Page 123

Desperate for more time and furious that none of my attacks are working, I hurl up a wall six feet high and ready my sword once again. For a heartbeat, I wish I had a shield as well to fend off his blows.

The wall explodes.

The Knight breezes through the debris cloud like it doesn’t exist. His halberd drags across the sand, leaving a furrow.

The fucker didn't even use his weapon? Did he punch his way through?

He’s toying with me. I hate feeling like the feather on the end of a stick as a cat bats at it. Things will turn nasty the moment the Onyx Knight stops playing around.

My gut tells me that moment is now.

His halberd blurs, and he attacks with impossible speed for his size. I’m forced to let go of all conscious thought just to avoid a deadly hit, relying on instinct, training, and no small amount of luck to keep me alive.

Each strike comes from a different angle. High, low, thrust, slash, the hammer head swinging for my skull. No time to think. I parry what I can and dodge the rest. My sword meets his halberd over and over, and each impact drives me backward.

My arms scream, my shoulders burn, and I have to squint to prevent sweat from blinding me. My ill-fitted armor shifts with every step, its straps digging into my flesh and the metal edges catching wrong. Knicks form down my blade’s edge after every blow. He’s literally chipping away at me with his inhuman strength, each new attack as strong as his first. The fact that I can’t get a blow in edgewise infuriates me. I fight like a rabid alicorn, my face twisted into a rictus snarl.

The Knight feints left as I commit to the parry.

He reverses, and the halberd’s blade connects with my shoulder.

My pauldron crumples like paper.

The pain from my shoulder gash barely registers before he flips the hammer over the back of his hand, twirling it like a staff rather than a monster weapon weighing as much as a medium-sized wolf.

Nothing this big should be able to move so fast, man or weapon. I’d like to take the halberd and shove it in his ass, starting at his forehead.

Instead, the hammer slams into my breastplate with a loud gong.

The breastplate dents inward. My ribs crack as the impact lifts me off my feet and throws me backward. I hit the sand violently enough to see stars. I roll and come up on one knee, gasping and tasting blood. Pain floods through me, coating every limb, disconnecting my brain from the rest of my body.

I don’t know how I’m alive. Maybe the shitty, ill-fitting armor saved my life. If the plate was closer to my chest, that blow would have killed me, staving in my ribs and crushing my lungs and heart. Sometimes, luck on the battlefield will get you farther than skill or strength. My luck has likely run out at this point, but that doesn’t mean I’m finished.

The Knight darts forward again. I won’t be able to run or dodge in time.

Instinct takes over, and I stop holding back.

My wings unfurl.

With a heavy downward thrust, I leap into the sky and soar over his head.

Suddenly, I’m in the perfect position. At his back, above him, with all my weight and gravity to assist. I beat my wings twice to turn around, then dive for his back, the pleasure of being a predator cutting through the pain.

Abandoning any attempt at fancy swordplay, I position my blade for a simple skewering. From here, I can hit his lung, kidney, liver, or any number of vital organs.

The wind shrieks past my ears as I plummet, my weapon braced for impact.

Impossibly, the Knight halts the forward momentum of his charge and splays his legs wide, sand spraying from his boots. With the flexibility of an acrobat, he twists at the waist to face me.

Fuck!

Desperate to stay out of reach of his long weapon, I pull up, my wings cupped and angled.

He stretches up, the halberd discarded on the sand.

His fingers wrap around the primary feathers of my left wing, ripping them free.

My flesh gives and tears loose as I yell, the pain worse than the blow to the chest, fracturing me into primal survival mode. My blood rains onto the sand as I lose control of my flight. I tumble through the air, one wing useless and trailing crimson as I hit the sand face-first and slide several yards before coming to rest in a heap on the opposite side of the field from my opponent.