddlebag, trying to keep his eyes ahead while unbuckling and pulling it open. His hand pushed the bread down into the bottom of the satchel. Yet when he went to remove it, his fingertips caught the edge of something else. And curiosity surfaced within him; he believed this side of the bag to be empty. Confused, and now somewhat anxious, he pulled the object out. It was a simple leather pouch, much like the one he kept his coins in, but that was in his pocket. Now even more intrigued, he tugged open the ties to the bag.
Inside was a bracelet, made of a long, thin piece of onyx in the shape of a crescent moon. At the end of each point was a small piece of sliver shaped like a diamond. The top of the black stone, from end to end, was engraved with silver runes that Grahamas recognized immediately. It was a protection spell, written in the old language. Of the many books Graham had given Elryia, the one that contained this spell was of the oldest and most rare, and was of the first tomes he used to teach her how to read his native language, Highlyian.
Such a task must have taken her months. And as he turned even further south he used the light that now peeked over his shoulder to inspect her meticulous work with greater scrutiny. Each line was perfectly defined, each curve unwavering from its original design. He had seen her write spells, and cast them, with flawless re-creation but he had never imagined she contained within her a talent as this—to re-work a hardened mineral without even the slightest slip.
Typically, Grahamas was not one for baubles or jewelry. He had spent much of his time in poverty, minimizing his possessions down to only his sword, his tools and his horse. This, however, was one item he would wear without question. Not simply for its wonderful design and unique look, but because it spoke volumes on how she felt for him, and would be a constant reminder of how he felt for her.
He examined it one final time before holding it in his left hand, using his right to fold the leather pouch so that he could place it in his saddlebag for safe keeping. Yet on the final crease, the soft rustle of paper filled his ears, and he moved the bag onto his lap and pulled it open twice as quick as he closed it. Inside was tiny piece of parchment laying across the bottom, with a tiny note scribed into it:
To protect you,
You have always done so with me.
El.
Within him flattery and longing flared, and his mind leisured on the feeling while his left hand slipped the bracelet over his right wrist. He was so lost in the emotion he failed to notice the letters on the face of the jewelry flare a faint silver light the moment the object touched his flesh.
The whisping, fluttering heart and giddy grin would be the state he would remain for the day, allowing both he and Feiron an easy ride. He could have easily pushed him harder—after spending the night in Hensah he had the energy to do so, but he would also need it for the long trek that lay before them. Like much of the land, the space between the town he left, and the one he now headed to was long, with no true safe place to rest between. Grahamas had prepared for an hour of sleep at best, and knew his loyal beast would only get the same.
As night crept upon them, emblazoned on the fading blue skyline he saw a slight puff of smoke, more than likely from Loruze, but it was hard to tell and still such a long way away. If he passed on sleeping all together, he could make it tomorrow before another night came. He would need the light to search the field behind the town, but he would also need his wits to determine exactly where Tallvas had hidden his armor.
Concern suddenly shimmered over him like wind upon the water’s surface. A brief theory was given back to the one he had prior—that by luck someone would stumble upon his armor—and rightly so, but Tallvas was perhaps the most brilliant man Grahamas had known, and if no one found the first, it was far less likely they would retrieve the second. Fear changed to admiration, and Graham began to wonder how much time Tallvas had taken to achieve all of this; most likely much longer than he may have considered the first time. It was not only the work that Grahamas found so admirable, but the life that would need to be led in order to do so—the years in solitude, carrying a massive burden and hiding from everyone and everything. Tallvas had no idea if Grahamas was still alive, if he would ever come back to reclaim what the Duke was trying so hard to protect. Yet he sacrificed his entire life, with only the hope that Graham was still out there, and his last years would not be in vain.
“What an honorable man,” Graham whispered to himself, already knowing that of the Duke, but it was reiterated to him once more. Grahamas hoped that he made him proud.
When the road began to split in front of him he gently steered his horse towards the left side, directing it to the thin line of smoke off in the distance. It was getting closer with each passing step, but there were many more to go still.
As the night reached its peak, Grahamas encountered the first of many problems that could occur on such an open ride, but this was one he had prepared for. As he had earlier that morning, he rummaged through his saddlebag, this time to remove the piece of bread he had tucked into it prior. Perhaps it was his full stomach earlier, or his empty one now, but Grahamas had imagined a much larger piece; now he had but a corner, one that was twisted and smashed from a long stay in his travel pack.
“Perfect.” He chided, throwing the ruined piece of wheat behind him, as his quick journey began to slip away from him. The Champion was now faced with a choice—starve, and reach Loruze in a timely manner or hunt, stop and eat. Had he eaten something more than a loaf of bread and an apple, the choice for him would be simple, but that was not enough to sustain a man his size for more than a day, and already his head began to ache from his body’s lack of nourishment. And that was no way to enter into what could be a very involved search.
With a displeasured breath, he reached around to the other side of his saddlebag—the side that wasn’t empty—and tugged out a long velvet pouch. His focus flicked down then back up as he fumbled the ties open, trying not to veer off the road. From the satchel he pulled out a small black tube, trimmed with gold.
Grahamas wasn’t fond of bows. They were too bulky for one and he’d been traveling alone for so long that he only hunted small creatures that could be eaten in one sitting. Arrows did far too much damage to an animal like that. Bolos were of no use either, again, too big to be of any use. So instead, he opted for a blowgun. It was light, easily hidden, and over the years Grahamas had almost perfected it. Though with only half the moon to light his way, the trouble wouldn’t be using it, but rather finding something to use it on.
He tried his best to focus his vision, allow what little illumination there was to define his blurry surroundings as a case was pulled from the bag. Contained inside: a dozen darts, their ends adorned in blue hairs as not to lose them amongst the fur of a creature it was embedded in. The point was a sharp silver needle soaked in a light poison. The Champion chewed at his bottom lip as he dropped the projectile into the tube, glancing first to his right, then his left, waiting for a target to present itself. For half an hour there was nothing. The pain in Graham’s head grew more dominating, more blunt and he had to push himself to stay alert. When he had all but given up hope, the slightest rustle in a tiny bush capping the side of the road caught his attention. He slowed, pointed his horse in its direction and waited patiently. Again, the shrub shook, this time much more violently, before a small fawn leapt out, planting its hooves than shaking its fur out.
It was not what he had hoped for; he hated to waste food, and a deer that size would be too much for him to eat alone. Sadly, it would have to do; he had not the luxury of waiting any longer. With his gaze sharpened and hand wrapped around the blowgun, he pulled it up to his mouth and drew a breath, pr
essing his lips to the tube. He huffed and the dart was sent spiraling outward, sticking firmly into the meat between the neck and front leg of the beast. The deer blinked in surprise, running the other way as Graham made chase but not fast enough to catch it. He knew that the poison would only need a few minutes to take effect. Grahamas found the fawn a few yards ahead, slumped on the side of the road—no longer breathing. As Graham passed, he leaned down as far as he could from the top of the horse and grabbed the creature’s hind leg, pulling it up and draping it over the back of his mount. Keeping one hand on it, he turned from the road and into the valley, at least a safe distance so that his fire could not be seen.
Finding faith that he was far enough, he pulled off of Feiron, and pressed him to graze while he situated himself, sliding his sword from its sheath before he sat. He picked through the dirt before he found several broken sticks and one large appendage of a fallen tree. He wouldn’t need much, and this would do. With the sticks forming a crown over the log, he shoved his sword right through its heart, then dragged a jagged stone down the blade’s sharp end. Sparks jutted and bounced off the wooden shell, one tumbling into its core and wavering there—given new life with a hard breath from Grahamas.
With the fire started, Grahamas carved a massive piece of meat out from the deer’s hind leg—opposite the side he shot—stuck it on the end of his sword and held it over the fire.
Once that piece was cooked and eaten, he took another. Not so much out of hunger, but to dull his stinging guilt for using only one bit of the animal. After the second, when he could barely move, he stamped out the fire, took a drink from his water skin and retrieved his horse, leaving the carcass behind for whatever animal may find it.
With that pause, Grahamas now felt he had to ride the entire night through to reach Loruze before the sun faded on him again. And he had planned to do so, yet with only twenty minutes into his ride a surprising, unrelenting fatigue hit the Champion.
It was not a creeping weariness like that which often took him, nor was it one he could push through. In the few seconds that he was still coherent, half a dozen thoughts scattered. Perhaps he had not eaten far enough away from where the dart was—inadvertently ingesting some of the poison. Maybe the animal’s heart had pushed it through its system too fast. He did not know, and the fog was creeping into his head too quickly to find a solution. His final thought—a blaring realization—was that this was influenced by something; it was unnatural.
Grahamas was then dead asleep on his horse.
Bravery Absolves All Else
Lightning…
He awoke some time later, shaking his head and trying to dispel the drowsiness from his mind. He rose, everything around him swallowed by darkness, his vision foggy; his body seemed to move in slow motion and it felt as though he couldn’t even lift his arms.
Lightning…
Again the sky flared, illuminating the dark field he found himself in. He walked forward and scanned his surroundings, trying to determine exactly where he was.
Lightning…
This time it lasted much longer and Grahamas saw only empty space before him. He walked faster, trying to find something…anything. But he failed, there was only a shrouded abyss everywhere he looked.
Lightning…
Grahamas felt panic start to well up in his chest, though he was unsure why. He moved on cautiously, unable to see anything as he reached out blindly—his hand finding nothing but air. Abruptly, something shoved against his back; he reached for his sword but it wasn’t there. His hand groped at his back, but like it had before—found nothing. Another shove, he turned—as quickly as he could in this state—to try to see what it was.
Lightning…
He spun to find a pure gray horse with a brilliant white mane, oddly docile and lowering its head towards him. It was strange…perhaps a little too strange so he returned to his original position, trying to ignore the beast. But again, he felt a firm push on his back. He whipped around, glaring all the while and preparing to chastise the horse. Yet when his gaze locked on it, not only its head lowered but its entire body—an obvious invitation for Grahamas to ride.
He could either obey, or continue to walk and be nudged violently every step of the way. “Fine,” Grahamas muttered opting for the first option. The Champion leapt on the horse, and was only situated for a second before it took off at a gallop, charging forward as fast as the lighting that was scorching the sky. Graham could only tuck his head down and hold on as the horse drove forward, all the while wondering where he was being taken. The Champion looked back and was nearly thrown forward off the horse as it came to an abrupt halt. When Grahamas recovered from the jarring experience he first glanced back to find the same nothingness that had been with him since waking up. And slowly his head shifted, his gaze centered and before him was a giant staircase that had not been there previously. The stairs themselves black, silver candelabras illuminating them with a dingy glow from their candles. The steps appeared dark and decayed, stretching so high that Grahamas couldn’t see where they ended. Though he didn’t know what was up there, he didn’t like the feeling that was creeping into his mind. He gave the horse a tug to turn around and it merely sat there, like stone. As hard as he attempted, he couldn’t get it to turn away.
“Fine…” he muttered again as he dismounted, walking slowly to the staircase and placing his foot on the first step.
Lightning…
Graham jolted up, nearly tumbling off Feiron from his startle. This time he was truly awake, he swallowed and blinked shocked that his horse was still moving, and—incredibly—in the right direction. He leaned down, and smoothed his palm over the mount’s face “You’re a good horse.” He soothed as the fatigue cleared from his head but the stiffness in his muscles remained. Once he had his bearings, he looked at the moon; it had barely come over the mountains and probably only two hours had passed.
He considered his luck, only for a moment. Time could have easily slipped away from him. He could have ridden right past Loruze had he not woken. By chance he could have gone the other way, and suffered the defeating, wearying task of backtracking. His elation only lasted so long before that dark dream bled into his mind. It seemed so real, so vivid. Perhaps it was his mind making sense of his loneliness or maybe it was a sign; either way, the dream was lingering—with or without meaning.
When he was finally settled and focused on the ride, he slowed down again—though only a little—as he worked his way towards Loruze. The last of the dream eventually fading from his mind the further he traveled; hours passed with little activity, in his mind or otherwise. The sun broke over the mountains and the smoke that Grahamas had seen earlier was visible once more, much thicker and darker than before. Graham thought nothing of it until he saw a second plume rising up over the hill, then a third.
“Ye-ah!” he yelled, urging his horse into a gallop as he saw a fourth cloud rise up. He raced all the way to the top of the hill until the town was finally visible.
And shock overcame him.
Grahamas remembered Loruze as a lumber town. The huge mill, a large wooden shed, most planks weather strained and different colors, was located at the town’s southern tip. To the east and west were two long rows of homes, all with straw roofs.
But this town was simply a shell of that.
The mill had massive holes punched in its walls; the door was ripped off completely. Some of the humble huts were torn down while others suffered from the damage of flames; their cream colored adobe now stained with a black soot.
From where Grahamas sat, he could see straight down the middle of the four rows—some twenty feet—that made up the town square.
He rode a little closer, attempting to get a better view, when he heard a woman scream. Hurriedly, he tugged his horse to the left, trying to stay hidden as best he could, but still drawing closer. When he was enough distance away to decipher actions, he first caught sight of a bound townsman being dragged out and
placed in a line with others—woman and children in the mix as well. More soldiers poured out, some placing people in the same line while others set fire to the homes that weren’t already burning.
Grahamas almost charged in, even though the number of soldiers continued to increase; ten then maybe twenty, and finally around thirty. After every home had been torched, they stood in front of the villagers and drew their blades, most likely to execute them one at a time. The Champion had seen enough. His hand wrapped around the bridle, his legs raised to spur Feiron into a charge but he halted when he saw two black horns creeping around the edge of one of the homes.
Drogan.
That sight sealed away any hope Grahamas had. If it were only the soldiers, a chance existed. He could pick them apart, draw them away. Drogan, however, was too seasoned for such and would not allow one soldier to leave his watchful eye. He would organize them—keep them there—and they would attack Grahamas as a unit.
He would have to fight all of them, as well, Drogan.
The Minotaur walked slowly up and down the line of townsmen, preparing to give the order.
The Champion shifted, took a long deep breath and gave one look back to the road before it fell on the bracelet. Though he was not considering running. Not ever.
Grahamas was making peace. There was no question, now, about how this fight would end. He would kill some, probably many. He may even take Kalinies’ vicious bodyguard down with him, but eventually they would get the better of him. Once they had, it would not end in his capture but his death. Grahamas had many rules, and lived by many creeds, but perhaps the strongest one—the one that drove him—was the very same belief Valaira determined him to have: He would fight to the death.
He held no fear, nor regret. Tallvas had battled alone, against hardships and elements all simply to give the world another chance for freedom; to allow Grahamas the ability to help the people win it. His battle wasn’t glorified, it wasn’t for honor, status, or title. It was for hope. Though Grahamas believed his destiny to be far from here, he alleged he would earn that freedom on the battlefield. It was now apparent it wouldn’t end like that. It would end here. And yet Graham held no qualms. Tallvas had taught him that the smallest sacrifice held the same value as the grandest. It wasn’t in Grahamas to run in order to spare his life so he could fight that war. It wasn’t even about the war or returning Highlace to its former glory. It was about the people.
And the people needed him.
Live or, most likely, die; he would fulfill that duty. Here. Today.
He took a final moment and jumped off of his horse, turning it from town. He approached quietly and quickly, drawing first his sword and then his dagger as he struggled to develop a plan. The soldiers stood in front of the townsmen, forming a line so that none may escape. Grahamas crept, wishing now that he carried a bow—or traveled with someone that could use one. He could kill two, maybe even three before they realized what happened—Lanyan could have taken down seven.
But the Elf wasn’t here. Grahamas shook the foolish thoughts from his head and tried to focus. Dreaming wasn’t going to help him any. Again he stepped, silently making his way to the left side of the line. If he could possibly draw their attention, he could lead their focus to him, hopefully surviving long enough for the villagers to escape. That was the easiest way for him to be overwhelmed, but as long as the people of Loruze were safe, it didn’t matter. His approach had to be slow, if he just charged in someone may end up getting hurt in the melee, or worse, be used as a shield.
Drogan stalked to the left side of the line, pushing a young woman down and holding his axe to her neck. “Damn it,” Grahamas muttered, “So much for the stealthy approach.” He huffed and closed the gap as the Minotaur yanked the huge blade up, holding it above the woman’s head. Further down the line, a young child tried to break away, and began screaming for them not to hurt his mother. He was caught, thrown violently to the ground, a soldier’s boot then holding him in place. For one instant, the Minotaur halted, and the Champion seized the opportunity before even one life was spent. “DROGAN!!” Immediately the creature turned, and faced him full on.
Three of the guards instantly caught sight of Grahamas’ blades, his aggressive stance and they fanned out, blocking Graham’s advance towards their leader—halting ten feet from him. Drogan squared himself, leaving the woman be, and his once hostile demeanor changed to one of annoyance. “Why are you here?”
Grahamas’ face contorted with confusion, wondering why Drogan was speaking to him like they knew each other. He pondered answering him, but a voice came from behind him before he got the chance.
“To help.”
Grahamas held his sword up further and his focus moved to his back, fearful that it was Kalinies but knowing that Drogan would never talk to him like that. And then his eyes found him.
Rhimaldez.
At first he only saw the ram, but as his view came into focus he saw Wind Chaser, mere inches from his neck. He could only sigh at the irony. After all that he had done, the one life he refused to take would be the one that ended his. Rhimaldez’s actions would derive from an effort to save a family that was already free. And Grahamas would never get the chance to tell him. Already he caught sight of the first guard moving closer to him from the corner of his eye.
“Even with the appearance of this stranger, I have everything under control!” Drogan snorted and locked his red eyes on Grahamas.
“Aye, I know.” Replied the Captain, his vision turning towards Grahamas as well, tugging Wind Chaser back and preparing to strike, “You’re about to lose it” and Rhimaldez shoved the spear forward. Grahamas almost flinched but the weapon’s head wasn’t anywhere near him, whipping right past and finding its way into the guard’s chest. Drogan, Grahamas, and every other soldier were overwhelmed with shock. The Minotaur’s stare flicked between the two of them, confusion and rage twisting his features.
Rhimaldez tugged the spear out and brought it back into both of his hands, turning on the still-stunned Grahamas whose arms now hung low. “Well True, are you going to fight or just stand there?”
The Champion snapped back to reality as the Captain moved to his side, Graham now holding his sword and his dagger at ready, “Drogan’s right…What are you doing here?”
“Payback,” Rhimaldez stated, measuring the soldiers—most of whom seemed too timid to move.
Graham flicked a glance at him, “I thought we were even? I knocked you out, then you me.”
Rhimaldez chuckled as he shifted, still waiting for the soldiers to make the first move, but keeping sure they did not attack the townspeople. “And we both pretended to be so. No True, I’m here to repay you for saving my family. To punish Idimus for attacking them.” With a slight snarl, he flinched, causing the soldiers to fall back.
“Have you been following me this whole time?”
“Aye. You’re not one for making it difficult.”
Grahamas could only offer a half-hearted glare. He was, sadly, right.
Drogan spat, but did not seem all that surprised any longer. “Kill them!” The guards however weren’t that eager to fight their own captain. In the confusion, most of the townspeople had backed up, easing their way into one large group and moving from the soldiers. Several guards had begun to do the same, still loyal to their leader.
The ones that didn’t back down, began to circle the two warriors. Drogan, behind them, biding his time.
“Shall we?” Graham inquired, taking a step.
“Indeed Sir.”
They both shoved forward, Graham caught one soldier by surprise and lunged forward. The guard did his best to deflect the blow, but it went too fast and too hard. He was able to steer it away from his chest, but he didn’t’ have enough time to get completely clear and the blade bit into his shoulder. Grahamas tugged it out instantly and arced it downward; parrying a blow from a second soldier as his dagger flicked forward and down to stop a jab from a third enemy.
Rhi
maldez, at his right, raised the shaft of Wind Chaser to block a down stroke, shoved up to push the attack away and then dropped the butt of the weapon, using the pole to block the blade slashing in from his left. Again, he forced off his opponent’s weapon, causing the soldier’s arm to swing wide. Another soldier lunged straight and the Captain raised the spear horizontal to allow it through, then turned his hips to let it graze by his waist. Off balance, the soldier leaned in, his arm under Wind Chaser as Rhimaldez brought it crashing down, forcing the soldier to drop his sword. With one fluid motion, the spear shoved forward and the shaft caught the guard in the chest as the blade lodged in the stomach of the right guard. With a growl, Rhimaldez pushed harder, throwing both soldiers back with such force the two behind them fell as well.
To Rhimaldez’s left, Grahamas had disposed of two soldiers: one on the ground with a wound in his shoulder and the other with a wound in his stomach. But Graham had two more to deal with—one at his right and a balding one on the left. He batted away the bald guard’s attack, once, then again with his dagger. His right hand rose to block one arcing blow, turning his wrist halfway down to free his defenses. All the while he tried to watch Drogan, still a good distance away trying to order the guards to join the fight—and failing miserably.
The bald soldier jabbed his blade towards Graham’s abdomen as the soldier to the right struck down at his head and the Champion saw his opportunity. His dagger flicked forward, catching the edge of the bald guard’s blade while Grahamas raised his sword to block the blade aiming towards his head from the far right. The Champion turned his left wrist, redirecting the bald man’s weapon, the sound of metal against metal rang through the air as the right soldier’s sword fell upon Graham’s—but he held it in place. The first guard pulled his sword up again, the bald soldier’s eyes flew open as he realized what was about to happen—too late for either of them to do anything. With one final shove, Graham turned the oncoming sword ninety degrees and used the soldier’s own momentum to drive the blade into the other’s stomach while his arms were still raised useless above his head.
“Much obliged,” Grahamas said, his left leg lifting up to kick the soldier in his ribcage. With a push of his foot, he sent the soldier tumbling to the ground, the other guard clutching his bleeding stomach and collapsing as well. To Grahamas’ left, Rhimaldez kept his four opponents on the ground, the head of Wind Chaser gliding between each of them—threatening any who dared to move.
Drogan snorted and stepped forward, “Enough!” he growled, holding his axe with both hands. “I will finish this myself,” Grahamas stepped to cut him off, but the shaft of the spear pressed against his chest, blocking his advance. “I will handle this,” Rhimaldez assured, taking a step back and then another. Graham nodded slowly, keeping what soldiers were left where they were—on the ground.
Drogan crossed one massive leg over the fallen soldiers—then another—paying them little regard. The Minotaur’s hand twisted around the handle of the axe, a slight smile creeping across his lips, “I’ve always wanted to face you.”
Rhimaldez’s nostrils flared, “I’m flattered,” he spoke, his tone thick with sarcasm.
Drogan’s only reply for the time being was a snort, his ego getting the better of him. They were both Perticus’ creations, and as such, the dark wizard was constantly comparing the two—though it never ended in Drogan’s favor. Rhimaldez was much smarter and more controlled, so Perticus held more pride in him. Rhimaldez had ascended the ranks while Drogan remained where he was, too stubborn and dimwitted to ever be controlled. But Drogan didn’t see himself at fault. Like a tortured younger sibling he blamed Rhimaldez and always harbored a stinging, secret hate for him—one that now had the opportunity to boil over. The bull snorted again and growled, “I never trusted you. Always knew you weren’t worthy of the title given to you. I’m going to bring your traitorous head back to Idimus and take what should have been mine in the first place!”
Rhimaldez snarled, his hatred for Drogan was not a sheltered aggression as the Minotaur’s was for him; he held it for most of Idimus’ ranks. He despised any and all who killed without mercy, though Drogan was the worst. He had no honor or loyalty; he would ruin any village, take any life, and bring any amount of pain as long as it had the slightest chance of moving him forward. Rhimaldez had little respect for that, perhaps less than none. And in some twisted irony, he had always wanted to face him as well. “Then, Monster, come take it.” The Captain stuck his spear in the dirt, taunting the Minotaur to do the same—to lay down his weapon and fight him with his bare hands.
Drogan laughed, throwing his head back in amusement before turning his face forward, all remnants of joy washed away, red eyes blared and his huff sent spittle tumbling through the air. Finger after finger pried off the axe handle, allowing it to drop to the ground with a dull thump. Spread fingers curled into tight fists, knuckles cracking as the Minotaur lowered his head and took a step forward, rage and jealously written across his face.
Rhimaldez…merely smiled.
Drogan charged forward, swinging his right hand directly at Rhimaldez’s jaw and hit him full force. But the Ram didn’t seem affected as he hooked his own right hand into the long face of Drogan, catching him in the mouth. Drogan growled, both enraged and caught off guard by how hard he had been hit. One man who already knew that, Graham, was watching from the sidelines, knowing this would not be a battle of finesse—but of fists.
In response, the Minotaur raised both of his hands, cupping them together and bringing them down towards the tip of the Captain’s nose. Not only was Rhimaldez smarter, he was faster as well; as his knuckles caught Drogan’s left side from the original blow, he reversed motion and backhanded the bull on the right side while his left hand rose to clamp down on Drogan’s forearm. His right continued on, once clear of the Minotaur’s face, he expanded the fist and latched it onto Drogan’s wrist.
The Captain pushed his heel back as it dug into the dirt and he leaned forward; Drogan pushed, matching Rhimaldez’s motion as they both tried to best each other. The bull snarled and spat, his face showing obvious struggle as the Ram dug deeper and focused, seeming amused. By no cause of his own, Drogan’s arms began to rise, and what was once a look of rage on his face now morphed into shock, then hatred replaced amazement and Drogan became livid once more—this time for being bested.
That, however, caused him to concentrate even less and lose more ground. As the animal half of Drogan took over, his control vanished and with it his ability to think clearly. The more he fought the harder it was, becoming angrier and angrier, less and less strategic. He pushed back, released his grip and dropped his head to jab it forward, trying to impale the Captain on his massive horns.
But as Drogan lost focus, Rhimaldez gained it. He anticipated such a move and lowered his hands down, no longer latching onto the man’s forearms. Instead he caught the horns and held them tight. Though he was not about to try and match strength again—knowing he would lose despite Drogan’s enraged state. The bull’s entire body weight was behind this attack. So instead of holding him there, his own knee rose to narrowly slip between the horns and crash into Drogan’s face. Rhimaldez then dropped the same leg well behind himself; spinning to his side and using the horns to yank the Minotaur forward and drop him in the dirt.
With a flick of his left hand he pulled Wind Chaser free, stepping over the Minotaur—who now lay flat—and holding the spear above his head. “You lose Drogan!” The Captain spat, pushing the spear towards the Minotaur’s back. Graham watched silently, waiting for the final blow to land, when a flicker and a twisting, dancing hand creeping out of the darkened alleyway caught his attention, “Rhimaldez! Watch out!” But it was too late. Grahamas saw the spear dropping but he couldn’t verify that it connected. All that followed was a flash, then everything went black…
In A Time Of Darkness Page 31
