by V. C. Willis
Nodding, I pulled off my horse along with Valiente. Unsheathing our weapons, we built a wall between Dasa and the clergymen on anxious horses. Weapons drawn, the rest of us paused on top of their saddles as the horses’ hooves stomped close behind me, vibrating underfoot, ready to fight or flee. Basque nudged my back, but I ignored him. Red Wine circled and cut between John and Sonja, whispering something to them, but my beating heart and senses were on Dasa and the other men yet to leave the yurt.
I need to make sure they all focus on me. “Clear the way, or I’ll remove you personally,” My voice didn’t feel like my own as I barked the warning so all could hear.
The rest of the men came out, two more brutes the size of their commander and a scrawny spear thrower, Mythe. He’s already eyeing John and Sonja. Looking over the opponents before me, they were all laughing at the idea of facing off with just two of us. One brute with orange hair and a braided beard wielded a set of one-handed battleaxes with black paint across his chest and face. Leather breeches with scuffs and cuts gave him the image of a brawler who’d seen his fair share of professional fighting rings.
The other brute was the most armored next to Mythe. He wielded a thick chain, rusted, and twice his height in length filled with heavily dented links the size of my hand. Much like Dasa, this man had spiked wrists guards and similar markings painted on his armor. He wore a metal headband with foreign symbols and a large belt and buckle with similar writing. His clothes reminded me of the monks from the Old Continent from my studies, though gauntlets and armguards and weapons weren’t anything like what I had seen in my history books.
Are these two from the Old Continent? Dasa and the chain-wielder?
“You can’t be serious,” cackled the orange-haired axe man. “You’re threatening us? Who the fuck do you think you are?” He threw out his arms, circling in his laughter. “What could one bloodeater hope to do to us!”
“Careful, Gallagher,” Mythe warned. “Rumors say that’s the First Crowned Blood Prince and Grand Champion Ashton.”
“Bullshit.” Gallagher spat at my feet, casting a dangerous glare. “Prove it.”
The excitement I sensed in him seemed to feed my own, blood rushing in my veins to fight. “I don’t have to prove shit to you.” I sheathed my claymore, and Valiente gave me a bewildered look. “Fucking come meet your death if you need proof, pumpkin.”
Laughter erupted from Gallagher, this time singular and loud as cannon fire. Gallagher started to march away, one well-paced step in front of another, muscles growing tenser each time across his back. His bicep twitched with anticipation of his next move; his torso twisted. All his muscles drew tight. With a flick of his wrist and swipe of his arm, he tossed an axe at me.
Snorting, I didn’t flinch. I had watched him step into it like the King of Jacks had shown me. One swipe of my arm, and the axe deflected off the manica with ease.
Gallagher came rushing at me like a raging bull. Spit slinging from his screaming lips, he swung with all his weight. I caught his wrist. My palm slammed into his elbow, bending it backward. A crack hit my ears, and his eyes grew wide. His scream shifted from rage to alarm. The other axe fell as he stumbled back, clutching the broken limb. Snarling, he pulled a small blade from his belt and took a defensive stance.
I gave him no reprieve.
No mercy.
Ashton shows no one mercy, and I will do the same.
My muscles taut, I reacted faster than I could think. The dagger left my sheath with speed. Gallagher’s shout halted. His mouth clamped shut, muffling his cry of pain as his eyes rolled back into his sockets. The weight of his body swayed, and fresh blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. I feel nothing for someone like this. Nothing at all. Yanking my dagger back out of his chest, I backstepped into my starting point, slinging blood from the blade before sheathing it. Much to my surprise, he at last slumped to his knees and fell forward, face in the mud.
“Useless,” the man with chains spat on Gallagher and kicked the body over. “Why did we bother to put up with this one for so long?”
“He served his purpose, Kayman,” reassured Dasa. “Fodder to see whether we had the predator or the prey. It seems we are facing Ashton, which changes how we handle this.”
His glare fell on me, but Valiente stepped in the way. “I have unfinished business with you, Dasa.”
“Indeed, we do.” He glared back at Mythe and Kayman. “Remember, Landon wants the bloodeater alive. Let’s see how rusty the Grand Champ is these days.”
“No worries, Commander.” Kayman craned his neck one way then the other to crack it. “He’ll be alive, but very broken.” He started swinging the heavy chains about, the weight of them slamming downward, cutting the ground with a thud.
Unsheathing the claymore, I dropped into my starting stance. If I can take hits by the Guild and Red Wine, how much worse can this really be?
“What the fuck is that?” Mythe began giggling, slapping Kayman in the shoulder. “No one told me he was bringing a table into battle.”
“Every time…” muttered Valiente. “You know this is going to be a constant. No one uses those archaic things anymore.”
I didn’t move. I didn’t reply. Instead, I waited. Don’t let them see you react, the Old Farmer had repeated in every session. Don’t show pain. That’s just a reminder you’re still among the living. No rest, no emotions, not until you’re the last thing standing.
“I think he’s waiting for you to come at him, Kayman,” Mythe scoffed. “What balls this guy has!”
A loud clank of metal filled the air; Dasa and Valiente locked swords. Mythe reached back and threw a small spear, and I twisted the claymore to block. Kayman was faster with his own attack. I placed the claymore down into the ground by my side. The handle jarred my hands as the heavy chains slammed into it. This brings back to the first time I hit the hoe to frozen ground. Shit! The overlapping slack swung around the blade and bashed into my right shoulder blade. Grunting as the injury burned, I held my breath as the sharpness twinged when I pulled the claymore up as the chain pulled away.
Dammit! I think he broke something! I can’t take direct hits, or I’ll definitely be at a disadvantage.
I reset my stance like I had done in my beating from Red Wine. Mythe paced back and forth, his gaze jumping between all of us as he licked his lips. Chains came whipping down hard and heavy. Using the broadside of the claymore, I swung up to keep the slack from whipping around again. The power behind the hits again jarred the handle. Nostalgia crept in, and every muscle tightened in preparation of the sensations and struggles that would soon follow.
This is what I’ve been trained to face!
The Old Farmer’s words screamed into every fiber of my being: If you hit a shield hard enough, it’ll jar you like that. Get a worthy opponent and lock blades, it’ll jar you again. That mud is your enemy, and you’re John’s shield. Don’t let me see you drop that hoe again until it breaks.
The chains retreated, clanking against the blade. My hands and fingers ached from how tightly I gripped the handle. The jarring made them numb, made my joints scream, and my muscles threatened to let go. Gritting my fangs, I launched forward and swung wide and low. Kayman leapt back. Mythe tossed another spear to counter. I caught the glint in my peripheral and shoved back a step. It thudded in the mud, and I stomped on the handle, breaking it, and pushed forward again. Mythe spit at his feet, pulling another spear from the prepared row and paced like an animal as he watched me.
A roar came from Valiente. Furious swings of his sword kept pace with the hard blows of Dasa’s cleaver. Already, the knight panted trying to keep out of range of the short blade. A few red gashes painted Dasa’s arms and shoulder. A dented line in Valiente’s pauldron showed he’d already taken a dangerous blow once. Sweat trickled down his temple, and his braid had begun to fray. The whistling of chains spinning in the air brought me back
to my opponents.
Kayman let one side slip, and it shot out like a whip. Shit! It’s too long… My attempt to avoid being raked by the offending strand failed. I managed to strike the claymore into the ground, stepping away to let the manica take some of the blow. Dammit, this hurts! Roaring, the chain circled me until the last piece hit me square in the chest. The air left me, muscles and joints bashed in a way that made everything burn, broken and bruised. My reactions seemed involuntary, like a feral animal being caught in a net or snare. Kayman yanked on the chain, and it tightened around me. I pushed back, refusing to let the gaps between the claymore and my raised arm to close.
“You’re like taking down a bull,” growled Kayman, yanking again, and I lost some space. “Mythe, give me a hand.”
“Gladly,” he replied, shoving the spear back into the ground, grabbing a hold of the chain. “Say when.”
“When!”
They both pulled, and the muscles in my arm betrayed me, and I lost a few more inches. My foot and other arm were still stretched out, braced only by the claymore that tilted from the pressure of my weight being pulled into it. I rolled, my back taking the pressure of the chain now, both feet against where my blade was rooted into the ground. The shriek of horses and thudding hooves made me realize Red Wine and the clergymen had taken off.
Good, the spearman is distracted and too busy to attack. John will be safe…
“The clergymen. I can,” Mythe started.
“Don’t you let go of this chain, or we’ll be at a loss, Mythe,” warned Kayman. “Now pull!”
Another yank and I grunted, my arms buckling under the constant pressure, sore from being jarred and slammed by the chain. I still had some wiggle room, hilt in my face, rendering the claymore useless for anything but a shield. The chains creaked, the jagged rust-covered links cutting into the skin of my back and shoulders.
At least John will make it to the city…
“One more…” Kayman instructed.
“No, they’ll be out of my range!” Mythe rebelled.
“Dammit Mythe, Betty will have them.” The chain loosened, though still digging deeper into me as it slid across the muscles. “Let her shoot them…”
“That’s my prize! I want the price for that priest!”
Mythe let go, and I pushed the chain off enough to fall and leap back out of the tightening circle. Know when to abandon the claymore, Red Wine’s advice rang true as the chains tightened and knotted on the blade. Turning, I pulled the tomahawk from my side. Kayman lost his balance, chains taut and tangled with the abandoned weapon. Mythe took aim. John! Foot pointed, arm stretching back. POW! Fire ripped through my back, blood splattering out of my stomach. I didn’t stop my swing. I did not flinch.
Ashton never fell once.
The tomahawk had left my hand.
Kayman paled, wide eyed as I kept running toward them. The world slowed before me, though the pain became what I knew.
First lesson. You hold the stance.
Mythe’s arm started forward. The tomahawk hit his forearm but didn’t halt. Arm and spear fell to the ground while he finished the cancelled throw.
It cut clean and fast. Always put power in the throw if you can, hit the target and aim to split it.
I locked eyes with Kayman, and he let go of the chain and readied spiked brass knuckles. I raised my chin, posture tall and forcing his eyes to look up at me on the approach.
Your enemies are below you.
Something truly monstrous woke in me. Fallen Arbor wants me—no… The blade clanked and skidded across armguards as he blocked, feet sliding across the dirt from the impact. They want Ashton. He ducked and weaved my next strikes, the scent of fear spilling from him. Instead, they got something far more dangerous. A spiked fist swung for the open wound in my torso. Let him land it. Grunting, blood rolled on my tongue, and I swallowed it back down. Unlike me, he won’t be breathing when I break him. I swung the other dagger out, slicing his shoulder and the bridge of his nose. They’re shooting from behind… That was a grave mistake, giving what I value safe passage.
POW! Once more, something grazed my shoulder.
“Shit!” Kayman muttered curses in a foreign language as blood dripped down his face and off his chin. “Do you not feel the hot lead, bloodeater?”
“Still waiting for you to come and break me,” I growled, the anger rising at my core as I swung my dagger at Kayman.
Leaping back, Kayman’s back straightened, blonde strands of hair sticking to his face. I had run him into the row of spears. Lunging forward, I swiped, but he managed to duck low. I lobbed off several handles. He spun, swinging a leg across the ground. I slid my stance to be wider.
I will not fall.
Kayman’s leg connected against my shin. With a roar, I stabbed downward, nipping his thigh as he rolled away and jerked to his feet. Spinning around, I now backed him up against the claymore. He bounced forward, blocking another slash from me against the armguard, slashing my left forearm with the spikes of a punch. We made this exchange two or three times before at last I grew annoyed.
I scissored my daggers with a double swipe, pushing him back. Kayman dodged to one side and caught the right dagger with a downward punch. Dropping it, I stepped forward again, continuing to drive him into the pile of chains he had abandoned before. POW! Something slammed into my mask. Flinching, eyes shut tight, something hot embedded into it, shattering it. The sharp sound rattled me, ears ringing. I abandoned it, flailing to throw the shards off and away.
Shit! I dropped my dagger! Stumbling back, I left myself open. Dammit! No time to—Kayman punched in a flurry of strikes. Spikes bashed into my gut and chest, starting with the open gunshot wound, working their way up.
My eyes locked with Kayman’s own; his pupils dilated. His body was at its limit as pain drove adrenaline through his veins. Being this up close to me, we both became very aware I was in another weight class. The way his body jerked, he found himself failing to fight. Another punch thrust forward, and I caught it with my right hand. A spike tore through my palm and protruded out the back of my hand. My grip did not falter as I heard one, then two more bones crack in his fist. Jerking back his hand, he held it into his torso. Backstepping, he locked heels with the chains, and flight took hold of him.
A roar escaped Dasa who landed a kick into Valiente. The broadsword slid across his inner thigh, but the brute’s eyes were on me. Valiente thudded on the ground in sync with Kayman’s own loss of balance and twisted onto the chains. Dasa left a trail of bright red on the blackened ground as he rushed me. The claymore! It unfolded so fast. Reaching out, my left hand yanked the claymore free from the ground. Dropping down, I spun away and back around, building inertia in the one-handed swing. Dasa slid to a stop, blocking with the cleaver. It’s too weak to hold—
With a clank and ping, the cleaver broke. An ethereal scream escaped it. The claymore did not lose momentum though. Flesh split as the edge ripped through his torso until I hit the knowing scrape of his hipbone and pulled the blade to me.
He crumbled to the ground as I stood panting. I didn’t know any more if the red painting me was Dasa’s blood or my own. A curtain had sprayed forth and worse, shards of the cleaver had bitten into the berserker, none hitting the ground as if it had bitten its owner. Kayman wailed, rushing to the lifeless head of his commander. I couldn’t hear his sobs. My heart pounded loud and fast, the blood rushing in my veins rendering my hearing useless. Dazed, I glanced up at Valiente who paled. His lip busted as he threw himself back onto the grass, gasping for air. He was starting to lose the fight until he—
“Why did he come to protect you?” My senses snapped into place, and I drove the claymore into the ground.
Kayman slid his fingers over Dasa’s eyelids, forcing them closed. “Because we were both exiled from the Old Continent. Granted, his was for sins and mine was being bred from a sin
ner.”
I inhaled deeply, the smell of blood thick as I picked apart which metallic aroma belonged to which body. “You’re his son.”
Kayman locked eyes with me. “I am. You win, Ashton. Take my life. Because if you don’t, Fallen Arbor will finish me for you.”
The sun bright overhead cast my shadow across him. He looked pitiful with blood beginning to crust on his face. No mercy. Scoffing, I walked past him. That’s where my brother and I don’t align. I know when to give mercy.
Chapter 24
The Faceless
Marching past Dasa’s half-torn body, I searched the horizon between the camp and castle. We were still a long way off, and luckily, the rest would be within the city gates before dark. Standing over Valiente, I offered a hand, and after much contemplating, he at last reached out. Locking grips, I pulled him to his feet with ease, and we took in one another’s state. He had a bruise developing over his left brow and cheek, lip busted, armor dented and cleaved open with slight cuts on the right side.
“By the fates … how in the hell are you standing?” Valiente muttered, circling me. “How much of this is your own blood, you fool?”
“I…” The adrenaline was slowly leaving me, the burn of my broken shoulder blade coming back, the throbbing of cuts, wounds, and muscles used inappropriately all screaming. “A lot of it.”
I watched as he circled back and cupped my cheeks, a toothy smile across his battered face. “You actually took down the whole fucking brigade on your own! I think I’m in love!”
Without warning, Valiente’s lips pressed firm against my own and I froze. Heart skipping a beat, his lips parted to deepen the kiss, but my hand found the rope of his braid and pulled him off. Yelping, I shoved him back, and he gave me a baffled expression.
“Don’t kiss me,” I declared in disgust.
“Forgive me for feeling glad we’re alive, your majesty!” Snorting, he rubbed the back of his head and turned his gaze to Kayman who had wondered over to Mythe. “What about him? Why didn’t you finish him off? Isn’t it dangerous to leave him alive?”
