A Horrad nudged him forward and closed the circle behind him. Harthon flexed his fingers and began stalking the perimeter of the circle, studying the Horrad who was going to try to kill him. His opponent remained still and relaxed, staring ahead even as Harthon circled his back.
That only made me more unsettled. Anyone with eyes and survival instinct knew Harthon was not a man you allowed at your back—unless, of course, you believed you had nothing to worry about.
The end of Harthon’s circle brought him toward me, close enough to see the inflamed edges of the wound at his scalp and the veins straining against his temples. Despite his bravado, he was tired and injured, and he hadn’t eaten or drank in over a day.
The urge to launch myself at him, to hold him and be held by him, grew with every step he took. It stayed that way—just an urge—because he couldn’t afford the distraction. Besides, several Horrads stepped in front of me as he passed, blocking access.
When he finished his perusal, the Horrad leader stomped their foot, the muted thud loud amidst the tortuous quiet.
Without a word, the giant charged.
And Harthon let him.
He stood his ground, shoulders relaxed as all that muscle and bone rushed him. Only when the Horrad’s knees bunched to tackle did Harthon launch into motion, skirting to the side.
With his bulk and momentum, the Horrad should have barreled into the perimeter, giving Harthon an opening at his back while he sprawled on the ground or tripped over onlookers. But he stopped almost instantly. Feet sliding for only a second, the Horrad pivoted with unnatural agility and charged again.
This time, Harthon met him, ducking under a heavy, swinging fist that would crush bones. He countered, jamming a punch into the beast’s belly and sending his other fist up to his face. Harthon made contact with his chin, a perfect hit that would render most men unconscious.
The Horrad didn’t even flinch. Instead, he used his opening to return the strike.
Harthon’s face whipped to the side, blood spraying from his mouth as he stumbled back. The Horrad pushed his advantage, hauling up a leg that landed flat on Harthon’s stomach. Somehow, Harthon recovered enough to absorb the blow, falling back and rolling over his head to pop to his feet.
He spat blood to the side, murderous intent taking over cool confidence.
Skies.
Harthon rushed in, feigning a punch the giant fell for. As the Horrad’s head jerked away, Harthon brutally kicked his knee. The limb wobbled but didn’t cave. Opportunity gone, Harthon spun away from a grabbing hand and kicked the spot he’d punched earlier. Then he danced back, fists raised protectively, eyes analyzing as he saw what was becoming alarmingly apparent.
The Horrad wasn’t fazed by Harthon’s blows.
Harthon would need more than fists and feet to take him down.
The giant rushed him. Harthon turned, crouched, and gripped the arm that tried to tackle him, using that momentum to send him over his shoulder.
Only the Horrad didn’t go over his shoulder. With that superhuman strength, he jammed his feet to a stop and tugged, and Harthon was the one flying through the air, colliding with the ground. He was shoving to his feet in a blink, but the Horrad was already on him, fist flying down in a hammer toward his face.
Harthon shifted his head, just missing the deathblow as it slammed into the earth, but he couldn’t dodge the knee that rammed into his stomach or the weight of the Horrad that followed it. His face contorted in pain, hands reaching for something.
The Horrad’s hands found a home first—around his neck.
“No!” I lurched to my feet, not sure what I was going to do, but needing to dosomething.Rough hands pushed me back down. The wolf spun and growled, but those hands persisted, trapping me, forcing me to watch.
Harthon’s face turned red, hands scrambling at the vise squeezing his throat as the Horrad settled comfortably on his stomach. Harthonneverscrambled, which meant…which meant…
No. Please—
The Horrad lowered his face, increasing the pressure with his bodyweight. A vein popped on Harthon’s temple, his teeth gritted in agony.
Agony that turned to a…smile?
In a sudden snap, Harthon jabbed his fingers into the burlap sack. The effect was immediate. The Horrad reared away, hands abandoning Harthon’s throat and flying up to his face—to where his eyes were being dug by relentless fingers. Harthon followed, heaving in breaths, skin a dark crimson. The Horrad fell to theside, away from Harthon’s maiming fingers, and Harthon slid out from beneath him. Two splotches of blood bloomed across the burlap as the Horrad struggled to kneel, torso keeled over, hands glued to his face.
I watched in abject shock, reeling from whiplash as Harthon stumbled to his feet, shoulders lurching as he wheezed in air, torso favoring his right side.
His first kick to the Horrad’s head was almost clumsy, fueled by exhaustion and pain. The second one came with an animalistic grunt and sent the giant to the ground.
The third sprouted a violent spot of blood in the center of his face.
