Chapter 32-2

“I already told you, we’re not going anywhere,” said Sam. “You might die out there,” said Tristan. “Fighting a man—fighting a Paladin—is nothing like fighting a demon.” Sam withdrew her sword from its scabbard. She grinned wickedly. “Don’t worry, Lyons, I learned from the best.” A long knife slipped into Braeden’s right hand and he undid the ties of his robe with the other, letting the empty sleeves flutter to his waist. He slid the dagger into his heart, all the way to the hilt, and pulled it out with a grimace. His eyes burned vermillion. “Can’t say I didn’t try,” said Tristan. He lifted his own sword from his hip, a long, two-handed claymore. “Let me go first. Hold your weapons out in front of you as you leave.” They exited the shelter single file, led by Tristan. Four men waited for them outside—the High Commander had sent a quadron. In addition to Sagar, Sam recognized two of the men: Paladin Parsall and Paladin Boyle from Westergo. While Sagar may have been drafted by the High Commander, Sam suspected Parsall and Boyle had volunteered. The fourth man Sam had never seen before. He was huge, inhumanly so, not just tall but solid with muscle. His head was shaved and a gold hoop earring dangled from his left ear. “Oh, good,” said Tristan. “There are only four of you. For a moment, I was worried.” “There are four of us and three of you,” Parsall sneered. “You’re outnumbered. I did warn you you’d get your comeuppance one day. And lucky me, I get to hand it to you.” “I’d wager you’ve spent more time slicing the hairs on your chin than slicing with your sword,” Tristan taunted. Parsall did have a well-manicured beard. “If you ask nicely, we’ll let you go unharmed.” Parsall snorted. “You have an inflated sense of ego, Lyons. Allow me to cut it down to size.” He charged, aiming his blade at Tristan’s head. Sam took that as her cue. “The giant’s mine,” she snarled, and ran at him with her sword. The giant met her sword with a heavy battle axe, and her teeth chattered as the vibration ran up her arm. The giant laughed. “I am a god, little boy. You will die today.” Oh, please. Sam flicked her sword against his arm. Red spilled from a shallow cut. “Some god,” she said. “You bleed like a man.” The giant bared his teeth and swung his axe. She danced out of range, just barely. He was unnaturally quick for a man of his size, and his axe whooshed through the air before she recovered from his first swing.  She threw up her sword to block him from plowing his axe into her neck. The impact of his weapon against hers knocked the blade from her hands. Shite. She reached for her sword, but the giant stepped on the flat of the blade, pinning it to the ground. She tugged at the handle, but he was too heavy. He laughed again. “Over so soon. How disappointing.” Sam grabbed a knife from her belt and jabbed it into his foot. He howled, and the weight on the blade was gone. She snatched up her sword and thrust, catching him under his armpit. It wasn’t a killing blow, but it would hurt. Enraged, the giant roared and drove his fist into her belly. Sam doubled over in pain, holding onto her sword for balance. He elbowed her in the face, hard. A searing pain spread across her cheek and dark spots bloomed across her vision. Ouch. His axe cleaved through the air. She ducked, his blade slicing through her top-knot. Loose hair tumbled around her shoulders and fell into her eyes. She swiped it behind her ears and attacked with her sword. She had to be on the offensive; the giant was too strong for her to parry his ripostes. Duck, dodge, and attack—she repeated the pattern for what seemed like ages. Sweat dripped from every pore, and her tunic clung to her like a second skin. Dimly, Sam wondered how Braeden and Tristan were faring with their opponents. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Braeden spar with Paladin Boyle. The redheaded man fought with a sword and shield, his shield as much a weapon as his blade. Tristan fended off Paladin Parsall and Sagar. The giant struck out at her with the knob of his axe, connecting with her knuckles. Bone crunched, and her blade dropped to her feet. He kicked it out of the way, sending it skittering across the ground. “No weapon, little boy,” he growled. “You’re mine now.” Sam threw her knife into his throat. “You forgot my other weapon,” she said, watching the blood gurgle from his mouth. He sank to his knees, clutching at his neck. He shot her a final, hateful glare, and then his eyes glazed over with death. Sam picked up her discarded sword and poked the giant with it to make sure he was dead. He fell to his side, unmoving, his blood dripping like raindrops onto the cold rock. She had killed him. Sam went down on all fours and vomited until her stomach emptied. Tristan had been right—fighting a man was nothing like fighting a demon. And killing a man…She felt no glory, only deep self-disgust. When she had traded in her silk gowns for a sword, this was not what she imagined. Paladin Parsall was dead, and Paladin Boyle lay nursing a fatal wound. Braeden had split him open from chest to naval, and Boyle held his intestines in his hands. Sagar was at the end of Tristan’s sword, begging for his life. “Please, Tristan, have mercy,” he sobbed. He was bleeding from several places, and as he shook his head back and forth, Sam could see he was missing an ear. Had anything remained in her stomach, she would have retched. Tristan’s voice was ice. “Like you showed mercy on me, friend?” Sagar’s sobs turned into hysterical wailing. “Please, Tristan, please. Oh gods, I don’t want to die.” Sam staggered to her feet. “Let him go, Tristan.” Tristan’s gaze didn’t leave Sagar. “Why should I? He would have killed us all if he were halfway decent with a sword.” “Because then we’re the monsters that they are,” said Braeden softly. He crouched beside Paladin Boyle and stared into his pain-filled eyes. “May the gods have mercy on your soul,” Braeden said, and slit the Paladin’s throat. “Fine,” Tristan growled. He dropped his blade from Sagar’s neck. “Hand over your weapon and I’ll let you go.” Sagar began blubbering. “But Tristan, what about the demons? How am I to defend myself?” “Braeden, come here,” Tristan ordered. Braeden obeyed, walking to Tristan’s side. “Do you have an extra knife?” Braeden produced a short dagger from his robes. “Here,” Tristan said, thrusting the knife at Sagar. “That’s all the mercy you’ll get from me. Don’t let me see you again. Ever.” Sagar opened his mouth as though he were going to say something, and then thought better of it. He nodded instead, tucked the knife into his trousers, and limped off down the rocky beach. “Do you think he’ll survive?” Sam asked once Sagar was a fair distance away. Braeden sniffed the air. “The smell of blood is strong,” he said, “and Sagar is injured. If he can make it to his horse, and his horse is fast, maybe.” He shivered, and the skin on his bare arms rippled. “Then again, maybe not.”