Chapter 36 Leila #5
Grunts and curses rang out between clanging and heavy swings.
A particularly hairy prisoner wielded a sword while the last remaining challenger brandished a wooden pole with a blade on each side—a swallow, a weapon Leila had seen depicted in scrolls but never in person.
The men shuffled through the snow, sturdy and unrelenting, and Leila flinched when steel connected with steel.
Then the prisoner lunged forward, blasting the swallow from his opponent’s hands, and Leila’s heart thundered.
The challenger was unarmed, and the prisoner was headed his way.
She clenched Her teeth and charged ahead, only to sink ankle-deep into the snow. She groaned.
Fuck it.
Light burst behind Her eyelids, and She stood paces in front of the prisoner. He wavered, slack-jawed, which gave Her enough time to barrel his way as She rammed Her bardiche into his gut.
The prisoner collapsed, and Leila breathed a sigh of relief.
All the while Her fellow challenger, the large man with two long braids hanging down to his bum, stood eerily still, eyeing Her over.
Without a word, he plucked his swallow from the ground and dropped to his knees, sawing at the still wriggling prisoner’s hand.
He tossed the finger to Leila, much to Her surprise, then gestured toward a purse at his hip.
“You have?”
His accent was thick, and it was clear he knew very little of Her language. Leila pulled the three other fingers from Her pocket, and he revealed his own—a single trophy. He nodded. “Five more.”
He spoke matter-of-factly, not a hint of judgment or pity in his tone, and for that Leila was grateful.
She eyed the body at their feet—the man had finally stopped moving, and She assumed if he wasn’t dead already, he was nearing it—and a weight lifted from Her at the sight of his sword.
She swept it up, along with the second weapon tied to his hip—a spiked mace.
She’d seen them before in the Thessian armory but never had the need to use one.
She tucked it into Her belt alongside the sword, then looked to the challenger, who stood watching, waiting.
Unsure, She offered the bardiche his way, which he gladly accepted, carrying it with ease.
Silence stretched between them. She stared at the challenger, who stared at Her, each passing second nipping at Her insides.
He gestured toward the forest ahead of them. “We go together?”
Leila exhaled, then nodded. “Together.”
They trod through the snow side by side, Leila struggling to keep up with the man’s much longer stride.
He was expressionless and unharmed, and Leila tried to mirror his stoicism despite Her stinging wounds and the blistering cold.
Gripping the hilt of Her sword, She eyed him sidelong.
He was pinkish and pale like most Kovahrians, but older than Leila, with lines that cut through his forehead and the corners of his brown eyes.
No colors wafted from his flesh, leaving Her with little to study.
The sun above began sinking in the sky. Daytime was slipping away, and still She knew nothing about the man, nor had they come across any other prisoners. Wrangling Her best Kovahrian accent, She ended the silence. “What is your name?”
The challenger’s bushy eyebrows raised, as if he hadn’t expected to hear his native tongue from Her lips. “Lorne,” he said. “You are The Savior of Thessen?”
She nodded. “Leila.” She could feel his eyes on Her, an inspecting gaze, but that was a welcome change from all the pathetic looks She’d received that morning.
“You have magic,” he said.
“I can lend it to you. You can wield it if you so choose.”
He shook his head. “It is not our way.”
Leila frowned. These weren’t exactly the type of conditions where one could afford to refuse help. Then again, he wasn’t the challenger doomed to die.
“You fight well for a Thessian,” Lorne said. “You have trained.”
Leila resisted the urge to scoff. That brief scuffle was hardly the best example of Her capabilities. “I have.”
“But this is Kovahr.” He stopped short, looking Her hard in the eyes. “You will need a far greater weapon.”
His tone remained level, but his expression had shifted. She didn’t need to see his colors. He was worried for Her. She squared Her shoulders.
“Magic is My weapon.”
Something rustled in the distance. Leila reached for Her sword while Lorne readied his bardiche, eyes trained on the whiteness ahead. There was nothing, no sound, no movement, but Leila didn’t falter. Her nerves simmered beneath the surface, then fired off as a towering figure sprinted their way.
“Ready Yourself,” Lorne said, as if She wasn’t standing beside him, sword drawn. Before She could speak, he bolted toward the prisoner.
Steel clashed against steel, reverberating through Leila’s bones.
Lorne dodged the prisoner’s blows, attacking and countering with immense strength while Leila pivoted in the distance, waiting for Her moment.
Do something. But there was no opening as the two men expertly wielded their weapons with brute force.
The prisoner feigned to the left before swiping at Lorne, sending him tottering off balance.
This was Her opportunity. She vanished from Her spot in the forest and reappeared in front of the prisoner, Her hood falling to Her shoulders, revealing the extent of Her glow.
The prisoner stumbled backward, dazed by Her light, and She charged, putting Her full force behind Her sword.
It wasn’t enough. The prisoner deflected with ease, shoving Her aside as if She were more of an annoyance than an opponent.
Letting out a frustrated cry, She swung for his belly, only for Her sword to fly free from Her hands.
The prisoner had swatted it away, laughing at Her shocked expression.
She reached for Her mace, but a splitting pain spiderwebbed through Her skull.
He’d clubbed Her in the temple with the hilt of his sword, and black spotted Her vision, Her world a muddled mess of steel and darkness.
Two hands wrapped around Her throat and slammed Her against a tree, and She clawed at Her captor as Her lungs pleaded for air.
With a gut-wrenching howl, the prisoner released Leila, collapsing Her.
She coughed and hacked, each breath ragged, all the while fighting to reclaim Her vision.
Her world slowly materialized—Lorne and the prisoner were embroiled in battle just paces away, and it wasn’t long before Her fellow challenger was unarmed just as She had been.
Her mace lay at Her feet, and She snatched it up and darted toward the prisoner, swinging its spikes into the back of his bald head.
Rivulets of blood tracked down his scalp. The man turned to face Leila, bewilderment etched across his face, the mace still lodged in his skull. Leila’s shoulders loosened. The battle was over. But the man still glared at Her, and his expression morphed from shock to wrath.
He took a lumbering step forward while She stumbled backward, torn between confusion and horror.
My sword. Where is it? But there wasn’t time to search, as the man was already brandishing his weapon, slicing the air with murderous intent.
A fiery sting ripped through Her ribs, and She couldn’t stop Herself from crying out, toppling to Her hands and knees.
The prisoner loomed over Her, and he yanked the mace free from his own flesh, hatred alive in his gaze.
A swallow ripped through his gut and carved upward, creating a yawning gash from his loins to his ribs.
The man froze, blood slowly spilling from his lips. Lorne wrenched his weapon free and extended a hand Leila’s way.
“Stand.”
She took his assistance, muffling Her cry as She hobbled to Her feet.
The corpse was of little consequence, as Her newest mark pulsated with Her heartbeat.
She pressed a hand to it, wincing as Her light flooded the gash.
The prisoner was somehow still barely alive, but that didn’t stop Lorne from carving away at his finger and dropping it in his pocket.
Breathing through Her teeth, Leila dared to examine Her ribs—an ugly gash awash in crimson.
She certainly needed stitches, yet there were four more prisoners to kill. How could She fight in this state?
“Thank you,” Leila said between pants. “For saving Me.”
Lorne smiled beneath his mustache. “Thank You for saving me too.”
A whoosh sliced the air in two, and a spear burst through Lorne’s chest.
“Lorne!” Leila cried as the man collapsed into Her arms, crushing Her with his oppressive weight. Heart racing, She pushed the man aside and inspected him, only to be pummeled to the ground.
A fist plowed into Leila’s nose, rendering Her world a patchwork of black and white.
At some point the forest around Her began to take shape, but the air had turned red, consumed by a furious haze.
A woman lay on top of Leila, a long scar trailing her jaw, and the vitriol consuming her was one Leila knew well.
Leila reeled beneath another blow, the taste of blood coating Her split lips.
She tried to resist, but the prisoner dug her fingers into Leila’s opened ribs, sending Her howling in agony.
Silver flashed amid the chaos—a dagger wedged in the prisoner’s hand. Snarling, she slammed it toward Leila’s throat.