Page 152 of House of Crimson Cloak and Silver Teeth

“Clever little wolf,” the mage’s voice drifts through the trees.

He sounds pleased with his handiwork. The vines drag me backward through the underbrush. I’m pulled across the forest floor, my body scraping over every obstacle. Branches catch on my clothes and my back scrapes against the ground. I dig my fingers into the earth, trying to find purchase. But it’s too difficult to hold on. The vines are stronger than me, amplified by magic. My hands claw at roots or anything that might slow me down. I manage to grab a sapling but it tears free from the ground.

Damn it. It’s useless.

Fuck this mage to hell.

If I can’t break free, I’ll use his magic against him.

The thought crystallizes in a moment of clarity through the pain. I stop fighting the pull and let the vines drag me faster. This is going to hurt when I arrive. The momentum carries me at speed, catching the mage off-guard.

I see his eyes widen behind the reaper mask as I come flying toward him faster than he anticipated. I slam the pommel of my knife into his temple. His head snaps sideways. The focused concentration required to maintain the vine spell shatters.

“Shit!” He curses before crashing through the underbrush.

The vines go slack immediately. The mage hits the ground hard, rolling through dead leaves and exposed roots. His mask goes flying. He’s struggling to stand, one hand pressed to his bleeding temple.

The archer emerges from the trees at a run, alerted by his partner’s cry. His crow mask sits crooked on his face, revealing part of his jaw. Dark blood coats his neck. My throwing knife must have cut deeper than I thought.

“You’re dead!” he rasps. “You’re fucking dead, Wolf!”

He draws another arrow but his hands shake with rage. I throw myself sideways as he releases. Under normal circumstances, he’d never miss by that margin. But blood loss and rage have destroyed his aim.

He’s reaching for another when I charge him.

These hunters forgot that I’m trained by the guild too.

We all learned the same techniques and survived the same brutal training regime. The hunters have advantages of course with their better equipment and the element of surprise but in terms of pure skill, we’re matched. I have something they don’t.

Nothing left to lose.

I close the distance before he can nock the second arrow and drive my shoulder into his chest. I feel his ribs compress and his breath forced from his lungs. The bow goes flying from his hands. We go down together, rolling through dead leaves and mud. His elbow catches my jaw as we tumble down a slight slope.

He bucks me off and we scramble apart.

We end up on our feet simultaneously, circling like animals. This is two guild assassins fighting for survival, and only one of us is walking away.

“Just die already!” He draws his twin falchions.

The blades appear in his hands smoothly, custom-made for his fighting style. The perfect balance in his stance tells me everything I need to know.

This bastard is extensively trained with dual weapons.

Shit.

He comes at me fast. The attack is a whirlwind of steel, both blades moving in deadly spins. His feints turn into real strikes. The falchions move in complementary arcs, creating an offense that’s nearly impossible to defend against.

I parry the first strike but I have nothing to stop the left. It slides across my forearm like a razor. Hot blood runs down to my palm, making my grip slippery. I move back toward a cluster of close-growing trees. The space between them is tight, barely wide enough for one person.

Come on closer. I retreat further deliberately, trading open ground for tactical advantage.

The archer presses harder, overconfident now that he’s drawn blood. His patterns get wilder and flashier with unnecessary spins. It’s the mistake everyone makes when they think they’ve already won. The tight spacing limits his range of movements, forcing him to adjust his wide dual-blade style. His wide sweeping patterns can’t fully extend.

He overextends on a thrust and I redirect it, sending one of his own blades into his thigh.

“Damn you!” He screams and stumbles. His own strength drives it deep. He looks down at the blade buried in his leg like he can’t understand how it got there. His other falchion wavers as shock wars with pain for control of his body.

My boot catches him in the chest, sending him backward into a tree trunk.