Page 27

He’s dead before Agnar even withdraws his weapon.

I clutch my bleeding shoulder, struggling to process what I’m seeing as I shrink myself into the smallest shape possible. If the bandits made another play for me, would Agnar recognize me, or would I simply be another body in his way? He doesn’t shout and roar like someone in a battle haze might, but this level of violence must require an altered state of mind, right?

This isn’t fighting. This is butchery evolved into an art form, a dance. It’s nearly…beautiful even as my stomach bile burns my throat. The dichotomy of awe and disgust captivates me, and I forget to blink as they perform the violent tango.

The fight reminds me of the mechanical, clockwork marvels of spinning dolls on brass rings I’ve seen in my father’s palace, twirling around each other as tiny, studded drums produce music.

Two bandits rush Agnar together, jumping over the ripples in the earth. One goes high, the other low, in a bid to overwhelm him through strategic positioning.

Agnar plasters the first bandit’s face with dirt, cutting off his warrior cry, and the ground ushers the man away as he strives to rip the dirt from his mouth, choking all the while, his terrified, muffled keens trapped in his throat.

In response, the second bandit snaps his mouth closed and raises his sword before leaping toward Agnar.

Agnar ducks, pivots, and runs him through. His bloody blade tears through his opponent’s back like some kind of mutated wing.

Behind me, the grass rustles. Heart in my throat, I scrabble around to discover a bandit charging up the ditch toward me.

I’m easier prey than the man carving his companions like they’re paper and probably look like a good hostage.

“No!” I abandon the dagger and scramble backward, my mind going blank with fear. My training didn’t cover this. Warden magic doesn’t teach you how to kill people. Death is a part of life, but murder is different, and I never even learned self-defense. I only know that I don’t want his filthy hands on me.

The bandit reaches for me, victory written all over his pockmarked skin.

I scream and hide behind my arms, jarring the shaft in my shoulder. The pain washing over me nearly knocks me unconscious.

A crack echoes down the ditch, and I peek in time to see the life fade from the bandit’s eyes. His neck is wrong, twisted and distended, vertebra ripping the flesh and trailing blood. Hot, acidic gorge leaps up my throat, and I clap a hand over my mouth to throttle it.

Agnar stands behind the bandit, his hands wrapped around the head he nearly twisted off. His lip curls, but my brain is too addled to tell if it’s from amusement or disdain. “Really? You couldn’t even brandish it at him? Hold it and yell ‘argh’? Nothing?”

With my stomach churning from pain and my wits scattered by fear and awe, I gaze up at the man peering over at me and clutching the dead body of someone who tried to kill me. “I… didn’t hear you.”

What kind of excuse was that?

“Well, you heard me this time. Get down and stay down.” He notes my bloody shoulder before he drops the body with a thump. The ground carries him back into the battle like a rippling wave.

It’s been less than two minutes, and Agnar’s already dispatched half the assailants.

Muted screams rebound across the battlefield. Two of the men are still gradually suffocating, their mouths and noses stuffed with dirt they can’t rip free, their rictus faces a testament to the horror awaiting our remaining assailants. The living men slow as the truth sinks in, terror replacing their confidence.

Agnar isn’t simply faster or better trained. He’s a completely different kind of man.

A bandit wearing a farmer’s cap drops to his knees and places both hands on the dirt. “He’s not the only one who can mold the earth. Get ready to rush him once I trip him up.”

Another bandit chooses to run. He gets three paces before the ground swallows his feet to the ankle. He falls forward with a shriek and the wet snap of a breaking bone. Gagging, I turn away to block out the sight of his hands scrabbling fruitlessly at dirt.

The first man Agnar smothered with earth kneels near him, his weapon forgotten. Blood streams from the gouges he clawed into his cheeks as he fights the dirt suffocating his mouth and nose. His chest pumps futilely, desperate to drag in air. Nothing he does manages to break the seal. Angar holds the dried dirt in place with little effort, even as he slaughters the other men. That should be impossible.

Though I can’t bear to witness these men’s deaths, I feel as if I owe them a vigil. No one else will remember them or how they perished. Only me and their butcher.

A bandit finally aims his crossbow at Agnar. Legs spread and feet planted, he keeps an eye on Agnar’s back as Agnar cuts another one down.

A stone spike erupts from the ground, impaling the archer through the groin and coming out the neck. He dangles, the crossbow forgotten as he grasps for the spear. The blood gushing off him stains the road, and the pungent stench of iron fills the air.

The three remaining men try to flee, but the rippling earth drags them toward Agnar.

“Please!” The earth wielder throws his hands in the air in surrender, giving up on besting Agnar with magic.

The ground softens beneath the two men flanking him, and they disappear as the earth engulfs them.